Page 110 of Summer After Summer

“What’s that?” Ann says, raising her head up from her conversation with Fred.

“We were just talking about the transfer. Has a date been set?” I ask.

“August eighteenth, I believe.”

“Can you let me know what you need from me before then?”

“Of course. I’m surprised my assistant hasn’t already been in touch. I’ll write her right now.” She takes out her phone and taps at it quickly while Fred eats his salad between us. I can feel his awkward energy, and I wish I’d waited to bring it up. “And done.”

“Thank you.”

Lucy puts her phone down. “I wonder what the next course is?”

“Lobster bisque,” James says, his ear attuned to every conversation about food. “It’s exquisite.”

Fred turns in his chair and puts his hand on James’s arm. “Thank you for this, old friend.”

“It’s no trouble at all.”

“I know that’s not true.” He stands. “Now, please take my chair and eat some of this delicious meal. I insist.”

He leads James into his chair, almost pressing him down into it. Then he pushes it in like he’s a waiter, and walks to another table, picks up a chair, and puts it down next to Lucy.

He doesn’t look at me as he does this, but I get the message.

One hour beside me is enough.

Too long in fact.

CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

June 2013

My interactions with Fred in London take on the ping-pong quality of my tennis matches.

I face my opponents, trying not to look for him in the crowd, but I know he’s there. Somehow, he stays out of sight. Maybe it’s because the crowds are bigger each day than the last, a slow buzz building around me, bringing journalists and fans.

I’ve never really had fans before, not strangers who follow my stats other than the occasional man—always older, always oddly tanned like he’s just come from the beach—who feels like I owe him my time because I’m a woman, and I exist in a world he’s interested in.

But I’ve been pegged by the media as one to watch in this tournament, my half-year record and my jump in the standings marking me for special attention. After I win my second match against the other qualifier who’s higher ranked than me, there are journalists to talk to, asking me questions about the potential streak I’m on, where it’s going to end. I know better than to give in to that talk, so I spin the platitudes I’ve heard others share about seeing the ball well, and it not being my opponent’s day and that I’m taking each match “one by one.”

I try not to look over the journalist’s shoulder for Fred, but I can sense him around. Somehow, I know that at some point, once I finish my cooldown and go back to my hotel, I’ll receive a message from him.

This time, it comes in the cab.

Great match again. I’m impressed.

Our old texts have been pushed off the screen now. I have to scroll up to see them. I don’t.

Thank you.

Everyone is talking about you.

Are they?

As they should be.

Don’t you have to work?

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