Page 55 of Summer After Summer

Not so much for my tennis career.

But so much for your party career.

Ha.

When do you arrive?

1.5 hours.

You want a lift?

I think Aunt Tracy is coming to get me.

I’ll cancel her.

Okay!

This is going to be awesome.

I tuck my phone away with a smile.

“You get good news?” the guy says. He’s missing one of his incisors, and his breath smells rancid.

“My daddy told me not to talk to strangers.”

He doesn’t know what to do with this, which is the whole point of the line I came up with when men decided I was old enough to chat up every time I was alone.

I pull my headphones up from my neck and over my ears and turn up the volume on Sara Bareilles. Smelly-breath weirdo gets the message and opens a book, and I rest my head against the window and try to sleep.

Home. Summer. Lazing by the pool and parties on the beach. Laughing with Ash, reading trashy books, having nothing scheduled. It does sound good, like something I need. Maybe this injury is a blessing in disguise. Yes. Summer. A real, proper one. My mind drifts to the last summer I’d spent that way, but I pull it back. No use thinking about that. About him. I never let myself think about Fred if I can help it, and if sometimes, when I’m sleeping, my dreams take me back there, that’s not my fault.

I close my eyes and drift off and dream the ending I wanted for myself, that last game in the tournament. I let the passing shot go, then regroup and win the next three points, and now I’m the champion and I’m hoisting a trophy over my head, and then I’m on to the next tournament, and I’m turning pro early. And there’s someone there to greet me after my victory, to hold me close and rub my sore feet, who looks a lot like Fred, and that’s when I tell myself it’s a dream and I should wake up.

I open my eyes. We’re at the Southampton station. The guy next to me is smiling at me like he was watching me sleep. Gross. I turn away and make sure I have everything, stuffing my headphone and phone into a large, soft bag. I’ve got one suitcase with me; the rest is following in a few days. The smelly-breathed man takes my bag out of the bin above us, and I thank him, wishing I was well enough to do it myself.

The train stops and I walk to the exit, avoiding eye contact with this creeper so he doesn’t ask for my number. I struggle to get my roller bag down the stairs and after it thunks to the platform, I look around for Ash, knowing she’s always late. I decide to give her five minutes before I text her as the other passengers shuffle off the platform.

And then I’m alone, except for a man walking toward me, a tentative smile on his face.

Fred.

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

July 2023

The morning after my dinner with Ash at the French restaurant is rough. We finished two bottles of wine last night, our teasing of the faux French Claude growing by the glass. I was determined to get him to confess his sins, but he stuck to his guns and said, “Oui, oui,” even when I asked him pointedly whether he spoke French or had even been to France.

I was glad for the car, and after it dropped me off and I climbed up the stairs to my hot, hot room, I stripped down to my underwear and prayed this was the last night I was going to sleep without air-conditioning.

My phone buzzing at six wakes me. At first, I think it’s the alarm I’d set so I don’t miss practice, but it’s a text.

From Wes.

I’m sorry, it says. Just those two words floating on my screen. It could be about a lot of things, but I know it’s probably about the one big thing. The worst thing. Her. Whoever she is.

“Someone you don’t know,” he promised, and then I’d held up my hand and said, “Enough,” because I didn’t need any more of a visual than I’d already found.

I start to type an answer, then stop, because what do I want to say? I’m sure he is sorry. Maybe sorry he got caught, and maybe sorry that I’m gone too. But sorry is not enough, so I put the phone down and give myself a minute to decide whether I’m going to go to practice.

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