Page 143 of Summer After Summer

“Yeah,” he says as he puts his mouth on mine, and then we’re lost together for an hour.

When we resurface, I bring it up again. “But where did you come from?”

“The Gansevoort I believe.”

“Ha.”

“Ashley sent me.”

“She swears she didn’t.” When I told her we were together, Ash swore up and down that she’d never even thought about Wes for me. She’d invited him because she invited the whole board, wanting to raise as much money as possible.

“Is she trustworthy, though?”

“Who cares?” I snuggle against him. “I’m happy.”

“Good.” He kisses the top of my head. “Why question it, then?”

“Because if you can just show up, you can disappear too.”

“I won’t.”

“Promise?”

“I do.”

I fall asleep with a smile on my face. It’s May now, and the mornings are light and airy. And though I’m playing better, I’ve got some decisions to make about my career that I keep putting off. When I wake up in the morning, there’s a stack of mail calling to me from the kitchen table. I’ve had my mail forwarded to his apartment at his suggestion, so I guess I’m living here now, though we’ve never discussed it.

Wes’s arranged the mail neatly because he’s the neat one, not me, and on top is an invitation. It’s from Wimbledon. A thick envelope with gold embossing on it. I get one every year. Since I made it into the main draw five years ago, it’s automatic. Or it has been. This year, my ranking is so abysmal that I was sure it wasn’t going to come.

But here it is.

Wimbledon. One more chance.

The tournament starts in six weeks. If I’m going to play, I need to focus up and drop everything else, including Wes.

“You going to go?” Wes asks, coming into the room behind me, like a cat. He does that, Wes—appears out of nowhere.

“What’s that?” I tuck the invitation behind the other mail.

“You don’t need to hide it. I’m the one who put it on top.”

I kiss him. “Right. Thank you for doing that.”

“You should go.”

“I should?”

“Olivia, it’s Wimbledon.”

“I’ve been before.”

“But not since that summer, right? Your storied run?”

At night, after I’m asleep, Wes’s been catching up on my career, ever since we started dating. Watching old matches and reading interviews. Researching my opponents and scrutinizing my training routine. Sometimes I think he knows my stats better than Matt does.

“Don’t be silly.”

“Why is it silly? It was storied.”

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