“Laugh all you want, but you only have so many years before gravity turns on you, missy,” Gran says reproachfully. “Blink and you’ll be an old lady confined to her bed, with only the memories to keep you warm.”
“Don’t talk like that,” I admonish, though I take the hint and tug the quilt (handmade, of course) up her legs. It’s yet another thing her generation has on us—basic sewing skills. Lord knows a few home ec classes would have served me better than multivariable calculus. “Actually, scratch that, keep talking. I’ll take as many of your stories and pearls of wisdom as I can get. Just don’t come after me for royalties since, you know, I’m broke.”
She points the remote at me. “If I’m going to look the other way on all this blatant plagiarism, then this book better be dedicated to me.”
I wink at her as I slide on my noise-canceling headphones. “Obviously. Who else would I dedicate it to?”
* * *
IT’S SEVERAL DAYS later and I’m tapping away on my laptop in my newly commandeered writing space (aka Gran’s study) when my phone rings, an unknown number popping up on the display. Normally I’d rather eat glass than answer an unknown number, but something about the location—Louisiana—tickles my memory just enough to hit Accept. “Hello?”
“Hi. I’m looking for Cassidy Sutton?” It’s a female voice, soft and slightly hesitant.
“This is she,” I respond, just as tentatively. I’ve had to block so many reporters over the past few weeks that my finger’s already hovering over the End button.
She clears her throat. “My name is Olivia Sherwood. I got your card from my . . . well, from Eric Jessup.”
My jaw falls open, and I’m momentarily struck dumb. I think I’d be less surprised if a cartoon coyote dropped an anvil on my head.
“Olivia! Oh my goodness. Wow.” Sheesh, are you a journalist or a fangirl? I cast about for something normal to say. “Um, how have you been?” I press the heel of my hand to my forehead, mortified. What are you, her long-lost friend?!
“Oh. Um, I’m well, thanks,” she responds, politely ignoring the fact that I’m short-circuiting before her very . . . well, ears, I guess. “I’m calling because I’m looking to talk to someone about a potential story.”
“I’m someone!” I blurt before I can stop myself, then close my eyes, pinching the bridge of my nose. “I’m sorry, you’ve caught me off guard. I swear, I’m usually quite normal and professional.” I let out a self-conscious laugh.
“Don’t worry about it, I know this is a little out of the blue.” Now there’s an understatement. “If it makes you feel any better, I’m definitely more nervous about this phone call than you are.”
My interest is piqued. “What kind of story did you have in mind? I’d love to help you with it.” There we go. Better.
She takes a deep breath. “Well, you may have heard some things in the press recently about me and Eric. That he . . . well, that we broke up.”
“I did hear something about that,” I say lightly.
“Most people have,” she says dryly. “Only what’s being reported isn’t true.”
“So you haven’t broken up?” I ask in surprise. So much for that smug “I told you so” I lorded over Jack.
“It’s . . . complicated. The important thing is, none of it is his fault, but he’s taking the blame to protect me. He’s always trying to protect me,” she says under her breath, and she sounds . . . wistful. “But the things they’re saying about him, they’re just so far from the truth. I can’t sit back and let him be vilified this way. I won’t,” she says firmly, all traces of her earlier hesitation gone. “I love him too much for that.”
I straighten in my seat. Well, this story just got juicier. I put the phone on speaker and start rummaging through my workbag in search of my interview notebook.
“I couldn’t help but notice that you said ‘love,’ present tense,” I point out mildly, then shut up. One of the most valuable things I’ve learned as an interviewer is when to back off and let your subjects spill their guts.
“Yeah, the love part’s never been our problem.” She sighs. “You know that quote If you love someone, set them free? We’re basically the poster children for it. We were so young when we met, so head over heels. I always knew he was going to have this big life, that he was going to be great, and I didn’t want to hold him back . . . but I just couldn’t sign up for that life. Being stuck at home while your husband’s out on the road, raising kids alone, worrying about what he’s up to or the women who’d throw themselves at him. I saw what it did to some of the players’ wives, how many relationships collapsed under the strain, and I didn’t want that for us. I didn’t want that for myself. He tried to change my mind, but I thought I was doing the right thing by ending things, that we’d both move on and find other people.” She exhales. “Only problem is, we never did.”
I’m on the edge of my seat. I’m afraid to even breathe for fear she’ll stop talking.
“He would check in with me periodically, and every time we talked it was like no time had passed. I used to think I couldn’t forget him because he was my first love, and that’s just how it is with first loves, right? You romanticize them so much that no one else can ever measure up.” She pauses. “Of course, seeing him shirtless on the cover of every magazine for a decade didn’t exactly help.” She huffs a laugh.
“Anyway, fast-forward to last year. My mom had been battling cancer for years, and when she passed away, guess who showed up to hold my hand through all of it.”
I make a strangled noise in my throat.
“He’s always been there when I needed him, no questions asked. I suddenly saw things so clearly: how wrong I’d been not to fight for what we’d had; how much time I’d wasted trying to find with someone else what was always there with him. I promised myself that I’d spend the rest of my life showing up for him the way he’s always shown up for me.” She goes quiet. “And yet somehow, I’ve managed to screw things up a second time.”
Gah! That was a golden quote. Where is my tape recorder when I need it?! I scrabble around for a pen, and when I flip my notebook open to a fresh page, something falls out onto my lap—and when I see what it is, a tidal wave of memories washes over me, threatening to pull me under.
The US Open ticket stub.
It’s a game we’d been playing for a few weeks. Spurred on by the notes I’d been leaving around his apartment, Jack had taken to hiding the ticket stub from our first date in random locations for me to find, like tucked into the pocket of my coat or zipped inside my gym bag. To retaliate, I’d slide it under his pillow, and the next day I’d find it slipped inside my sunglasses case. I’d stick it in his fridge, and he’d sandwich it inside my closed laptop. It was ridiculously silly and sickeningly sweet, like a sappy, love-drunk version of hot potato.