Page 86 of Bending Under Pressure

“But what?”

“She’s strict. Sometimes, I wish I still lived with Aunt Frances.”

“How come you’re not?” I ask.

Keira shrugs. “Mom didn’t want me to anymore. I didn’t get a vote.”

Knowing that, knowing that Keira doesn’t like living with Natalie, doesn’t help her case at all. It makes me even more wary of her.

I glance at the front door again. Still closed. I left Keelan’s earlier than everyone else so I could come home, shower, and get ready for lunch with my father. He was supposed to be here at noon. It is now 12:30. He isn’t here nor has he texted me.

“Have you heard from your dad?” Walter asks tentatively as he sits down in a recliner.

“No.” My eyes can’t help but look at the door again.

“Have you texted him?”

“No.” Maybe it’s wrong, but I want to see how long it takes my dad to contact me. I don’t know what will be worse though. Him forgetting completely, or him being extremely late. I’m going to have to wait and find out. As every minute passes, my heart aches more and more.

He’s forgotten about me again.

Will I ever be a priority in his life like I used to be?

Mom stays silent when she joins us, and I’m grateful. While I don’t think she would say, “I told you so,” I don’t want her to say anything at all. We’re in a good place and I can’t count on my negative emotions for my father transferring onto her.

At the hour mark, Walter pushes the foot of the recliner down. “How about you give me my first tennis lesson today?”

“I don’t know.” I’d rather shed some tears and then go to the courts by myself. It doesn’t help that I’m not sure if I’m unsure if he truly wants to go today, if he’s doing it out of pity, or as a means to distract me. I hate myself for even wanting to stay here in case Dad shows up. Hastily, I make a decision. “Okay, sure. We can do that. Do you want to come, Mom?”

“No, that’s all right. You and Walter have fun.”

Walter and I stand, going toward our respective bedrooms to change. I grab my extra racquet and a cannister of balls before meeting him again. Walter drives us to the courts, making small talk and staying far away from the subject of my father. There’s a bite in the air today, which makes me grateful I wore my athletic pants instead of one of my skirts. I show him how to hold the racquet and how to swing a forehand and then a backhand. He’s right-handed, so his forehand is simply swinging on the right, and his backhand is when he reaches across his body to swing from the left side.

“Think you got it?” I ask.

“This old dog can learn new tricks, young lady,” he retorts, causing me to laugh.

“Okay, okay. We’ll see how to do when you try to return the ball to me.” I walk across to the opposite side of the courts. The plan is to make my serves and returns as simple as possible to give him a better chance to hit them back to me. I cherish the sound of the ball bouncing against the court before my serve. I toss the ball up, hit it across the court, and wait for Walter to hit it back.

The ball goes to him perfectly. It bounces once. Walter rears his arm backward, but I already know the ball won’t make it to me. His stance changes completely as if he is on a baseball field about to hit what was just pitched to him. The ball flies high over the fence and lands in the grass of the park behind us.

I laugh hard at the shock on Walter’s face. “This isn’t baseball, Walter,” I tell him through my giggles. “Like this.” I turn my body perpendicular to the net and swing, my arm crossing my body until my racquet was over my shoulder once I completed the follow-through. “Here, we’ll practice this way, so I don’t lose all my balls so quickly.”

Walter laughs. I stand in front of the net, still on my side, and throw the ball to him so it’ll bounce once first. His swing is much better this time. He’s more focused on what he’s doing, concentrating hard on doing it correctly. The ball goes wide of me, but I’m able to move and hit it back to him. Thanks to Coach Spell working on my volleys, I’m having no trouble doing this.

His swings aren’t always perfect, but I’d be surprised if they were. For thirty minutes, we do this until I’m confident we can rally with me farther back on the court. The only possible drawback from this experience is that Walter likes to talk during it. When I come to play, there’s never any talking unless it’s during practice and even then, not always.

“Who taught you to play?” he asks.

“My dad. We played all the time together. Sometimes, it felt like he was my coach instead of my actual coach.” Dad isn’t here playing with me now though. Walter is. Should I feel guilty? Is Walter trying to take his place? Should I be angry with him for doing so? Honestly, I think Walter was trying to find a way to connect with me and he only had three options. Math, which I do fine in. Books, and all I read are romances so that could be awkward. Or tennis, the perfect, most preferable opening.

As if he’s reading my mind, Walter hesitates with his swing, causing the green, fuzzy ball to bounce right past him. “I didn’t know that. Is it okay that I’m playing with you now?”

“Yeah. Trying starting this time.”

He bounces the ball and then swings as if it was hit to him rather than serving. We’re not tackling that issue today.

“You know, I was married before I met your mom.”

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