Carrie Soto Is Back(63)

“No,” he says. “I tried, but I kept getting them wrong.”

“So you wrote them down.”

He’s still seated, and I’m standing over him. Bowe looks up at me.

“You wrote them down, and they are in your pocket,” I say.

“Please don’t try to get into my pockets––it’s gonna kill my ribs. Seriously, I’m begging you.”

There is a past version of me that would have dug into his pockets anyway—that would tell him to deal with the pain. I cringe to remember some of the things I’ve said to myself—and even to other people—back when I was in my prime. Man up and play through! Stop being a baby and dominate!

But I don’t want to say any of those things now. I just want to make sure he’s not hurting…and to see what he’s written down.

“Please,” I say, my voice low. “Show me.”

He frowns and then lifts himself off the chair ever so slightly. He takes a piece of hotel stationery out of his pocket.

“Please don’t laugh at me,” he says.

I take the paper and open it. There are three Spanish phrases, all written out in his messy handwriting.

You are perfect, even in your imperfection.

You are completely insufferable, and I can’t stop thinking about you.

I want the real thing this time.



“You wrote these down? So you could say them to me?”

“Yes.”

“If I kiss you, will it hurt?” I ask, moving closer to him.

“What?”

“Your ribs. If I kiss you, will I hurt you?”

“No,” he says. “I don’t think so.”

I put both of my hands on his face and kiss him. He reaches his good arm across my lower back and pulls me toward him.

I’ve kissed him before, years ago. But this feels both familiar and brand-new, like a good stretch, like a deep breath.

“I don’t know what this is,” I say. “I don’t know if it’s the real thing or not.”

“I don’t care,” he says, kissing me again. He grabs at the hem of my T-shirt and the buttons on my jeans.

“I don’t want to hurt you.”

“I don’t care about that either,” he says, kissing me again.

“You have to be careful,” I say. “Of your ribs.”

“Carrie, please,” he says, kissing my neck. “Stop worrying.”

And so I do.



* * *



—

Later, as the sunlight begins to filter through the window of my hotel room in the early hours of the morning, I wake up to see Bowe asleep next to me.

His hair is sticking up straight in the back, a cowlick let loose at some point in the night. His face, up close, is weathered. There are fine wrinkles around his eyes. I turn away and look out the window, overcome with this awful, sinking feeling. As happy as you are when it starts, you always end up that same amount of sad when it’s over.

He begins to stir, his eyes opening slowly and reluctantly. He looks at me and smiles.

He says, “Should we order breakfast?”

“You’re going to stay?” I ask.

He sits up, fully awake all of a sudden. “You want me to go?”

“Do you want to go? You can go if you want.”

“I don’t want to go. I told you that last night. In Spanish.”

“Okay,” I say.

“So I’m staying?” he says.

“If you want to.”

Bowe rolls his eyes and growls. He puts a pillow over his head, but I can still hear him bitching. “You are so annoying,” he says. “Just say you like me, for fuck’s sake!”

I pull the pillow off his head. I want to say it. I try to make myself.

“What do you want for breakfast?” I say. “I’ll call down.”



* * *



—

Bowe and I spend the next few days together, walking around Paris. My father, who I still have barely spoken to, stays in his room. Gwen’s office booked us all flights home the day after the final.

Tonight, Bowe and I are at a French bistro around the corner from my hotel. The women’s final is playing on the television by the bar: Chan vs. Antonovich.

I’m wearing one of Bowe’s baseball caps and a pair of sunglasses. We are sitting out on the patio. Part of me wants to run back to the hotel and hide, to not be in public right now. But if people recognize us, they don’t acknowledge it. And I want to be here, at this bistro, with Bowe.

We can see the TV from our table. At first, we are both pretending not to watch, but by the time Nicki has won the first set, we have given up all pretenses.

Bowe grabs my hand as the second set begins. I don’t pull it away, even when our food arrives. Antonovich takes the second set while we eat our steak frites.

“Maybe Antonovich has a shot,” Bowe says.

I frown at him. “I almost wish Cortez had made it past Antonovich in the semis,” I say. “I think Cortez could beat Nicki here. But Antonovich…I don’t know. I don’t know.”

He nods.

Forty-five minutes later, Nicki takes the third set, 6–4. She drops to the ground, victorious and tearful.