“I’m paranoid about sunscreen,” she says, speaking my language, and then proceeds to lambaste herself with the coconut-scented spray. She passes the bottle to me casually, as she might to a friend she’s been sharing with for years. I give my arms another thin coat.
“Do you mind if I use this on my legs, too?” I ask Linda.
“Of course not.”
No wonder I’m so pale.
We watch as Terry feeds the first ball to Abram, who then hits it back a million times harder than when playing me. Abram glides into each of his shots, totally balanced, timing each movement perfectly, popping the ball right back to the same annoying location above Terry’s head every time as a thwooomp sound echoes around the court.
“So much talent,” Linda says, but not like it’s a shame he’s been wasting it—as if she, too, is mesmerized by what Abram can produce with an easygoing smile on his face. Linda McEvans could’ve been a model in a past life, provided she was about a foot taller in that one. She takes care of herself, too. I bet her bathroom is full of expensive face creams and firming serums I’d have a hard time not slipping into my purse. I’d bet she’s like a Heidi, someone who gets prettier and prettier the more you get to know her, while I do the opposite.
She also has something on her mind. She’s less obvious about what’s eating her than Starbucks Janette, but it’s in there somewhere, throbbing inside her temples, wanting me to acknowledge it.
ABRAM
JULIETTE SEEMS TO BE getting along okay up there with Linda. Then again her expression hasn’t changed yet, so Terry’s guess is as good as mine, and he’s too busy having fun. His enjoyment is making it hard to wrap things up in five minutes. He laughs as my latest return lands right on the baseline, takes a bad bounce, and whizzes past him. Excuse my French, but it feels good to be hitting le shit out of his serve again. I’m surprised to find myself feeling this way, but I doubt Juliette is. She’s known all along tennis is in my blood. My dad’s way of communicating with me.
When we’re done, Terry puts his beefy arm around my neck and says, nonchalantly, “I’ll make a comeback if you do, champ.”
“Maybe. Let’s see how lame we pull up in the morning.”
The two of us sit down on the bench. Terry pours a cup of water over his head and turns to me, forehead dripping. “You know your mom told us to check in on you, right?”
“I figured she might.”
“Suzy loved watching you and Ian play tennis, Abram. I don’t get the sense it’s gonna bring back bad memories for her, should you someday decide to start kickin’ everybody’s ass again. But, hey, what do I know?” He yells up at Linda and asks her the same question. She rolls her eyes and asks if he needs any ibuprofen.
“One more game?” Terry asks, nodding his head yes for me.
Juliette
ABRAM AND TERRY are shaking hands, having just finished a game called Butt’s Up that they asked our permission to play. Now Terry’s going back to the service line, bending over, and sticking his butt into the air. “Give me what I deserve!” he shouts. Linda groans and then laughs as Abram runs back to the baseline, prepares to take aim. He deliberately skims the ball just past Terry, who proceeds to fall down like he’s been hit anyway.
“Did Abram’s father ever bring another woman around?” I ask Linda quietly.
Linda turns to me, and she may be the definition of an unflappable Southern woman who’s either been through it all herself or heard it all before, but her smile doesn’t show as seamlessly this time.
“You mean your mother, hon?”
My fingers tighten around the edge of my seat. “So you met her?”
“We saw them here playing tennis a few times, had dinner with them once,” she admits guiltily. “She was enchanting, your mother. The life of the party. Terry and I tried not to judge—we’re certainly no angels ourselves—but of course it was hard not to think of Suzy and … everyone else involved.”
Before I can apologize, Linda goes on to eulogize how sorry she is for my loss. The words don’t sound quite as depressing in her southern accent, but I still feel like I’m attending another funeral. When she’s not paying attention, I shoot Abram a look like we should really be going soon.
ABRAM
ON OUR WAY OUT of the club, Terry and Linda offer to give us a ride home in their pimped-out golf cart. Juliette’s fingers find their way to the skin on the back of my arm, pinching a no into it. I wonder if I’ll ever learn what her yes signal feels like. Terry tries to make it happen by touting the cart’s satellite radio and playing us a sample song, but all he gets me is pinched in the exact same spot.
“They’re pretty nice, eh?” I say to her, when their golf cart has buzzed far enough away.
“Yes,” Juliette says, “but I never want to see them again.”
She’s said this about a lot of people, of course—me, that happy family at the beach this morning, old teachers we pass in the hallway who’d love to keep in touch. She always means it, but this time she’s got some extra oomph behind it.
28
Juliette
“EVER NOTICED HOW TIRED being at the beach makes you?” Abram asked me earlier tonight. “Not really,” I said, then he called his mom, I started e-mailing my dad, and he passed out on our couch bed twenty minutes later, the end.
Now not only am I alone with my thoughts again—they’re telling me it’s my own fault for “going there” with Linda—I’m sore from tennis and starving. This popcorn isn’t cutting it; not when I’m craving—can’t believe I’m admitting this to myself—a Doritos Locos Supreme.
There’s hope.
His eyelids are twitching.
“Abram.”
No response.
“Taco Bell?”
Nothing.
I move my laptop station closer to him, lean over until my face is nearly touching his. It’s warmer down here by his mouth, just as I suspected, maybe even anticipated on my worst days. I should’ve made it easier for him to kiss me in the ocean last night. His lips look firm, a little on the chapped side but in an intriguing way that makes sense for a boy; otherwise, I’d just make out with Heidi every once in a while and call it a phase. Bizarre that his breath hasn’t offended me once since we met—must be his candy-flavored toothpaste. His lids twitch again, but he still doesn’t open his eyes. His lashes are even longer from this close up. That’s sort of interesting. Eventually, I manage to pull myself away from him. I don’t go far.
ABRAM
I OPEN MY EYES, relieved to see Juliette hasn’t fled to jog off her insomnia yet; in fact, she’s maybe a little closer to my side of the bed than when I started dozing.
“Hi,” she says softly, and I can see she’s still typing the same e-mail to her dad on my laptop. So far, she’s written Hello, Dad: How’s the new novel? Have you gotten up from your swivel chair since I left? Are you and the Keurig getting along? <Insert something like “I miss you” without actually saying it here.> And that’s all. Writer’s block must run in the family.
“Hey there.”
She minimizes the e-mail, turns toward me, and everything about her is more exotic and hypnotic than it’s ever been. I think this pretty much every time she makes eye contact with me, but today her face seems a bit fuller and healthier than it’s been this past year, possibly due to her increased exposure to my snacks. To this point, there’s an open bag of popcorn beside her. I’m pleased that she a) helped herself to my stash, b) hasn’t apologized for it yet, and c) curtailed the Adderall enough today to allow hunger to resume its rightful spot in her empty stomach.
Emboldened by my sleepy state, I reach over and pull her closer to me, against me, and she doesn’t object or eject herself from the bed. In fact, she gets under the covers, finds the perfect position for almost every part of her body to connect with mine as I loop my arms around her and find her hands. Just like that, there’s no such thing as a problem in my world.