Chapter 34

March 2018

I meet Wes again at a low moment.

It's the end of my tennis career. No one's saying it, but my ranking is speaking for me. I'm down in the dumps, lower even than when I started, and I can't figure out what's wrong. I'm thirty—an age that's unusual in professional women's tennis for a reason. I work just as hard and my body responds almost as well, but there's something holding me back. I'm not a killer on the court anymore. I don't care as much if someone beats me—not like I used to—and it was the fear of losing that kept me in the game. It's a word that hovers around me, retirement, and I don't know what to do about it.

How do you give up on the thing you did for years and years to the sacrifice of everything else? How do you take that leap into the unknown?

I haven't figured it out yet, so I stick to my routine. I eat my boring meals and travel to the next tournament and the next. I see my friends once in a while, Ash becoming more of a memory than a real presence in my life, though here I am in New York City in March, going to a charity event that she insisted I go to for moral support.

She's six months pregnant with her first kid, and she's a bit lost, too. She's always been a party girl, and here she is, unable to drink, bigger than she's ever been in her life, about to disappear into motherhood. Or that's what she keeps saying.

"Why are you making me come to this thing?" I ask her in the cab as we weave down Broadway, the cabbie pressing on his brake once a block in a way that makes me feel like we're on a boat, stopping and starting like we're crashing into waves.

"Because you need to find a man."

"What?"

"You do. Enough of this single life."

"I can't believe you're saying this to me. Of all people."

She pokes her tongue out at me. Her hair is up in a topknot, and she's wearing thick lashes and a bright red lip. Her fuller face suits her, but I can't tell her that because she keeps referring to herself as "fat."

"I know, I know. Sometimes I look at myself in the mirror and I can't believe it's me."

"But you're happy?"

"I am."

"With Dave."

She swats me. "Stop it. I know, okay? I know."

Their wedding was a lavish affair at the club last summer. I'd worn a pink bridesmaid's dress and endured being asked when it was going to be "my turn" by every single person I talked to. She'd sent the bouquet in my direction, and I'd thought about ducking it, but instead I caught it easily because my reflexes are like that.

"I'm happy for you."

"I want you to be happy."

"I am."

Ash puts her arm around my neck. "Um, no, you are not."

"Who says?"

"I say. Ever since London—"

I hold up a hand. "No. No. We are not talking about that ever, remember?"

She pouts. "You should, you know."

"What?"

"Talk about it."

I can't. I can't talk about it. Not about how the tabloids went into an insane frenzy like I'd killed a child with my car. Or how I was followed around for the next six months and called a whore. I got booed at, at my next tournament, and when I was injured and had to miss the US Open, I was glad.

"You still haven't talked to him?"

"No. But it was years ago, Ash. It doesn't matter."

I wasn't sure if that was true, but it didn't matter if it was. Fred had given up calling and texting and apologizing long ago. How was I supposed to forgive him? He'd lured me to London when he was in a relationship with someone else. He'd kept her as a backup plan. Not that he said that, but it's what happened. How was I supposed to get past that?

"Fuck Fred," Ash says.

"Yes."

"I didn't mean that literally."

"I know."

"So, find someone else."

"Maybe."

"No, tonight."

She's so earnest and serious, not like Ash at all. "I'm okay, Ash, I promise."

"Hmm."

"Why doesn't anyone believe me when I say that?"

"Because we see your face."

That stings. Maybe Ash is right. I need to forget the past, who I am, and become someone new. Or be with someone new, anyway. That I do need. Not that I've been celibate. But I haven't connected with anyone, not deeply. And not like with Fred, my stupid brain keeps reminding me. And I do miss that. The excitement, the comfort.

The cab pulls up to the Gansevoort, and we get out, taking the elevator to the top floor. It's a bit chilly to be outside, but there are heat lamps and votives on the tables, and half the club is inside anyway. Ash gets me a cocktail—for the thrill of ordering it, she says—and whirls me around the room, introducing me to every single man there. When one too many of them has that look cross their face at my name (the one that says they've heard something about me, but they aren't sure what) I excuse myself to go to the bathroom.

I put my drink down on the counter, then raise it quickly and drain it. I examine myself. I don't look so different from how I did as a teenager. But my eyes tell a different story.

"Fuck this," I say to myself. I'm going to leave. Ash will understand. I walk out of the bathroom, determined to do so. There's someone blocking my path.

"Can I get by?"

"Yes, sorry, oh … Olivia?"

I focus on the face in front of me. Blond hair, blue eyes, handsome. "Wes?"

He kisses me on the cheek, then backs off, a bit shy. "It's good to see you."

I haven't seen Wes since I was sixteen, when he was hanging around with Charlotte the first summer I was with Fred. He was nice to me, I remember, for the rest of that summer, when I was sulking around the club, trying to heal my wounded heart.

"What are you doing here?"

"Ash invited me."

"She did?"

"We're on a board together."

"She didn't mention."

He laughs. "That's funny. She talks about you all the time."

"Don't be silly …" I curse Ash in my head, but maybe she wasn't trying to be this specific with her matchmaking. "What have you been up to?"

"That's a long story … Why don't we get a drink?"

"I was just leaving."

"We can go somewhere else? There's a wine bar near here that has a great cheese plate."

"That sounds … Yes, let's do that."

"Great." He takes my hand and then looks up at me, surprised at himself. "I don't know why I did that. Is it weird?"

"Well, we are cousins …"

"That's all been debunked! The last name is a coincidence."

"And you did date my sister …"

"Years and years ago, and it was never serious."

"Does she know that?"

Charlotte's heart was broken, too, when she and Wes split that fall. She's never introduced another love interest to the family, though she's had a few women friends who I thought might be more than that. But Charlotte doesn't confide in me, and the one time I tried to ask, she gave me such an icy stare, I stammered to a stop.

"Do you not want to go?" Wes says, then squeezes my hand.

I can feel its warmth. A spark, something connecting us. He's better looking than I remember, his voice warm and low. "No, I do."

"Good." He flashes his smile again, and it does something to me. A man who doesn't make me want to run away. A man who's looking at me like I'm nothing but a good idea. "Should we go?"

"Yes."

We walk to the elevators, our hands still locked together. As we wait for it to arrive, I catch sight of Ash. She smiles at me, like this has been her plan all along. And maybe it was, but for once, I don't mind. All that matters right now is that Wes's hand feels good in mine and that this night that felt like an obligation now feels like one full of possibilities.

The night turns into a whirlwind.

I'd always heard that term, but it had never applied to me. Maybe it means speed. And Wes and I certainly move with speed. That night at the wine bar ends up back at his place, with me staying over. The sex is good and comfortable, like it isn't our first time. None of the usual awkwardness, and maybe not quite the same passion as I had with Fred, but that's a good thing, I think.

That passion had burned me one too many times. I need something that simmers and never goes out.

The next day we walk to the park after I get back from practice, watching a small sailboat race in a pond, buying pretzels and hotdogs, losing our way because we're engrossed in conversation, and I spend the night at Wes's again.

And the next and the next and a week of nexts.

It's weird, how much we have in common. We just seem to understand each other. It felt like that with Fred at the beginning too, in a way, but this is different.

When I met Fred, I was a kid, and now I'm an adult. I know what I like and what I don't, and Wes seems to want the same things I do. The same food, the same routine, to settle down after so many years of travel. He's also an early riser, going to the gym each morning while I hit. He's fine with the meals I have to eat, the time I have to go to bed. My life slots into his without any friction, though I keep waiting for it. But it never arrives.

After a month, he starts coming with me to tournaments when he can. He watches from the stands and learns how to massage my sore muscles and finds other foods I can eat. He's a strong player himself, and sometimes he hits with me, helping me warm up, getting me mentally ready. I start to play better, a product of happiness, and I marvel how easily he fits into my life.

Other people react to us that way too—when they meet us for the first time they always nod, like Wes's the person they expect me to be with.

"Don't you think it's funny," I say to him one night in bed, "that no one ever asks where you came from?"

"Why would they?"

"I don't know. I was single for so long …"

"Oh, you were, were you?" He pulls me to him, rubbing his nose against mine.

"You know what I mean."

He shrugs. "People know something right when they see it."

"Oh yeah?"

"Yeah," he says as he puts his mouth on mine, and then we're lost together for an hour.

When we resurface, I bring it up again. "But where did you come from?"

"The Gansevoort I believe."

"Ha."

"Ashley sent me."

"She swears she didn't." When I told her we were together, Ash swore up and down that she'd never even thought about Wes for me. She'd invited him because she invited the whole board, wanting to raise as much money as possible.

"Is she trustworthy, though?"

"Who cares?" I snuggle against him. "I'm happy."

"Good." He kisses the top of my head. "Why question it, then?"

"Because if you can just show up, you can disappear too."

"I won't."

"Promise?"

"I do."

I fall asleep with a smile on my face. It's May now, and the mornings are light and airy. And though I'm playing better, I've got some decisions to make about my career that I keep putting off. When I wake up in the morning, there's a stack of mail calling to me from the kitchen table. I've had my mail forwarded to his apartment at his suggestion, so I guess I'm living here now, though we've never discussed it.

Wes's arranged the mail neatly because he's the neat one, not me, and on top is an invitation. It's from Wimbledon. A thick envelope with gold embossing on it. I get one every year. Since I made it into the main draw five years ago, it's automatic. Or it has been. This year, my ranking is so abysmal that I was sure it wasn't going to come.

But here it is.

Wimbledon. One more chance.

The tournament starts in six weeks. If I'm going to play, I need to focus up and drop everything else, including Wes.

"You going to go?" Wes asks, coming into the room behind me, like a cat. He does that, Wes—appears out of nowhere.

"What's that?" I tuck the invitation behind the other mail.

"You don't need to hide it. I'm the one who put it on top."

I kiss him. "Right. Thank you for doing that."

"You should go."

"I should?"

"Olivia, it's Wimbledon."

"I've been before."

"But not since that summer, right? Your storied run?"

At night, after I'm asleep, Wes's been catching up on my career, ever since we started dating. Watching old matches and reading interviews. Researching my opponents and scrutinizing my training routine. Sometimes I think he knows my stats better than Matt does.

"Don't be silly."

"Why is it silly? It was storied."

"I didn't win the championship."

"It was still amazing."

I kiss him again. He tastes like toothpaste. "Thank you."

"Are you going to go?"

"I don't know. Things are good here." I reach out and caress his face. "Maybe I don't want to leave you for that long."

"I could come with you."

"What about the business?" Wes runs his own company, a private venture cap firm that invests in cutting-edge pharmaceuticals.

"Oh right, that."

"Yeah, that. Besides, a tournament like that … if I'm going to take it seriously, I need to go over early, to totally shut myself off from everything and everyone."

"I understand."

"You've never really seen me like that."

"Are you worried that I won't love you anymore if you're totally focused on something that isn't me?"

"Oh, you love me, do you?" I say it lightly because we haven't said those words. Not yet.

"You know I do."

"Do I?"

"Olivia, yes." He steps closer to me and takes my face in his hands. "I love you. I do. I thought you knew."

"How am I supposed to know it if you don't say it?"

"You're right. I'm going to say it every day."

I laugh. "You don't have to."

"No, I want to. I love you, Olivia Taylor."

"I love you too, Wes Taylor." I kiss him again, and we bend into each other, wrapping our arms around one another. "Okay, then. I love you every day, it is."

"Sounds good to me." He tousles my hair. "So, you're going?"

"To Wimbledon?"

"Yes?"

"No."

"Why not?"

I drop my arms and step away. Why don't I want to go to Wimbledon? Why have I avoided it all these years despite the urging of my coaches, the press, everyone?

It's obvious but unexplainable.

Fred.

"You do remember what happened the last time I went there, right?"

I'd told him all about it one night. I hadn't meant to, but it had all spilled out in a long stream of words. That Fred was someone from my past, that we'd gotten tangled up in a mess, how the press had had a field day.

Afterward, he'd kissed me and said that I was brave to go through that, and that he'd always found Fred arrogant the few times they'd met over the years through common business contacts. He said he wasn't intimidated by our history; everyone had a past, and if we were meant to be with the person we were with at twenty, then he'd be with Charlotte. We'd laughed at that and moved on to other things, but it was one of the things I loved about him. His confidence in us.

"I remember."

"Well …"

"I'm sure the tabloids have moved on."

"They don't do that. If I go there, every story will mention it. The Jezebel returns."

"Who cares what the press says? Show them your tennis. Give them something else to write about."

"Yeah."

Wes taps me on the shoulder. "Or you could bring them a different story."

"What's that?"

"If you were engaged."

"What?"

"Think about it. If you came back to the tournament, newly engaged, rededicated to the game … the press will eat it up."

"Newly engaged?"

"Didn't I ask you to marry me?"

"I feel like I would remember that."

"Hmm."

"Wes, be serious."

"I am serious." He drops down to his knee and reaches into his pocket. He pulls out a small black box.

My hand flies up to my face. What is happening?

"Olivia, ever since you came into my life, it's felt complete. Will you marry me?"

I start to shake. I can't believe it.

"Olivia?"

"Yes."

I reach down to him, falling to my knees. He pulls me to him, and when we kiss, I can feel the tears on our faces. He slips the ring onto my finger, and it's perfect, a solitary square diamond on a platinum band.

"I love you, Olivia," Wes says.

"You already said that today."

"Feels like today is a two I-love-you-day."

"At least two." I kiss him, feeling the weight of the ring on my hand. It feels right sitting there, like a promise I made a long time ago. "I love you, Wes."

"Well, that's good. Since we're getting married and all."

"We are. We're getting married."

"I know, right?"

We smile at each other, and then my face falls.

"What is it?"

"Charlotte is going to kill me."

"I doubt it. You father might not be thrilled, though."

"He won't care."

"The same guy who barely let me into the house?"

"He's mellowed."

"Has he?"

I touch his face. "He feels bad … for last time … He won't put up a fuss."

Wes nods, a moment passing through his face. "I'll be glad about that, then."

"About what?"

"That I wasn't here first."

I take a swat at him. "Wes."

"I'm here last, though."

I lean my forehead against his. "Yes, you are."