Page 151 of Summer After Summer

That’s how he talks—“the tragedy that befell them all”—like an old man in a novel, formal and stiff. I can tell, though, that it’s only bravado. He likes to talk about his son, but it’s painful, and he loves Fred—I can feel it so clearly, a feeling I recognize because it’s what I feel for Fred too. Fred is uncomfortable being the center of attention, but he’s also used to having this story told about him, so he puts up with it, though I know he’s dying to ask me something, anything—to understand what’s going on.

“And what about you, Olivia?” Tomas asks. “What brings you to London?”

“Tennis.”

“You’ll be competing at Wimbledon?”

“That’s the plan. But I’m doing a challenger tournament first.”

“You were the one who made it through the qualifiers a few years back, yes?”

“That’s me.”

“An impressive run.”

“Thank you. And I think I have you to thank for getting me the chance.”

“What’s that?”

Fred rises himself. “You remember, Tomas. We sponsored some of the surrounding events.”

“Oh yes, that’s right. Fred here is very passionate about tennis.”

“I admire the game. The solitude of it. How you’re out there on the court, alone.”

“It can be lonely,” I say. “Never having teammates. Always in conflict with the people you meet on tour.”

Fred’s eyes lock onto mine, and a blush creeps up my cheeks.

“I hadn’t thought about that.”

Tomas checks his watch. “Is that the time? I must be going.”

“But you haven’t had dinner yet,” I say.

“I was only ever meeting Fred for a drink.” He stands. “It was lovely to meet you, my dear. And how nice for Fred to have you back in London.”

He reaches out his hand again, and I take it. “I feel like you’re leaving because of me. But I should be the one to go.”

“Nonsense. You and Fred can catch up and I can get home earlier, which I would like to do either way.” He gives me a weary smile, and I can see it: the pallor behind his tan, the dark droops under his eyes. This is a man who’s exhausted, maybe ill.

“It was so nice to meet you.”

“Likewise. Frederick.”

They nod at each other, and I stand there. We both do.

“Do you want to sit?” Fred asks. His voice has a bit more British in it than the last time, like it’s slowly taking over. Otherwise, he wears the five years that have passed easily, with almost no change in his appearance. A handsome man in full bloom, comfortable in his suit and his surroundings.

My eyes flit to his left hand. It’s bare. Mine is too. I left my engagement ring in my jewelry box in the apartment. I take off all my rings when I play tennis, and a locker room is not the right place to secure expensive jewelry.

“Sure.” I take a seat, and a waiter comes over with a fresh glass and some white wine. He fills it. I want to drink it all down, but I need my wits about me.

“Hi,” Fred says, his features softening.

“Hi.”

“I can’t believe you’re here.”

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