Carrie Soto Is Back(83)

P.S. The pink flowers are amaranth, which represent immortality—what we’re fighting for, after all. And the yellow are tansy. They are said to represent a declaration of war. Fun, right?



Ugh. I hate that I like Nicki Chan.





My father is waiting for me in the driveway when my car pulls in. His color is back, and he looks healthy and strong.

The moment he sees me, he beams. It’s a smile so big that it takes over his face. I’m not sure I’ve seen him smile like this in decades. The sight is enough to knock me over. I drop my things and run to him.

He holds me so close I think he might snap my bones. My dad has always had this same smell—a smell I’ve been fond of my entire life. I always assumed it was his natural scent. Until one day, as a teenager, I wandered into the fragrance section of the pharmacy and smelled English Leather.

I’m embarrassed to say that, for a second, it mystified me—how could a drugstore bottle what my father smelled of? And then I realized the answer was much more mundane. My father wore drugstore cologne.

But right now, in this moment, I love this drugstore cologne more than I love the smell of Wimbledon grass or California oranges or the rubber of a freshly popped can of tennis balls. This drugstore cologne is my home.

“I have never, never been prouder, cielo,” he says when he finally lets me go.

“I know,” I say. “I’m the oldest woman to ever win a singles Slam. And I’ve tied Nicki. If I beat her at the US Open, I’ll have done everything I set out to do.”

My father shakes his head. “That’s not what I’m talking about.”

“What do you mean?”

“Have you rewatched the match?” he asks me.

“No,” I say. “Should I?”

“It was a beautiful game, pichona. Every shot was loose but perfect. You were there. You were present. It was tennis at its finest and it was your tennis at its finest and I have never been more proud of the player you are.”

“Thanks, Dad,” is about all I can croak out.

“And do you know what else?” he says. “The whole third set, you were smiling. Smiling!”

“I like winning.”

My father shakes his head. “No, you were happy,” he says. “Just playing like when you were a kid. I saw it with my own eyes. It was joy.”



* * *



—

Later that night, after I have unpacked, my father and I go over everything the doctors said when he was released from the hospital. He implores me not to worry anymore and then heads back to his own house.

I take a shower and put on a T-shirt and a pair of sweatpants. I comb my hair. But I don’t feel settled. I pick up the phone and dial.

“Hey, it’s me,” I say. And then I wonder why I think I can do that—act like I am the most important person who could possibly call him.

“How are you, champion?” Bowe says. His voice has changed. It sounds different, even from when we spoke so often in London. It is quieter, heavier, breathier.

“I’m good,” I say. “I’m really good. How are you feeling? How are your ribs?”

“Much better, actually,” he says. “I think Javier and I are going to start training again. I’ve been doing a little bit on my own. But I would be lying if I said I wasn’t looking forward to having my hitter back.”

I laugh. “Is that me?” I say. “Am I your hitter?”

“I don’t know what you are,” he says.

“Yeah, me neither. I am a little lonely, though,” I say.

“Yeah?” Bowe’s voice picks up a lightness again, that bounce. I like both versions of him.

“Yeah, a little.”

“Well, that I can do something about,” he says.



* * *



—

The second half of the summer is a train heading full speed toward Flushing Meadows.

There is not much time between Wimbledon and the US Open. My father has his work cut out for him, training both Bowe and me, day in and day out.

He sits on the bench for my morning training sessions, barking drills at me. After the first day, I buy him a megaphone so he won’t strain so hard to yell.

After I go in for lunch and to take a shower and rest, Bowe usually shows up and trains with my father for a few hours. Sometimes, as I’m getting dressed, I watch the two of them in the backyard. Bowe and my father are always either passionately agreeing or disagreeing about what Bowe should work on next. The two of them bicker at full volume—Bowe yelling to be heard over my father’s megaphone.

As the days pass by, I can see Bowe’s first serve growing more and more bold, his second serve more consistent, all from my window.

Then, every day around three, I get back on the court. And Bowe and I play a match.

Bowe always starts off trash-talking. And then I often trounce him—and my father gives us both a series of pointers for the next day.

At which point, Bowe says he’ll see us tomorrow. My father and I have dinner. And then I say I’m going to bed.

But instead, I wait until nine-thirty, when I open my door, and Bowe is always standing on my doorstep.

“Hi.”

“Hi.”

Every night, I grab his hand and pull him inside and bring him to my bedroom. And every night, he presses himself against me and kisses my neck and makes me wonder if anyone has ever survived jumping off the edge of a cliff.