Summer After Summer, page 28
“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.
CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN
August 2023
There are more people at the cocktail party tonight, sensing that they’re about to be over for good. All the familiar faces and ones I’ve never taken the time to learn.
It took an effort to be here after reading that letter from my mother. I took the pages back to my room and lined them up against the ones missing from her diary. They matched exactly as I knew they would. So now I know why my mother wanted me to wait to get married. Because she wanted me to choose myself and not be trapped by circumstance. I don’t know what to do with this information. Tell my sisters? Bring it up with my father? Or tuck it away like she tucked the pages into her favorite book and left them hidden, maybe forever.
When I come outside, Wes is across the lawn, talking to Charlotte and Ann. Colin and Sophie are making the rounds with Aunt Tracy, like a leave-taking. My father is standing on the veranda, drink in hand, looking out over it all. What must he be thinking? Despite our confab in the library, I don’t feel any closer to knowing him or his thoughts. But maybe that’s okay. I don’t have to access the thoughts of everyone around me all the time to know them.
“What do you think they’re talking about?” Fred asks, appearing at my elbow like the ghost that he is.
“When did you get here?”
“Just now.” He’s dressed more casually than I’ve seen him in a while, more like the Fred on the beach a couple of weeks ago than the Fred of the club, of finance, of stranger.
“Where were you?”
“I had some business in London.”
“Ah.”
“So?”
I look back out over the lawn. “So, what?”
“Are they plotting?” He nods toward Charlotte and Wes and Ann.
Charlotte has her back to them, talking to one of the neighbors, and Wes and Ann’s heads are tipped together. They do look like they’re in a conspiracy, but that’s silly.
“What would they have to plot about?”
“I don’t know … Only, Olivia … are you sure you know everything about …”
“About what?”
He hesitates. “Ann.”
“She makes Charlotte happy, that’s all I need to know.”
“But have you—”
I cut him off, exasperated. “What are you trying to say, Fred? Are you worried she’s some gold-digger after my sister?”
Fred doesn’t say anything, just stares back grimly.
“She’s a lawyer. Successful by the looks of it.”
“Appearances can be deceiving.”
“Honestly? Who cares? If Charlotte is happy, what does it matter?”
“I just think you should be careful.”
“I’m always careful.”
“Not always.”
We stare at each other, neither of us saying what we want to. This is what there is between us. Undercurrents, tensions, things that mean one thing and are said as another.
“Just because you’re disappointed about your own love life …”
Fred arches an eyebrow. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“I heard about Lucy and James.”
“I see.”
“It doesn’t bother you?”
“No.”
“Come on, you guys were dating, and your friend swoops in and … Plus, I thought James was still mourning Fanny? So much for lifelong devotion …”
Fred looks me directly in the eye, stopping my thought in its tracks. “Olivia, I could not care in the least what Lucy and James do. No, that’s not right. I’m happy for them. James is important to me, and Lucy is a great girl. I hope they’ll be happy together.”
His voice is full of emotion, but I can’t quite tell what it’s directed at. Me, them, himself?
“Who’s going to be happy?” Wes says, putting his arm around my shoulders and holding me close to him.
“Lucy and James,” I say.
“Ann was telling me about that. How delicious.” He laughs, but he’s the only one. “What? Not a good story?”
“It was rather sudden,” I say. “And she’s recovering from a concussion.”
“Proximity, illness, James fretting over her. It’s like something out of a romance novel, them alone in that massive winery … Anything could happen. Right, Fred?”
“Wes …”
“What? Fred and I are friends now.”
“You are?”
“We fought it out and made up, didn’t we?”
Fred nods slowly. “We did.”
“And where was I when all this happened? The makeup?”
Wes shrugs. “Not sure. Anyway, are you pining for Lucy, Fred? Going to fisticuffs with James?”
“Are you drunk?” I ask him.
“What? No. Just poking fun. This place needs more fun.”
“That it does,” Fred says. “I’ll see you later, Olivia. Wes.”
He touches me briefly on the arm, then walks away.
“What’s going on?” I say to Wes.
“What? Nothing.”
“You talked to him after the fight?”
Wes catches up my hand. “Briefly. The next morning.”
“Why didn’t you tell me?”
“I didn’t think it was relevant.”
“And what were you and Ann talking about?”
“Just gossip. The party. Nothing.”
“Which?”
“What?”
“Was it gossip or the party or nothing?”
He lets my hand go. “Why are you cross-examining me?”
“Because you’re acting weird.”
“Is weird so bad?”
“Depends on what it’s about.”
“I’m just … happy?” His eyes dance as he says this, smiling down at me.
“You are?”
“Yes.” He reaches for me again, pulling me to him. “Aren’t you? Soon, this will all be done, and we can move on.”
I rest my head against his chest. Despite everything, my body still reacts to him in the same way, that mixed feeling of being safe and attracted. I close my eyes and try to block out everything. The sounds of the party, the lingering presence of Fred, all the questions that still swirl in my mind when we’re together.
I almost get there. I almost do.
But then, deep in his shirt, I catch the scent of something floral.
Someone else’s perfume.
And even though I know it’s probably nothing, just someone from the party who put a hand on him, or maybe from the club, whoever is doing his laundry, it makes me pull away.
It makes me remember when all I want to do is forget.
CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT
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.
