Chapter 36

June 2018

I go to Wimbledon.

Before I leave, Wes and I have an engagement party. Charlotte and Sophie, William and Ash, Aunt Tracy and Colin and Lucy all attend. Matt is there too. Everyone I've ever known in the Hamptons it feels like—all the partygoers, the cocktail drinkers. The adults who patted me on the head and sometimes cheered for me from the sidelines at the club.

Charlotte is an ice queen, still pissed that I'm dating Wes, angry that my father is accepting of him when he chased him away when she and he dated. Sophie laughs at her, and Colin teases me about the last name, demanding to see the family tree to make sure we aren't related. Ash is glowing and happy, her first baby delivered, and taking credit for all of it. She still can't drink because she's breastfeeding, but there are drinks in her future, she says, and that's enough. And then she takes a sip from my glass and says, "I'm so bad," and we giggle like schoolgirls.

I feel alive, happy. I'm deep into my training for Wimbledon, but that night I'm free to do what I want, eat what I want, drink what I want. One last hurrah before it all turns serious again. One last night of stored memories to shore up against the press coverage I'm sure is coming, whether I want it or not.

I haven't googled Fred. If he's still in London, I don't want to know, because this isn't about him. It's about me.

We stay late and Wes stays over at Taylor House. I sneak into his guest room because my father still insists on separate rooms, and we make love and fall asleep. My flight is at night, so we have the morning to laze away, the day to finish packing and then drive into the city, to the airport. We do all of this lightly—I'll be gone for a month, but when I get home, we'll get married out on the lawn, with these same people throwing rice and cheering for our future.

Married.It's a big word, one that Ash lectured me about the night before.

"This is serious, Olivia," Ash said after she took a second sip of my drink; then said, "No more," like she was banishing it.

"I know."

"But you're going to London."

"I'm going to Wimbledon. For a tournament. Because it's my job."

"Isn't it dangerous, being there again?"

"I don't even know if he lives there anymore."

"He does."

"How do you know?"

"Because I have a Google Alert set to his name."

"What?"

She lifted her thin shoulders. "I need to keep tabs on him."

"Why?"

"Because he's your asteroid, Olivia, hurtling toward you. Keeping track of it makes sense."

"I prefer to remain in ignorance about the end of the world."

"Yeah, well, he's single."

I wasn't expecting to hear that, and I can't deny it. I feel the impact. "How do you know for sure?"

She lifts her chin. "I'm strong in the ways of Google."

"It doesn't matter."

"You're not going to see him?"

"Of course not."

"Olivia …"

"Why does everyone always say my name like that? Like a warning?"

Ash laughed and hugged me. "Because you're a danger to yourself."

"I'm not going to see him."

"Just see to it that you don't."

I kissed her on the cheek and found Wes's arm, and I put that asteroid careening through my life right out of my head.

But I should've known you can't avoid an extinction-level event by pretending it's not happening—that the pull between Fred and me wasn't something that was so easily escaped.

Because I wasn't in England for more than twenty-four hours before our paths crossed.

It was my fault this time. One day in England was all it took for the walls I'd created across an ocean to come tumbling down. Maybe it was the jet lag. Maybe it was the nerves of the impending tournament, even though I was doing a warmup event first. Or the faster-than-fast engagement to Wes.

Maybe it's because it felt like summer.

It's hard to parse out why we do stupid things.

All I know is that after I sleep off the jet lag and go for my hitting session and stretch and cool down and change into street clothes, I panic. I'm alone in an apartment—not the apartment I was in last time, but something similar. I can see the Thames out my window, and I can feel it's breeze against my cheek, the way it felt that night with Fred five years ago when we walked around after our magical dinner, like it was yesterday.

What is this cosmic connection between us? Did we doom ourselves to cross orbits every five years with our stupid teenaged promises?

No.

The only one who's dooming herself is me.

That'swhy I walk across the bridge and past the Globe and through the winding streets until I get to the Portuguese restaurant. I don't know how I know that he's going to be there; I just do.

And I'm right. I'm right.

He's sitting at a table in the corner. He's not alone; he's with another man in a suit, and I breathe out a sigh of relief that it's not a woman. A man I can deal with. A woman—I'd be on my heel turning out of there so fast I'd disappear in a puff of smoke.

I ask the hostess for a table but tell her that I know someone in the restaurant I need to say hi to first, then march right past her to Fred's table. I'm shaking and my heart is thrumming, but I don't stop myself, I just barge on through until I'm next to him.

"Hi."

Fred looks up, not expecting to see me, expecting anyone else, and his face goes through a series of emotions when he realizes who it is. I think the first is happy, but it's quickly replaced by shock. "Olivia! What are you doing here?"

"This is Olivia?" Fred's companion says. "The Olivia?"

"The one and only," I say, because the idea that there might be another Olivia is too devastating. "But don't hold that against me."

"Certainly not, dear. I've only heard—"

I raise my hand. "I'll stop you there." I hold my hand out. "I'm Olivia Taylor."

He stands and takes it. Seventy, urbane, gray hair in a short cut, plummy accent, expensive suit.

"I'm Tomas de Keurig. Pleased to meet you." He smiles at me, his teeth large and white. He has nice crinkles around his eyes, and he gives off a vibe like a grandfather.

"What are you doing here?" Fred says, rising to join us.

"I was in the neighborhood. Thought I'd stop in for dinner."

His eyes narrow. He knows I'm lying, but what can he say?

"Would you like to join us?"

"Oh no, that's okay."

"No," Tomas says. "I insist."

He motions to the waiter and gives instructions to move us to a larger table. Through the bustle and fuss, Fred doesn't say anything, just stares at me, then looks away, like he wants to say something but can't bring himself to. I'm feeling shy too, so instead I focus on Tomas, asking about his company and what he thinks of Fred. He's effusive in his praise, says that he thinks of Fred as a son, and tells me in vague terms how Fred tried to save his son so many years ago, and the tragedy that befell them all despite his best efforts.

That's how he talks—"the tragedy that befell them all"—like an old man in a novel, formal and stiff. I can tell, though, that it's only bravado. He likes to talk about his son, but it's painful, and he loves Fred—I can feel it so clearly, a feeling I recognize because it's what I feel for Fred too. Fred is uncomfortable being the center of attention, but he's also used to having this story told about him, so he puts up with it, though I know he's dying to ask me something, anything—to understand what's going on.

"And what about you, Olivia?" Tomas asks. "What brings you to London?"

"Tennis."

"You'll be competing at Wimbledon?"

"That's the plan. But I'm doing a challenger tournament first."

"You were the one who made it through the qualifiers a few years back, yes?"

"That's me."

"An impressive run."

"Thank you. And I think I have you to thank for getting me the chance."

"What's that?"

Fred rises himself. "You remember, Tomas. We sponsored some of the surrounding events."

"Oh yes, that's right. Fred here is very passionate about tennis."

"I admire the game. The solitude of it. How you're out there on the court, alone."

"It can be lonely," I say. "Never having teammates. Always in conflict with the people you meet on tour."

Fred's eyes lock onto mine, and a blush creeps up my cheeks.

"I hadn't thought about that."

Tomas checks his watch. "Is that the time? I must be going."

"But you haven't had dinner yet," I say.

"I was only ever meeting Fred for a drink." He stands. "It was lovely to meet you, my dear. And how nice for Fred to have you back in London."

He reaches out his hand again, and I take it. "I feel like you're leaving because of me. But I should be the one to go."

"Nonsense. You and Fred can catch up and I can get home earlier, which I would like to do either way." He gives me a weary smile, and I can see it: the pallor behind his tan, the dark droops under his eyes. This is a man who's exhausted, maybe ill.

"It was so nice to meet you."

"Likewise. Frederick."

They nod at each other, and I stand there. We both do.

"Do you want to sit?" Fred asks. His voice has a bit more British in it than the last time, like it's slowly taking over. Otherwise, he wears the five years that have passed easily, with almost no change in his appearance. A handsome man in full bloom, comfortable in his suit and his surroundings.

My eyes flit to his left hand. It's bare. Mine is too. I left my engagement ring in my jewelry box in the apartment. I take off all my rings when I play tennis, and a locker room is not the right place to secure expensive jewelry.

"Sure." I take a seat, and a waiter comes over with a fresh glass and some white wine. He fills it. I want to drink it all down, but I need my wits about me.

"Hi," Fred says, his features softening.

"Hi."

"I can't believe you're here."

"Me neither."

"When did you get in?"

"Yesterday."

"And you came here on purpose?"

"I did."

"Why?"

I think about telling him the truth, then stop myself. "Like I said, I needed somewhere to eat. And I remember our meal here. It was great."

"You didn't know I'd be here?"

"No, how could I?"

He sits back, his hands in his lap. "How long are you in town for?"

"Depends on what happens on the court."

"And where are you staying?"

I tell him, then I look at the menu, trying to decide what I'm going to eat. There isn't much that fits in with my diet plan, and Matt would be pissed that I've even come here, but I need this. I needed to see him, so I can concentrate on what I'm doing.

"How are you?" I ask.

"I'm good."

"Should I go? Is this too weird?"

"No, we should order."

He flags the waiter, and we both order something. Fish in a simple sauce for me, and a rice dish for Fred—the seafood rice he raved about last time. He orders another bottle of wine too, even though I say I'm not drinking. Fred smiles apologetically and doesn't say what's obvious: he needs the drinks to get through this.

The waiter leaves and it's just us again. Not the same table where we were five years ago, but I can see it through the windows, outside in the back, pretty lights strung above it, the vines on the wall creating privacy. Another couple is sitting there, holding hands in the candlelight. I drag my eyes away.

"You never answered me," Fred says. "Not any of the times I called or wrote. You never let me explain."

"What was there to say?"

"I didn't mean—"

I hold up my hand. "Fred, no. You were dating her, right? She was your girlfriend?"

He sighs. "Yes."

"That's all that's important."

"I didn't want … I didn't expect things to be so complicated so quickly."

I pick up my knife because I need something concrete to hold onto. "Can I give you another perspective?"

"Okay."

"You lured me to London. You made it so we'd run into each other again, and then you pursued me. And that whole time, you had a girlfriend you never told me about. I think she even called you once when we were together. That day in Bath. You didn't break up with her. You waited to see if things would work out between us, keeping her like a backup plan. Did I miss something?"

He expels a long breath. "You make it sound so calculated."

"Wasn't it?"

"I get why it feels like it was, but that wasn't how it was for me. When I arranged for that sponsorship, I didn't know what would happen. I only wanted to help you make your plan to get to Wimbledon come true. I didn't know how you'd be around me, if you'd even talk to me. Every step I took was tentative. And yes, you're right that I should've broken things off with Catherine. I'd already spoken to her about cooling things down, but I never ended things officially. And that was my mistake. One I'll regret forever."

"It was all over the papers. I was."

"I saw. And for that I truly do apologize. I mean, I apologize for all of it. Not my finest hour."

"How did they even find out?"

"Catherine told them."

"What?"

His shoulders rise and fall. "It's how she lives, in the tabloids."

"But she looked bad."

"I looked bad, you looked bad … She looked like a victim. Which she likes."

"That's messed up."

"Yes."

"She must've been very angry."

"She was. But I didn't care about her, not enough for the time we spent together. And that was wrong of me. I shouldn't have been with her, knowing that. And when you came to London, I should've been clear with her. But I confess, all I thought about was you."

A lump forms in my throat. I might be angry at Fred—I might be furious—but I'm not a robot. "It's always so complicated between us, isn't it?"

He smiles slowly. "And yet, here we are."

"Yes."

"Five years later."

"Yes. But Fred …"

He leans forward. I think for a moment that he's going to hold my hands, and maybe he does too, because he stops himself. "Yes, what is it?"

"Don't you think we make the five years happen?"

"What do you mean?"

"We avoid each other in the in-between times. I could've come back to London anytime since then. I didn't."

"Why didn't you?"

"I wasn't ready to face all of this again. The stories in the tabloids. Your tabloids are terrible. Look at what they're doing to poor Meghan right now."

"It was the same with Kate."

"It's worse, though, isn't it? Because she's Black."

He frowns. "Yes, you're right."

"And her name is Catherine."

"Who?"

"The Duchess. Her name isn't even Kate. It's Catherine, but the whole world calls her Kate because the tabloids decided that's what her name is."

"What does that have to do with us?"

"I don't know … just that other people's perceptions can become reality sometimes."

"Only if you listen to them."

"Haven't we been, though? Why do we avoid each other for these long stretches? If we really wanted to be together …"

Fred goes still. "Is that what you want? To be together?"

"I don't know."

"That's honest, at least."

I put my hands under the table and run my fingers around my missing engagement ring. "Don't you think it would have happened by now? If it was meant to be?"

"I don't think that life works like that. I think that circumstances and timing and stupid decisions can get in the way of what's meant to be."

"That's us for sure."

"Yes."

I try to read his expression, but I can't. "And you? You want us to be together?"

"I do."

"No hesitation?"

"Of course there is. I'm terrified right now."

"You look completely composed."

"It's an act."

"And the Oscar goes to …"

He smiles. "So, what now?"

"I think I need to go."

"Back to the States?"

"No, I'm here for a while, like I said."

"Can I see you?"

I sigh. "I need to concentrate on my tennis."

"I'm glad I'm a distraction at least."

"You are."

Fred runs his hands through his hair. "So where does that leave us?"

"Can I think about it? And maybe in a month …"

"You want me to wait a month?"

I laugh. "It's been fifteen years … what's one more month?"

"Good point. But it seems risky."

"I don't think so."

"Why?"

I bring my hands up to the table and put them flat on the tablecloth. "Because I know what waiting is like. We both do. It's the together part that scares me."

"Olivia …"

"No, I'm going to go." I stand, walk to him, and lean over. I kiss him on the cheek. "Wish me luck?"

"Always."

He reaches for me, but I sidestep him. If we touch for real, then I'm going to crumble, and I need to keep myself together. I need time to examine what the hell I'm doing. To think about Wes and whether I want to throw that all away.

So instead, I say nothing and walk quickly out of the restaurant without looking back.