My father looks at me and narrows his eyes, trying to gauge my reaction.
“I don’t need you to guess what I want to hear,” I say. “I just want the truth. If I don’t win, then what?”
“Well, if you don’t win the US Open, I don’t care. That’s the truth.”
I erupt in laughter. “Unreal.”
“You said you wanted the truth. It will be no different to me if you win or you lose. It won’t affect me at all.”
“I mean, it matters a little,” I say.
“To you, maybe. But to me? It was never the point.”
I put my head on his shoulder and absorb what he’s saying. I look up at the bright, unending L.A. sky, palm trees swaying in the breeze.
“He’s in love with you,” my father finally says.
I don’t pull away. I don’t even flinch.
“And he knows you’re a better player than he is,” my dad says. “I was always worried about that with you. Because the only person who could ever understand you would be another player. But how many players would be okay knowing they were second place? He takes to it well, though. Which is about the highest compliment I can think of. I’m not sure there is a greater strength.”
“Playing second to a woman?” I ask.
My father winks at me. “Feeling secure, even knowing you are not the best.”
I feel both sides of that sword, the compliment and the sharp edge meant for me.
“He is a good guy,” I say.
My father nods. “Even if he is sneaking into your house every night like some sort of pirata.”
I laugh. “Well, that’s on me,” I say. “I’m not…I don’t know if there’s any future there, and I don’t want to make it too much of a thing.”
“So you push it away, because it’s easier to pretend you don’t want it,” my dad says.
I look at him.
“Please,” he says, pulling me under his shoulder. “Open your heart the tiniest bit, pichona. Being married to your mother changed my life. She made me feel joy. She gave me purpose. We became a family. Tennis is nothing compared to that.”
“But then she was gone. And you were left with such…heartache. And I don’t…I don’t know how to do that…to live that way,” I say.
“If you did not know how to do something on the court, it would not stop you from figuring it out.” He grabs my hand. “I was so broken when your mother died that I buried my heart in the earth. And I taught you to as well. I thought I was showing you how to move on, but I was showing you how to never open up to anybody. I taught you the wrong thing. But I’ve told you that now, and it’s on you to fix it. Okay?”
“Yeah, Dad,” I say. “I already knew it. But thank you.”
“I know you did. Sometimes, you’re much smarter than me. So much stronger too. You’re like a bright diamond, one shiny, tough…”
“Bitch,” I offer.
My dad laughs. “Okay, sure. One shiny, tough bitch.”
I laugh, and he pulls me back to him. “Te amo, cielo. Being your father is the best thing that has ever happened to me. My Achilles. Greatest of the Greeks.”
“Dad…” I say.
“No,” he says. “Just accept it. Let me feel it and say it. You’re the meaning of my life.”
* * *
—
That afternoon, Bowe comes over and we play a set with my father barking at us from the sidelines through his megaphone.
“Bowe, get higher up on your toes when you make contact,” he says. “And Carrie, don’t get lazy on that follow-through!”
Bowe squeaks out a win against me—he’s getting better and better, almost by the hour, lately. And it stings to fall just short of him.
At the end of the session, my father gives me a few pointers, but it is Bowe he’s focused on. “I think you need a more open stance,” he says as Bowe zips his racket into its case. “So your weight is on the right foot as you prepare to move for the return.”
“I told you I’m not messing with my footwork now,” Bowe says. “Not when it feels right and feels intuitive. I just beat one of the greatest players in the world with my stance. C’mon.”
“Good is the enemy of great,” my father says.
Bowe looks at me and then my father. “Spoken like a Soto.”
Bowe puts his kit over his shoulder, and my father starts discussing dinner.
“See you all tomorrow,” Bowe says, waving goodbye as he heads toward his car. I watch him go, so casually, with no expectations.
I look at my father, who looks back at me, incredulous.
Oh, fine.
“Bowe!” I call out.
He turns around.
“Stay for dinner,” I say.
Bowe looks at both my father and me. “Really?”
“Yeah,” I say. “Yes.”
I walk toward him and take his kit off his shoulder. “Stay. Please.”
He watches me take his racket bag and put it down on the bench. When I catch his eye, I can tell that he wants to ask me many different questions. But I have just one simple, precarious answer. “I want you to stay.”
He smiles. “Okay,” he says.
He claps his hands together and says, “All right, let’s do this. What are we having? Javier, don’t even try me with the steak or the salty food right now. You know what? Why don’t I fire up the grill and make chicken?”
My dad laughs. And then he begins walking to my house with Bowe and me. Bowe walks up ahead of us, ever so briefly. And my father puts his arm around me.
“Siempre supe que no hay monta?a que no puedas escalar, paso a paso.”
I have always known there is no mountain you cannot climb, one step at a time.
Bowe makes dinner, and we eat outside. They play a game of chess while I look up at the stars. My dad hugs me good night. And nobody pretends Bowe is going home tonight.
Bowe and I go inside. I start doing the dishes, and Bowe comes up behind me. He kisses me and I laugh. He says he loves my laugh, and then he says, “Can I say that? Can I say I love your laugh?”
And I say, “I don’t know. I mean, I guess yes. Sure.”
I can see my father’s living room window from my kitchen. I watch as his light goes off.
Bowe grabs my waist and spins me toward him.
And I wonder for a moment why I have spent all my time worried about losing things, when there is so much here.
* * *
—
When Bowe and I wake up in the morning, instead of sneaking out, he goes downstairs in his underwear and makes me a blueberry smoothie. I drink it while he makes himself a black coffee. When we’re done, he picks up the paper and goes into the den. I go out onto the court.
I stretch my legs. As I start on my shoulders, I look at my watch. It’s three past eight.
Where is my dad?
My heart drops through my belly.
I run toward my father’s front door. I put my hand on the doorknob and I turn it.
There he is. Lying on one of his sofas, with the TV on ESPN.
Here but gone.
And all that escapes from my mouth is a hushed yelp. “Papá.”
From then on, everything feels like those moments just before you wake in the morning. I am not asleep but somehow still dreaming, the world an ambiguous combination of reality and hallucination.
At some point, I am standing on my father’s front stoop, staring at my sneakers when somebody—I can’t tell if he’s an EMT or someone from the coroner’s office—comes to find me. I look over and realize Bowe is at my side, holding my hand.
“Your father had another heart attack last night and passed away, most likely sometime between eleven and one a.m.,” the man says.
“Yeah, no shit, genius!” I hear myself shout.
Bowe pulls me into his arms.
I think someone gives me a sedative.
* * *
—
Gwen comes over with dinner. Bowe tries to make me eat something. When I look at him, I can’t figure out why Bowe Huntley is in my house, why he is the one beside me.
Gwen tells me this is going to make the news soon. “I’ll do my best to hold it all off until you’re ready.”
I tell her I don’t care who knows. Hiding it won’t fix it.
* * *
—