above out-of-control thought sequence is exactly what my new audiobook warns against.
“What do you think about just hanging out here for a while?” Abram asks.
“Okay,” I say, letting him do the thinking. He looks surprised. I wonder how long it will take him to realize this would be better with towels.
ABRAM
W E’RE RELAXING ON THE BEACH, sprawled out side by side on the towels we just fetched, without a responsibility in the world besides all the ones we’re putting off back home. Juliette keeps asking if she’s tan yet, holding out her arm for my “brutally honest opinion.” To be honest, we’ve only been lying still for twenty minutes, but I prop myself up on my towel so I can better assess her pigmentation. Eventually, my eyes wander over to her smooth, taut stomach with its tiny little belly button that I’d like to do a shot of something out of someday, even if it’s saltwater, and what was her question?
“You’re at least as tan as me,” I confirm.
She sighs. “I want to be as tan as you two years ago.”
“Ah-ha, so you did see me as you were running by the courts pretending to ignore my shirtlessness.”
I’m guessing the W she draws in the sand next to me stands for Whatever .
She sits up and takes off her sunglasses, looking over at me. “Not that it matters, but I could never tell who was winning … you were both so good.”
“Dad usually won in practice.”
“What about in a match?”
I hesitate. Feels almost like a betrayal to show off my bragging rights, tout my official tournament victories over my dad or whatever—the last of which was on this exact island, at the club across the street, after we won the doubles together. I confess my guilt about this to Juliette, and she reminds me he would’ve been a lot more upset if I’d let him win. Very true.
“I want to see you play again,” she says.
“Naw, we should just take it easy this afternoon.” When she responds by putting her sunglasses back on, I sit up straighter and remove mine. “You’ve already scheduled something, haven’t you?”
She puts her hand over her heart in a sarcastic gesture of innocence, then tells me we have four o’clock reservations at the club across the street.
26
Juliette
“W HEN’S THE LAST TIME you played?” Abram asks as we step out onto the court together.
“Can’t remember,” I say, like it’s the funniest thing. It’s not—I took a few mother-daughter tennis lessons a year and a half ago. Mom’s idea. Her bribing me with Adderall was mine. I spent most of my time on court making snarky comments under my breath about Mom’s sudden interest in the sport. I remember hitting exactly one forehand when we were playing doubles together—the ball only smacked the back of her arm, but in that particular moment of resentment, it felt like my first Wimbledon title.
“What about you?” I ask Abram.
He pops the lid off a can of tennis balls, tearing off the metal seal. “Here … last year,” he says, then bends over and starts tying his shoes. I recognize more and more of our surroundings from the picture on Abram’s refrigerator—the one of him and his father holding a trophy.
Maybe I should stretch a bone or two? I grab my phone, reach down, and touch my toes, letting the blood rush to my head as I send Heidi a text asking for some last-minute tips. Her immediate response of Get it!!! is not relevant, but it’s incredible how she keeps finding a way to use the phrase, regardless of the context. Do I have to give her props for that? Anyway, it was nice of her to let me re-borrow the Maria Sharapova dress I wore to her party. This time, though, I’m pairing it with Chris Evert’s frosty eye daggers. The look is vintage bitchy couture. As for Abram, he’s dressed in the same pocket T-shirt he probably would’ve worn if we’d just sat back at the house staring at each other, although the shorts he’s wearing are a bit shorter than his others, his legs
“What do you think about just hanging out here for a while?” Abram asks.
“Okay,” I say, letting him do the thinking. He looks surprised. I wonder how long it will take him to realize this would be better with towels.
ABRAM
W E’RE RELAXING ON THE BEACH, sprawled out side by side on the towels we just fetched, without a responsibility in the world besides all the ones we’re putting off back home. Juliette keeps asking if she’s tan yet, holding out her arm for my “brutally honest opinion.” To be honest, we’ve only been lying still for twenty minutes, but I prop myself up on my towel so I can better assess her pigmentation. Eventually, my eyes wander over to her smooth, taut stomach with its tiny little belly button that I’d like to do a shot of something out of someday, even if it’s saltwater, and what was her question?
“You’re at least as tan as me,” I confirm.
She sighs. “I want to be as tan as you two years ago.”
“Ah-ha, so you did see me as you were running by the courts pretending to ignore my shirtlessness.”
I’m guessing the W she draws in the sand next to me stands for Whatever .
She sits up and takes off her sunglasses, looking over at me. “Not that it matters, but I could never tell who was winning … you were both so good.”
“Dad usually won in practice.”
“What about in a match?”
I hesitate. Feels almost like a betrayal to show off my bragging rights, tout my official tournament victories over my dad or whatever—the last of which was on this exact island, at the club across the street, after we won the doubles together. I confess my guilt about this to Juliette, and she reminds me he would’ve been a lot more upset if I’d let him win. Very true.
“I want to see you play again,” she says.
“Naw, we should just take it easy this afternoon.” When she responds by putting her sunglasses back on, I sit up straighter and remove mine. “You’ve already scheduled something, haven’t you?”
She puts her hand over her heart in a sarcastic gesture of innocence, then tells me we have four o’clock reservations at the club across the street.
26
Juliette
“W HEN’S THE LAST TIME you played?” Abram asks as we step out onto the court together.
“Can’t remember,” I say, like it’s the funniest thing. It’s not—I took a few mother-daughter tennis lessons a year and a half ago. Mom’s idea. Her bribing me with Adderall was mine. I spent most of my time on court making snarky comments under my breath about Mom’s sudden interest in the sport. I remember hitting exactly one forehand when we were playing doubles together—the ball only smacked the back of her arm, but in that particular moment of resentment, it felt like my first Wimbledon title.
“What about you?” I ask Abram.
He pops the lid off a can of tennis balls, tearing off the metal seal. “Here … last year,” he says, then bends over and starts tying his shoes. I recognize more and more of our surroundings from the picture on Abram’s refrigerator—the one of him and his father holding a trophy.
Maybe I should stretch a bone or two? I grab my phone, reach down, and touch my toes, letting the blood rush to my head as I send Heidi a text asking for some last-minute tips. Her immediate response of Get it!!! is not relevant, but it’s incredible how she keeps finding a way to use the phrase, regardless of the context. Do I have to give her props for that? Anyway, it was nice of her to let me re-borrow the Maria Sharapova dress I wore to her party. This time, though, I’m pairing it with Chris Evert’s frosty eye daggers. The look is vintage bitchy couture. As for Abram, he’s dressed in the same pocket T-shirt he probably would’ve worn if we’d just sat back at the house staring at each other, although the shorts he’s wearing are a bit shorter than his others, his legs
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