That’s what it felt like when Lucas said my name.
“I’m supposed to get some information from you?” he asked me. “Like how he’s doing? Stuff to work on?”
There was a tiny bit of vulnerability in his voice, which was in contrast to the sheer physical confidence he seemed to exude.
His eyes—brown, a deep, lovely shade of brown—darted between Andy and myself, and I realized he was uncertain.
“Yes,” I said, summoning all my father’s bullshitting skills. “Andy is indeed becoming more comfortable in the water, and that is leading to increased confidence in his abilities. I think that our next session will show even more improvement.”
Lucas was nodding, but his eyes—so expressive, those brown pools, when the rest of his face was impassive—sparked with skepticism.
Yeah, people always knew when my father was bullshitting them, too.
“In the meantime,” I pushed on (sadly, my father’s daughter), “you could work with Andy on his floating. Easy to do in the tub. A few minutes on his back, then a few on his front, with his face to the side to breathe.”
“We don’t have a bathtub,” Andy said.
I saw Lucas clench the hand that wasn’t resting on Andy’s shoulder.
“We’ll figure something out, buddy,” Lucas said. Andy looked up—way up; Lucas had to be six-three—and grinned at his older brother. That grin said Andy truly believed that Lucas was capable of creating a bathtub where none existed.
Hell, maybe he was.
“We need to get going, buddy,” Lucas said, turning Andy toward the exit. They started walking away. After a couple of feet, Andy turned and said with his lopsided smile, “Thanks, Lily, see you next time.” He waved his little hand, his sweatshirt too large for him, the sleeve almost swallowing him up.
“You bet, Andy,” I said. My hand was still raised in a wave when Lucas turned around. His gaze was intense again. My hand froze where it was—midair, mid-wave.
“Thank you,” Lucas said so softly I wasn’t sure if he’d actually spoken the words or mouthed them. “Lily,” he added.
Thatword I heard. All the way through my body.
* * *
I swam laps for an hour.It was longer than what I normally did, and I pushed myself harder. I thought about the studying I should be doing. I thought about my roommates and how we were—finally—starting to gel.
But my mind kept coming back to Lucas. I knew Andy’s last name was Bell from my roster. But that didn’t necessarily mean Lucas had the same last name. In fact, that would be pretty rare with the kids in this program.
Bribury was an elite, Ivy League wannabe school filled with the kids of movers and shakers who didn’t have quite enough moves and shakes to get their kids into Harvard or Yale. It was in a smallish town halfway between Baltimore and DC.
It was idyllic and ivy-covered (see? they’ve got nothing on us; our ivy grows just as thick) and small and exclusive. There was nothing but BMWs, Mercedes, and other sports cars in the student parking lot.
But the town that surrounded Bribury was—in my father’s words—a complete shithole.
Crime, poverty, drugs…the Triple Crown of shitholes.
On campus, we didn’t see it. And if our power-hungry parents had taught us anything, it was to not see what we didn’t want to.
Unless it looked good to do so.
After swimming laps, I walked through the deserted locker room to the far corner and the old-fashioned steam room. I grabbed three of the clean towels from the bench in front, and made my way into the room I’d turned on before lessons.
I loved this steam room. It was like something out of a movie, where, like, the Ukrainian mafia discussed who was going to be “offed” or something.
I peeled out of my suit, wrung it out, and laid it on the lower tile bench. I wrapped one of the towels around me and spread another one out on the top tile bench, then sat on it. Completing the old Ukrainian man vision in my mind, I draped the third towel over my head, with a good third of it dangling in front, almost like a shroud.
Instead of thinking about who needed whacking, I thought again of Lucas. Of how his tall, muscular body moved as he’d walked down the hall toward me. Of how his hair had been so black and smooth once he’d gotten close. Of how I wished he’d gotten even closer.
I wasn’t a total whore, and had only been with one boyfriend in high school, but the sight of Lucas’s broad shoulders in the black polo, and his tight—I meantight—ass in those jeans… Well, that sight would get even the goodiest goodie-goodie wondering if she could get away with a quick, self-administered relief session right here, in a university steam room.
