“Why do I have to be nice when most of the men aren’t? Last year, Jeff Kerr called an umpire a ‘dogshit salad,’ and he’s hawking underwear for Fruit of the Loom.”
Gwen shakes her head. “You know damn well there’s another set of rules for you. Just like there’s even another set of rules for me.”
I look at her, understanding that as much as I know what it’s like to be a woman in this world, I have no idea what it’s like to be a Black woman.
“Yeah,” I say. “And it’s not right.”
Gwen shrugs. “Most shit isn’t.”
I nod. “Good point.”
“And look, I know you might not care about all the money you stand to make, because you’ve already got your villa and your foundation, but I want that money! And what you’ve done this week will catapult you to the top of everyone’s list. The figures people are throwing around now—I could retire off this.”
“Oh please, you’re not gonna retire,” I say as I look up at the ceiling.
“I don’t know,” she says.
I sit up and stare at her.
“The twins are going to college next year. Michael is leaving. He met someone else, apparently. Her name is Naomi. Which is such a pretty name. And that irritates the shit out of me. And, anyway, I don’t know. I’d like to do…something. Something big. Something unexpected.”
“Like what?” I ask, putting my drink down.
“I don’t know yet. But where’s my midlife crisis? Aren’t I allowed one?”
I nod, considering. “Absolutely you are!”
“Yeah, I am.”
“Maybe I’ll have one too,” I say. “Or maybe this is mine.”
“You’re still a bit young for it, I’m afraid. You have another crisis in front of you in about ten years.”
“Oh, good,” I say, laying my head back down. I rest my hands across my chest.
“You should do it,” I say. “Retire. And do something crazy. Travel the world or take up deep-sea fishing. Or be one of those people who walk across the country. But you do what calls to you.”
“Yeah?” Gwen says. “I really am thinking about it, Carrie. It’s not just a joke. I wouldn’t be your agent anymore.”
“I get that, but…” I look away from her, at the lipstick on the empty champagne glass in front of me. “I mean…you’re not…Listen, I don’t have a ton of people that I trust. But you…you mean something to me. So I don’t care if you’re not the one who brokers my deals. You’re not just that. In my life.”
Gwen doesn’t say anything. She’s turned away and is dabbing a tissue against the underside of her eye.
“Was it okay I said that?” I ask.
“Yeah,” Gwen says. “I love that you said that. You’re almost a sister to me. My irritating, cocky, pain-in-the-ass little sister.” She leans over and grabs my hand and squeezes it. And then she bursts into tears. “Ignore me. I’m just drunk and going through a divorce. It’s like being pregnant. You’re always one good or bad second away from crying.”
“I’m sorry you’re getting a divorce,” I say. “You always seemed so happy.”
“We were and we weren’t. But when one person wants to end it, it’s over.”
“Yeah,” I say. “I know.”
“I will meet someone else,” Gwen says. “That’s what I keep remembering. All the good stuff at the beginning. The butterflies and the swooning. I’ll get to have that again. And that’s a gift.”
I think about what she’s saying. I think about Bowe and his Spanish phrases, the way he inches toward me, the way he spends each day with my father. So many butterflies, so many things to swoon for. And I keep them crammed down inside a tiny box in my chest and I forbid them from coming out.
“I think that’s brave,” I say.
“You came out of retirement, announced a nearly impossible intention, and then achieved it on an international stage,” Gwen says. “You’re brave.”
“No,” I say. “Not about what you’re talking about. Not about love. I’ve never felt brave about that.”
“Oh, for fuck’s sake, Carrie,” she says, shaking her head. “You just won Wimbledon at the age of thirty-seven—when no one thought you could do it. And now you’re going to sell yourself short on the easy stuff?”
“It doesn’t seem easy to me at all,” I say.
Gwen stands up and puts her hand on my shoulder. “Falling in love is really quite simple,” she says. “You want to know the secret? It’s the same thing we are all doing about life every single day.”
I look to her.
“Forget there’s an ending.”
* * *
—
I wake up hungover, my makeup smeared all over my face. I’ve slept in my dress.
My flight is scheduled for midmorning, so I get up and pack my things. I take a shower. I inhale three ibuprofen. I check the time and try to convert it to Pacific Daylight Time but give up. And then, just as I am about to dry my hair, there’s a knock on the door.
“One second!” I call out, putting my robe back on.
I open the door to find a bellman holding a bizarre-looking bouquet of flowers. Most of them are bright pink and spiky, but between them all are tiny gold blooms that look like buttons. It is an unusual and interesting bouquet. Every aspect of it unexpected.
I suspect they aren’t from my father; he would have sent roses. And I let myself imagine, briefly, that they are from Bowe. But the idea seems too indulgent, too embarrassing.
“Thank you,” I say, and I tip the bellman. After he leaves, I put the vase on the coffee table and search for the card. Maybe Gwen got up early and sent them.
Brava, Soto! Take a breath and fill your lungs with your victory, friend. I promise there will not be another one. See you in New York. XO, Chan
P.S. The pink flowers are amaranth, which represent immortality—what we’re fighting for, after all. And the yellow are tansy. They are said to represent a declaration of war. Fun, right?
Ugh. I hate that I like Nicki Chan.
My father is waiting for me in the driveway when my car pulls in. His color is back, and he looks healthy and strong.
The moment he sees me, he beams. It’s a smile so big that it takes over his face. I’m not sure I’ve seen him smile like this in decades. The sight is enough to knock me over. I drop my things and run to him.
He holds me so close I think he might snap my bones. My dad has always had this same smell—a smell I’ve been fond of my entire life. I always assumed it was his natural scent. Until one day, as a teenager, I wandered into the fragrance section of the pharmacy and smelled English Leather.
I’m embarrassed to say that, for a second, it mystified me—how could a drugstore bottle what my father smelled of? And then I realized the answer was much more mundane. My father wore drugstore cologne.
But right now, in this moment, I love this drugstore cologne more than I love the smell of Wimbledon grass or California oranges or the rubber of a freshly popped can of tennis balls. This drugstore cologne is my home.
“I have never, never been prouder, cielo,” he says when he finally lets me go.
“I know,” I say. “I’m the oldest woman to ever win a singles Slam. And I’ve tied Nicki. If I beat her at the US Open, I’ll have done everything I set out to do.”
My father shakes his head. “That’s not what I’m talking about.”
“What do you mean?”
“Have you rewatched the match?” he asks me.
“No,” I say. “Should I?”
“It was a beautiful game, pichona. Every shot was loose but perfect. You were there. You were present. It was tennis at its finest and it was your tennis at its finest and I have never been more proud of the player you are.”
“Thanks, Dad,” is about all I can croak out.
“And do you know what else?” he says. “The whole third set, you were smiling. Smiling!”
“I like winning.”
My father shakes his head. “No, you were happy,” he says. “Just playing like when you were a kid. I saw it with my own eyes. It was joy.”
* * *
—
Later that night, after I have unpacked, my father and I go over everything the doctors said when he was released from the hospital. He implores me not to worry anymore and then heads back to his own house.