Page 117 of Summer After Summer

“I can take one day off. One day to have something for me.”

“Yes, all right.”

“I wasn’t asking.” I drop my arms and kiss him on the cheek.

“Just … be careful, okay?”

“Are we having the talk? Because that ship sailed long ago.”

“That’s not what I meant. I just meant … be careful of your heart.”

“I will be.”

But I’m not being careful. And for once that’s okay. I’ve spent too long living inside the lines, on a tennis court, in my life, in my family. I want to have fun goddammit. I want to live. And if that means making a mistake again, with Fred, so be it.

The doorbell rings, and I grab a light sweater and trip down the stairs. Fred’s standing outside, next to a small town car with a driver. He’s wearing a light summer suit with a white linen shirt. And when he smiles, he’s so handsome I could cry.

“This is fancy,” I say, touching the lapel.

“Only the best for you.”

“Ha!”

He kisses me, his lips both new and familiar. He smells great, a light spicy aftershave I don’t recognize, and that’s okay too. If he smelled exactly like the Fred I remembered, like right after a swim on the beach, it would be too much. This Fred is recognizable enough that I feel comfortable with him and new enough that it feels safe.

“You look great,” he says. “I’ve always liked you in white.”

The dress I’m wearing is a variation of twenty dresses I’ve owned in my lifetime, some of which he’s seen me in and some not. This one has a light pink overlay of vines and a scoop neck with a slight flare to the skirt. I feel pretty and feminine, two things I don’t always feel in my sporty life. “Thank you.”

He opens the door for me, and we slip inside the car. He gives the driver an address and reaches for my hand. He’s sitting on my left, and his fingers reach up till they find the bracelet. He leans in closer to me and says, “I’m glad you wore this.”

“Don’t read too much into it.”

“Okay.”

I turn to him. His eyes are warm, inviting. “What did you mean earlier when you said you hoped for this?”

“I wondered if you were going to ask me that.”

“Well?”

“Don’t be mad.”

“That’s not a great beginning.”

“But a happy ending, I promise.”

I raise my finger to his lips. “Don’t say that. Too risky.”

“Right. Okay, well, I read that profile of you in Tennis Magazine.”

“The one in January?”

“That’s right. Where you said this was going to be your year and that your goal was to make it to Wimbledon qualifying and beyond.”

“You read that?”

“I read everything about you, Olivia.”

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