Chapter 38

June 2018

Against all odds, I make it to the final of the warmup tournament for Wimbledon.

I don't win. I lose in a tight three-set match against a much younger opponent named Kendall. But as I review the match afterward, I know how to beat her. I know that I can beat her if I face her again. There were two crucial games where my focus shifted, where I started looking ahead to the match being over rather than staying in the moment. That's when she broke me in the second set and again in the third. That was the difference. So, even though I lost, I feel good. I've avoided the press about me, stuck to my routine, and stayed away from my phone. The only people I speak to are Wes and Matt.

Wes and I talk about benign things, details for the wedding, nothing serious. I miss him, and that's good, if confusing. With each day that passes, the dinner with Fred starts to fade, like sunlight at the end of the day.

When I check my phone for the first time after the finals, I have a raft of messages—from Ash, my sisters, Aunt Tracy, Matt. And from Fred.

I open his first.

Sorry about the loss.

Thank you.

He answers before I have time to read any of the other messages.

When can I see you?

After Wimbledon,I write impulsively.

Are you sure?

Yes,I write with assurance, though I'm anything but certain.

Why do I want to go down this road again?

I ask myself this question, though I know the answer.

Because I love Fred.

I always have. And though I love Wes, I do, it's not the same. What I feel for Fred has always been bigger, faster, stronger. That's why we crash. That's why we fall apart.

But oh, in those moment when we're together … Those are the moments that are worth waiting for. Worth seeking out.

I put down my phone and it beeps again. I check it. It's not from Fred, but from Ash.

Have you given in yet?

Fuck off.

That means you have.

I haven't.

But you've seen Fred?

I let that question sit there.

You have, haven't you?

So what if I have?

What about Wes?

I didn't do anything.

Wes is good for you.

I know.

Please promise me you won't do anything stupid.

I promise.

I don't believe you.

I have to go.

Don't do it, Olivia.

Bye!

I put my phone down, then turn it off for good measure.

I don't need Ash, of all people, to tell me how to live my life.

If I want to screw it up again, I should be entitled to.

I spend the week between the warmup tournament and the start of Wimbledon working on my game. My phone stays off. I tell Wes I need to go dark, that the pressure is getting to me and it's the only way I know how to control it. He says he understands, but I know he's hurt. But I can live with his hurt. It's temporary. If I do the right thing and avoid Fred, despite my texts, it will all be forgotten.

And if I do the wrong thing and see Fred, with all that means, then …

I hit what feels like a million balls. I run and I eat, and I sleep. I watch tape of my likely opponents. I come into the first round strong and win my game. A day off and then repeat. That buzz is building around me again—I can feel it. Not because I read the press, but because of the questions that get asked at my press conferences, the number of journalists that show up. The buzz in the crowd as I play. The closer my matches get to center court.

Another win and it doubles. Win, repeat, win, repeat and now I've made it one round further than I did the last time. I'm not the phenom—I didn't come out of qualifiers—but it hardly matters. Everyone remembers that's who I am, and it's like it's happening all over again. I'm floating, seeing the ball well, playing without injury, and it all starts to feel inevitable that I'll make it to the final round and then … Fred.

It doesn't work out like that.

Instead, my next opponent is Kendall, the woman who just beat me. Again, I win the first set. Again, she wins the second. Again, it's because my mental focus slips, just for one game, but one game is enough.

And now we're in the third set, and it's neck and neck. I don't flinch and neither does she. I hold serve, she holds serve, the games creep up, the crowd is loud and enthusiastic. They're on both our sides, that center court thrall, and it feels like the game will never end. Kendall is tired. Her arms droop between shots, she's hunched over when she serves, and yet the shots are still precise, the serve still a kicker.

It's the third set and we're six and six. There's still no tiebreaker here, so the points mount and mount and mount, and then I miss. An easy shot at the net where I could've won the point goes into the net instead. I can hear the crowd sigh, like I'm in a large lung. Everyone knows what's going to happen. Neither of us has made a mistake until now, and now she's about to break me.

I shake the mistake off, trotting back to the baseline, trying to read her toss. She goes out wide and returns it, but not as cleanly as I'd like, and she rips a forehand winner past me. And now here we are, match point. Everyone is leaning forward in their seats, and I'm waiting too. Her serve is a bit weak and my return lands on the baseline. She puts one up in the air, and I move around to get the overhead. It comes down hard, but without the angle it needed, and now she pops another one up, a lob that goes over my head and lands in. I run to it, turn, hit it, but I know when it leaves my racquet it isn't going in. It lands two feet outside the sideline, and she screams and falls to her knees.

She won. I lost.

I lost; I can't believe it.

The crowd is on its feet for both of us, cheering, recognizing the amazing performance. I'm fighting back tears. I put my stuff away quickly, wave to the crowd, then I'm in the locker room, alone on a bench, surrounded by players getting ready for their matches. It all overwhelms me. The loss. The loneliness. All the choices I've made in my life that have led me to this moment, with no one here to celebrate with because I wanted to keep my options open.

So, I do two things:

I go into the press conference and announce my retirement.

And then I text Fred and tell him to meet me at the apartment tomorrow night at eight.

For once, I feel in control of my fate.

The next morning, I'm a bundle of nerves and second thoughts. Matt is furious with me for not consulting with him about retiring. I've got offers pouring in, he tells me. I'm walking away from millions, potentially, the millions I haven't made till now. But I'm sick of tennis. Tired of the sacrifices it requires. I want a life, a family, a home. I want to move my life forward.

I wake at my usual early hour and pace the apartment. I could go out, but it's pouring down rain. All the matches are postponed, not that I'd watch them if they weren't. Instead, I take a long bath and order a massive English breakfast from the pub down the road because I can eat what I want now. The man who delivers it tells me, "Too bad about the game," and I peel off enough cash to make him leave happy.

I bring my breakfast to the kitchen table, and as I'm loading up a scone with a heaping of cream and jam, my phone pings.

It's Fred.

Hi.

Hello.

What are you doing?

Eating breakfast. You?

Thinking about you.

Oh?

Eight is a long time away.

It is.

What if we didn't wait that long?

I smile.

What did you have in mind?

Long shot, but … Do you have your bracelet here?

Our bracelet?

Yes.

Yes.

J

Did you just send me an emoji?

It's been known to happen.

Why did you ask about the bracelet?

Can you put it on?

Hold please.

I go into my bedroom, and fish around in my jewelry box until I find it. No matter how mad I've been at Fred over the years, I've never been able to let it go. My engagement ring is in this box too, but I avoid it. Ending things with Wes over the phone or by text seems cruel. I'll do it when I get home.

I put it on and snap a picture of the bracelet around my wrist and text it to him.

Perfect,he writes. So, about tonight …

Yes?

I could come over now?

My stomach flutters. Is that what I want? Why did I ask him to come at eight anyway? To have a day to back out?

Okay, yes.

J

Ha!

See you soonest!

I smile as a text from Ash comes in.

Sorry,it reads. I had to.

Had to what?

It was for your own good.

Ash, what did you do?

The doorbell rings. I can't believe Fred is here this quickly. I'm still in my robe, but that doesn't matter. I put my phone down, a touch of annoyance at Ash bristling under my anticipation.

The doorbell rings again.

"Coming!" I yell. I get to the door and open it. "That was—"

"Surprise!" Wes says, his eyes tired but his smile infectious and genuine. "Not what you were expecting?"

I recover as quickly as I can, but my heart is hammering and my throat feels dry. "Oh, I … Matt said he was coming over."

"For your lecture?"

"Excuse me?"

"Because you retired?"

"Oh yes. He's pissed."

Wes smiles again. "You going to let me in, or …?"

I step back. "Yes, of course. Come in, come in."

He reaches for me. My hands go around his neck reflexively, the bracelet tinkling on my arm. I tuck it nervously down the sleeve of my robe.

"It's so good to see you," he says in my ear, holding me tighter.

"You too."

"I missed you." He pulls me to him even tighter. "Are you okay?"

"I am."

"No, really? Because Ash thought …"

I pull back from him gently, trying to be composed, though alarms are ringing in my brain. "Ash?"

He looks guilty. "She told me I should come."

"Why?"

"She thought you could use me here. After the retirement announcement. I know you say you're okay alone, but you're not, Olivia. You need someone. You need me."

"I … I don't know what to say."

"Are you happy to see me?"

"I am. Of course. I'm just surprised, and still blown over from yesterday. Can I … do you mind if I get dressed? Then we can talk."

"Yes, of course."

"There's coffee in the kitchen. And the rest of my breakfast if you're hungry."

"What I'd really like is a shower."

"Of course. Follow me."

I lead him into the bedroom and through to the bathroom, taking a minute to explain the idiosyncrasies of the shower that took me two days to figure out, while trying to keep my voice as normal as possible.

I can tell that Wes wants me to join him, but my brain feels like it's on fire, so I hand him a big fluffy towel and point to where the second robe is, then shut the door.

I speed to my phone.

I text Ash first. What the fuck?

It's still nighttime at home, four in the morning, but Ash is up anyway. It must be the baby.

It's for your own good, I told you.

What gives you the right?

Hate me if you want, but Wes is good for you. All Fred does is break your heart. Make a good choice, Olivia.

We're done.

What?

Never speak to me again.

Olivia, please, I'm sorry.

But she isn't. She knew what she was doing, and this isn't the first time she's gone too far in my life. I want to throw my phone across the room, but I can't.

Fred is on his way here. I need to head him off.

I'm sorry but I can't see you right now.

I wait for his reply, but there's nothing. Maybe he's driving or in a dead spot.

I send another text.

Please don't come here, Fred. I'll explain when I can.

I wait again, but there's no answer. Nothing.

I pull clothes from the dresser quickly, hearing Wes in the shower. He's not a shower lingerer, and I don't have much time.

I take off the bracelet and put it in the jewelry box, tucking it away. Then I take out my engagement ring and slip it back on. I throw on a pair of jeans and a shirt, then pick up my phone again. I call Fred this time, but it goes to voicemail.

Goddammit.

"What's that?" Wes says as he comes into the room, a towel around his waist.

"Nothing. I was texting Matt, telling him not to come."

"Save the lecture for later."

"What?"

"Don't quit now …"

"Oh right."

The doorbell rings. Fuck, fuck, fuck.

"I'd better get that."

"Tell Matt we'll have dinner with him."

"Yes, okay."

I hurry out of the bedroom to the front door trying too hard to breathe. I open it halfway. It's Fred in a polo shirt and a rain slicker, holding flowers, his face full of promise, his hair wet from the rain.

"You didn't get my text?"

"No. What happened?"

"I can't explain right now, but you have to go."

"At least let the man in," Wes says from across the room. "Poor Matt."

Fred's eyes widen as my face turns crimson.

"It's not Matt," I say loudly. "It's my old friend, Fred. This is very nice of you, Fred."

I step forward and take the flowers, then step back into the apartment and let the door fall open.

Wes appears at my side, still in his towel, shirtless.

"Fred, this is Wes Taylor, my boyfriend."

"Fiancée," Wes says, then extends his hand to Fred, who takes it after the briefest of hesitations and shakes it slowly. "We've met a few times in New York over the years. You're a member of Albright's, right?"

"Yes, that's right. I'm sorry, I don't remember you."

Wes's jaw tightens. "I was a guest of Dell's?"

"Ah, yes … Did you say Taylor?"

"That's right."

"Funny about the name."

Wes laughs. "Well, technically, I'm Olivia's third cousin."

"Second cousin once removed," I say automatically, because it's what we tell people to tease them.

"Oh, ah …"

"We're joking," Wes says. "It's just a coincidence.

Fred's forehead crinkles, then clears. "You dated Charlotte?"

"That's me. And that was a long time ago. Olivia and I reconnected this spring, and—well, one thing led to another."

"I see." Fred rocks back on his heels. "Well, I wanted to congratulate Olivia on her amazing run in Wimbledon. And on her retirement too, of course."

"In the rain?"

"We don't mind the rain in London," Fred says. "When's the wedding?"

"End of August," Wes says. "In the Hamptons."

"At Taylor House?"

"That's right. You've been there, haven't you, Fred?" Wes says.

He's being a bit cruel, though I'm not sure if it's to me or Fred. I've told him enough about Fred that he knows Fred's been to the house.

"Yes, yes I have."

"Remember, Wes, I told you how Fred and I met," I say, my voice a squeak. "That summer you were dating Charlotte, actually. Fred worked at the beach."

"Ah, that's right. A teen romance."

Fred grimaces. "As you say. Those things never work out."

"Almost never."

"Well, I must be off," Fred says. "It was nice to see you, Olivia. And meet you again, Wes."

"You don't want to stay for coffee?"

"No, no. I've disturbed you too early. I'm an early riser, and I forget sometimes that not everyone has my habits."

"Maybe we can have coffee tomorrow?" I say. "To catch up?"

"I'll have to check my schedule."

"Where can she reach you?" Wes asks.

"Oh, at my office. De Keurig Shipping. Have a nice day. And congratulations again."

"Thanks, mate."

Fred cringes again, and I'm sinking into my heels.

Fred is never going to talk to me again.

This is the last time I'm ever going to see him, and it's awful—I'm awful.

"I do hope we have coffee, Fred," I say, because I have to.

Fred nods almost imperceptibly and starts to walk away.

Wes interjects. "How did you know where Olivia was staying, if you don't mind my asking?"

"Oh, I … I still had Matt's number … He gave me the address."

"That was nice of him."

"Yes."

"And he didn't tell you, Olivia?"

"No."

"I'll have to have a talk with him. He shouldn't give out your address to just anyone."

"I agree," Fred says, "but he knows me from way back."

"Ah yes, you said. Off you go, then."

Fred gives me a fleeting look, then leaves as Wes closes the door firmly behind him.

He turns to me slowly, and for a moment I'm afraid, though Wes's never been violent or even angry.

"All right now, Olivia. Do you want to explain what the hell is going on?"