Carrie Soto Is Back(82)

“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