Chapter 32

June 2013

I don't know why I count out my time with Fred in days. Maybe it's because we always end up having so few of them.

I try not to think of that as I wake up hours later, naked in Fred's bed, in his London apartment. I have a moment of disorientation when I can't remember where I am, and then it all comes rushing back. His hands, mine. The way our bodies fit together the way they always have. The way we savored and devoured each other and finally fell asleep.

I feel happy, languid, and terrible, a hangover forming from the too many drinks that led us here.

When I check my phone, there's a message from Matt, asking if I'm okay. I text him back and tell him I'm taking the day off; I'll be in touch later. I don't wait for his reply because I only want this morning to be good, not tainted by anyone's regrets, including my own.

My phone is sitting on top of a folded note. There's a gleaming glass of water next to it and two painkillers in a dish. The note says, "Stepped out for supplies. Fred."

I pick up the pills, swallowing them down with the cool water. I feel better already, but unsure of whether I should get up. I look around the room for my clothes, but they're missing. Instead, there's a robe slung over a chenille chair, like Fred's left crumbs for me to follow.

I go to the bathroom and find soap, shampoo, and an enormous shower. I use all of them, luxuriating in the warm water, the first "American" shower I've had since I've been in the UK.

When I'm done, I wrap myself in the robe and use the toothbrush and toothpaste left for me. I try not to think what it means that he has all of this available in his apartment, that this might be a routine and means nothing special. But then the words he said last night come back.

I love you,he said.

And I said it back. At least, I think I did.

I run my fingers through my hair, wiping a streak of steam off the mirror. My face is red from the hot water, from too many matches in the sun, from the blush I have remembering last night.

What am I doing here?

I have no idea, but since it's the first time I have no idea what I'm doing in years, I decide to go with it. What's the worst that could happen? Fred and I don't survive this. I know what that is. I've lived through that more than once. So fine. It's fine. All of this is good and fine.

The smell of freshly roasted coffee hits me, and I follow it to the kitchen. Fred's there, in jeans and an old T-shirt, and here he is, teenage Fred—Fred, the way he looked when we first met ten years ago.

He turns to me and smiles. "Do you like omelets?"

"Depends."

"On what?"

"Who's cooking them."

"You're in luck then."

"Oh?"

"You'll see."

He pats a chair under the counter and pulls it out for me. I take a seat, and he gives me a cup of coffee. It's delicious, a level of bean I don't have access to in my normal life, and that's true of this entire place. It's large, even by American standards. I can't imagine what it costs here in London.

I pour cream into my coffee, that fresh full cream of England, and sip on it slowly, savoring it.

"You're doing well," I say to Fred.

He's at the stove, adding ingredients to a pan, and it's already smelling delicious. "Thank you."

"I mean this place … it's amazing."

"Corporate housing."

"You're shitting me."

He turns and grins. "I know, right?"

I watch him cook for a few minutes while he fills me in. How the owner of the company he works for has taken him under his wing, which he told me already. How he has a bunch of real estate and he let Fred have this place for nothing. The plans Mr. de Keurig has for him in the company. And then Fred puts the best-smelling eggs I've ever had in front of me. They're full of vegetables and cheese and smoked salmon, and it's a combination I would've thought was disgusting, but it's delicious.

"Amazing," I say. "This is amazing."

"Thank you." He digs into his eggs. "What do you want to do today?"

"I should hit for a while."

"Or …"

"Yes?"

He smiles. "Have you been to Bath?"

"Like the town?"

"Definitely the town."

"No, never."

"Will you go with me?"

I look at my plate. "I'd have to ask Matt."

"Ask Matt?"

"I mean tell. I have a big tournament coming up in a couple of weeks."

"I heard. But one day? Will it make a difference?"

"It could. Why Bath?"

"Because I think you'd like it."

I take another few bites, considering. A day. A whole day with nothing but Fred in it. That sounds great. "Didn't Jane Austen hate Bath?"

"Did she?"

"‘All the white glare of Bath' … that's from something."

He points his fork at me. "I'm going to say something crazy, I know, but maybe she was wrong?"

"Maybe. Hmm. I think her mother died while she was in school there? Or wait, no, that's one of the characters in Persuasion …"

"So, is that a yes on Bath or …?"

"Yes."

"Good."

So we go to Bath, and it's not what I'm expecting. For some reason, based on movies and books, I had the impression that Bath was flat. But instead, it's built into a mountain, the golden Bath stone that most of the buildings are made of gleaming against the green hills.

It's not like any place I've been in England, and I find it overwhelming in a good way. We visit the Roman baths and walk along the River Avon and climb the hilly streets, passing names I've only ever read about. I feel like a kid in literary Disneyland, and Fred laughs at me and holds my hand, and we swing our arms between us, feeling young and free.

When we get hungry, we go for tea at the Pump Room—a beautiful neoclassical room with a domed ceiling with its famous spa water fountain. I get the pink champagne tea, and Fred is more reasonable, with a beef sandwich.

"You sure you can eat all of that?" Fred asks, eyeing the three tiers of sandwiches and scones and cream and desserts.

"I haven't been allowed to eat this much in years."

"Allowed?"

"I follow a strict diet. I mean, super strict. These last two days … I'm going to pay for it when I come back down to earth tomorrow."

Fred's mouth twists. "Is tomorrow the day you come back down to earth?"

"Probably." I lift a cream-filled cake off the top tier. "But for now, I'm going to enjoy every minute of this." I shove it in my mouth, uncouth and uncaring, and oh my god, it's delicious, so rich and sweet my teeth hurt.

"Aren't you supposed to start with the sandwiches?"

"Who says?" I lift my glass of champagne and chase the dessert down. It's delicious too, and I could live like this forever.

"Who's imposing these terrible diets on you?"

"Matt. Me."

"Is it worth it?"

I take one of the sandwiches off the tier. "Honestly?"

"Of course."

"Before this, I'm not sure I'd say it was. Before this year, I mean."

"And now?"

"I made it into the third round at Wimbledon. I paid for my whole year with those matches."

"That's great."

"I don't know how much longer I can keep it up, though."

Fred fiddles with his teacup. "You'd give it up?"

"I have to at some point."

"Do you still love it?"

"I do. Most days, anyway."

I drink some more champagne and eat the sandwich. It's smoked salmon, and like everything, it's incredible. It's funny, but I don't usually think in superlatives. Not in my ordinary life. But here, with Fred, that's always how things seem to be. Strewn with exclamation marks.

"What about you?" I ask. "Do you love what you're doing?"

"I do, yeah."

"That's good."

"What will you do when you finish tennis?"

"Coach maybe."

"And continue traveling all over the world?"

I shrug. "I haven't given it much thought. It might be nice to put down some roots somewhere."

"Do you like London?"

I reach across the table and put my hand on his. "Why do I feel like I'm in a job interview?"

"I'm sorry."

"It's okay."

He fiddles with his spoon. "It's a bad habit I'm trying to get myself out of."

"What's that?"

"Leaping ahead. Trying to see all the possibilities."

Some of the fizz goes out of me. "Of us?"

"Yes."

"Don't do that," I say as gently as I can.

Fred looks pained. "Why?"

"I feel like … can we just take this one day at a time? We haven't had much success, you and I, when we try to plan the future too quickly."

"You're right."

"I'm sorry."

"No, no." He picks up my hand and kisses it. "You are perfectly right. We should be cautious."

"Well, I meant more … not cautious exactly, but maybe more carefree?"

"Are we not?"

"We got engaged when I was twenty-one, so …"

"Is that not what people do?"

"Are you teasing me?"

"Maybe. Maybe I am."

I grip his hand tightly. "I want this to work, Fred, I do, but let's not put that pressure on us, okay? Not yet. Let's … I don't know, let's be different this time."

"I liked the way we were."

"I know—me too. But Fred … it's been a day."

He smiles. "You're right. It always feels longer with you, you know?"

My heart swells. "I do. I do know."

"Once I counted."

"What?"

"The days we were together. Because it felt like years, but it wasn't that long."

And now I want to cry because I've done that too. And it wasn't enough. It was far too few. "I don't think it's the number of days that are important."

"No?"

"No. I think—" Fred's phone rings in his pocket. "Do you need to get that?"

"No. You were saying?"

"I was saying that I think it's the weight of the days, not the number. But … I do want more days. I want a lot of days."

"Good." Fred's phone stops, then starts again.

"You should get that."

"Yes." He stands as he pulls his phone from his pocket. "Give me a minute."

He walks away, and I can't tell what kind of call he's having. A bit testy, based on his body language, because despite having spent very few days together, I do know that about Fred—what the set of his shoulders mean, the way he runs his hand through his hair when he's frustrated or stalling for time.

He ends the call and comes back to the table.

"Everything okay?"

"Yes."

"Who was it?"

"Oh … just someone from work."

"Are you playing hooky?"

"What's that?"

"Forget it."

"No," he puts his phone away. "Sorry, I was distracted for a minute. The answer to your question is yes, I am. Which is very unlike me. But that's good, right? If we're going to be different?"

"It is."

"What do you want to do after tea?"

"Shall we go and find Laura Place?"

"Sounds like a plan." Fred flags down a waiter and asks for a gin and tonic. "If today is our day to go wild, let's do it."

I raise my glass. "To going wild."

And we do. Not crazy for some people, but crazy for us. We find Laura Place—and I recognize it from the movies, a long line of identical white buildings on a curved street. I snap some pictures on my phone, and then we wander the streets, staring into the windows of tourist shops. We linger at one of them, with a bowed, mullioned window. It has pretty local jewelry made of jet and limestone.

"You should get that," Fred says, pointing to a small charm of the Roman baths.

"It's lovely."

"Should we go in?"

I want to, but … "Feels like tempting fate."

"How so?"

"Every time we've added a charm to this bracelet, we break up."

"You're saying it's a curse?"

"It's silly."

"No." He puts his arm around my shoulders and pulls me to him. "I believe in the power of magic. But I also believe in the power of choice."

"What's that?"

"We can choose to give something meaning."

"So if I buy that, it won't be the charm of doom?"

"Not familiar with that particular charm." His mouth twists. "I think you should get it anyway."

"Why?"

"A million reasons, but most of all because this day has been great, and it'll be something to remember it by."

"You're right. Plus, I picked it out."

"Wait, wait, wait. Are you saying you don't like the ones I picked out?"

"Ha!" I kiss him. "Wait here."

I dart into the store and buy the charm, asking the saleswoman to attach it to my bracelet. She admires the other charms on it, and I smile at her and nod when she asks if "my young man" is the handsome man waiting outside for me.

I take my receipt and return to Fred, who's frowning at his phone.

"I thought we were playing hooky."

He puts it into his pocket. "We are. Let me see?"

I hold my wrist up. He touches the charm, then lets it go.

"What?"

"Nothing."

"Fred."

"This bracelet should have so many more charms on it."

"It will."

He smiles. "Good. Shall we find a pub?"

"Excellent idea."

He holds out his hand and I take it, and then we find a cozy place with a snug, and we sit and drink the local beer until the world is fuzzy.

We took the train here, but Fred arranged for his car to pick us up, and so now we're in the backseat, like we were last night, our fingers intertwined. I rest my head against his shoulder as we wend our way through the countryside on our way back to London.

"Good day?" Fred asks.

"The best." He kisses the top of my head and I sink further into him.

"I'm glad you liked it. What do you want to do tomorrow?"

"Shh," I say, turning my face to kiss him. "Don't curse us."

He smiles against my mouth. "No."

His hands come to my face, cradling it. Then he kisses me gently, our eyes closed, mouths soft, taking our time. Because we have all the time in the world. And if we don't, I'll turn this charm over three times and say something magic, and we'll be revived and we'll try again.

When we get back to his apartment, we don't speak. Instead, we continue to explore each other slowly, drinking in our reunion in a way we weren't able to last night.

Every time we come together, I remember how much more everything is with him. How his touch makes me respond in a way no one else's has. I don't know for certain if it's like that for him, but it seems to be.

When we finish, I fall asleep in his arms, and when I wake, he's gone again, but I don't worry this time, even though there's no note. I can picture him in the kitchen, making our breakfast, planning our day. Or maybe he's out getting supplies. Yes, that must be it because the apartment is very quiet, too still if he's here.

I check the time. It's after nine, and I'm late for practice and Matt is going to kill me.

I reach for my phone. I turned it off yesterday after I wrote Matt to say that I was gone for the day. I should let him know that I'll be back on court tomorrow. He'll be apoplectic, but this is doing me more good than a couple of days of hitting.

I turn the phone on, holding it against my chest, waiting for my messages to load. It shudders against me, almost angry at being ignored, and I start to feel concerned. I flip it over. The screen is full of notifications from emails and texts and Twitter.

It takes me a minute to make sense of it, but it's a link from Matt that does it.

A story in the Daily Mail about me and Fred. It's got pictures of us together from Bath. Walking down the street, hand in hand. Standing outside the jewelry store, looking like we're picking out an engagement ring.

But the story is not just about me and Fred.

It's about me and Fred and another woman named Catherine—some British socialite that he's been dating that he never told me about.

I feel sick as I flip through the photos of them together. This is what I get for never googling him. He's practically engaged to another woman.

And oh God. The toothbrush, the robe … are they hers?

Bile rises in my throat, and I rush to the bathroom and heave up whatever's left from yesterday. When I'm finally done, I sit back against the wall, feeling feverish, and go to Twitter. This girl, Catherine, is apparently quite a big deal here, and my name and hers and Fred's along with #cheater are trending. The vitriol I'm receiving is ridiculous. Why does anyone care about a relationship that they're not in? But they do. The country does. And I don't want to be this person, this villain.

I feel another wave of nausea.

I can't be here anymore. I need to leave. Before Fred comes back.

Whatever he's said to me these last couple of days, it's a lie, and I can't bear to hear any more of it.

I pick up my phone and I call Ash. Because, even though she's a continent away, I know I can count on her to save me.

Two days, I think as I dial her number. Two days to add to our total. Two days thinking we could escape ourselves, but somehow I knew underneath that it wasn't going to happen.

Somehow, I knew that five years apart wasn't enough time to fix us.

Because I forgot that things that are brought back to life aren't real.

They're ghosts.