The Singles Game
Page 73

‘I didn’t smoke a joint!’
‘You think I give a rat’s ass whether you vaped it or smoked it or snorted it? Charlie, you’ve got to relax. No one cares.’
‘No one cares? Did you happen to notice the video of me proclaiming how epically fucked-up I am currently has a hundred thousand hits?’
‘I admit, the video was a bit of a setback. But those who love you know what happened.’
Charlie muted ESPN, on which she’d spent the few days since she’d gotten home watching endless, torturous coverage of the French Open. Once it ended – and Natalya inevitably won it – there would be a mere three weeks before Wimbledon began.
She watched the final point of Marco silently and methodically destroying a young American opponent in three easy sets before she said, ‘I blew a shot at a Grand Slam for some stupid hotel room party with a bunch of people I don’t even really know. What does that say about my commitment?’
More bowl scraping. ‘I’m not one to talk about commitment. I bailed on tennis the first chance I had. But you’re different, Charlie. This is your life. For better or worse – and sometimes it’s both – this is what you do. And you do it really freaking well. But maybe you can cut yourself a little slack for living a little? Enjoying yourself just a tiny bit? Is it the worst thing on earth if you’re not number one? If you don’t win a Slam? Is all of that really too horrible even to fathom?’
Charlie stared at the framed picture her father kept on his nightstand. It was from before her mother’s diagnosis, maybe a couple of years earlier, when they’d tried to go camping for a night. The Silvers had driven hours into the Redlands and set up camp in the most beautiful clearing near a river. Jake had patiently showed Charlie how to construct the fire using kindling and then thicker logs while their parents tried to fix the finicky camp stove. She remembered so clearly the four of them balancing the camera on a boulder and running around front to pose for the family shot, and how they never managed to fix the stove but the fire-cooked hot dogs were the best she’d ever tasted. Even the terror Charlie felt that night as the hyenas began their frightening screams now made her smile: she had scampered out of the tent she shared with Jake and into her parents’ tent, where she’d wedged herself between their warm bodies and spent the entire night cuddled between them.
‘They just sacrificed a lot to get me here.’ Her voice was a whisper. Charlie could feel a knot forming in the back of her throat.
‘I know they did, sweetie. But so did you. This isn’t your father’s dream, and from everything you told me, it wasn’t your mother’s either. This is all you. So the way I see it is, you need to decide if this is what you still want. It’s okay to change course, you know. At the risk of sounding like some armchair psychologist – which, now that I think about it, might actually appeal to your new, crunchy, pot-smoking self – you only get one shot at it. At any of it. And if being the best in the world is what you want, then fucking own it. I know you can! And we’ll all support you. But if you’ve hit a point where you’re ready to give the finger to this lifestyle and all it entails, well, you know what? That might be okay, too. We’ll all just put on our big-girl underwear and deal with it. Only you can make the call, Charlie.’
‘Why is everyone always pushing me to quit?’ Charlie didn’t even try to hide her irritation. ‘The slightest obstacle and the whole world is suggesting I retire. I love tennis, Piper. I know you didn’t, but I love this sport. And I’ve worked really freaking hard to be the best. So, yes, I want that to happen.’
‘Well, you’re not acting like it. There, I said it. Hate me for it. But someone needs to say it.’
There was a moment of silence before Charlie said, ‘Way to talk to the Lindsay Lohan of tennis. Show a little respect, please!’
Piper’s laugh came in a staccato burst. ‘Yeah, I read that, too. Amazing. You have to know how fun this is for me, don’t you?’
There was a knock at the door. ‘Charlie? Can you come out for a moment?’ Her father sounded tired.
‘Sure, Dad, I’ll be right there,’ she called. And then quietly into the phone, ‘What time tomorrow?’
‘Festivities commence at the Stockton residence at noon. I’m warning you: it’s mostly my mother’s friends and their daughters. You will hear a great deal about the newest Range Rovers, the benefits of SoulCycle, and how damn impossible it is finding decent cleaning help these days. Don’t judge me.’
It was Charlie’s turn to laugh. ‘I’ll be there! Nothing like a WASPy, day-drinking, racist crew of lunching ladies to make me feel better. Thanks, love. See you at noon.’
‘Screw you. And thanks for coming. I’m really glad you blew the French Open so you can now be at my wedding shower.’
‘You’re welcome.’ Charlie put her phone down and climbed off the bed. Her father had removed his sheets and replaced them with the new high-thread-count ones she’d purchased for her room, but it still felt strange beyond description to be sleeping in his bed. For the first time she noticed how worn his old wooden dresser was, how threadbare the bath towels looked. She hadn’t ever noticed as a kid.
‘Hey, are you going out?’ Charlie asked, flopping down on the ugly plaid couch that had come with the cottage. When she had asked after their overstuffed velvet sectional, Mr Silver said he had sold it. Almost none of their things from home fit in the new place.
Her father had changed from his usual coaching uniform into a pair of khakis and a short-sleeved polo shirt. His hair was wet and combed neatly and he was wearing obviously new Docksides. ‘Yes, I’m meeting … a friend. For dinner.’
Charlie had assumed they’d be eating together. After all, she was back home only a handful of nights a year at this point – ordinarily her father would jump at the chance for dinner together.
She forced herself to say brightly, ‘Oh, I didn’t realize you had plans. I was thinking I would make your favorite fillet and the twice-baked potatoes. An orgy of carbs and red meat, just the way you like it.’ She smiled but instantly regretted using the word ‘orgy,’ especially since she knew what her father was thinking.
Her father seemed to be struggling to decide something, but then he said, ‘So about this whole … pot thing.’