Chapter 19
nineteen
Once the movie finishes, Austin and Harper say their goodbyes while Noah walks a half-asleep Sahar out.
“Are you sure there’s nothing we can do?” Harper mumbles sleepily.
I wave her off. “Stop that. Unless you want the rest of your snacks back, we’ve got it.”
She hugs me again before squeezing my arms. “The snacks are a gift.”
Austin and I hug. He turns to Matteo, exchanging a strange handshake and pats on the back before he finally hobbles his way out of the apartment on his crutches. I give Noah a side hug and smile lovingly at Sahar, who murmurs her goodbye.
My heart squeezes, knowing this is our last movie night of the year. Next Thursday is Christmas, which most of us will spend with our families, and the next day, we’ll all be flying to Australia to train a few days ahead of tournaments.
The girls and I will see each other plenty in the next few months, and the Wards, Austin included, will be following me out there to cheer me on until he’s ready to be back on the men’s tour, but it won’t be the same.
No matter how many friends, no matter the team, the tour is isolating.
I’ll go days without more than a quick “hi” from the girls, a week or more without hearing from my siblings, and while I love Francesca and Eli, the offseason is the only time we get this—the contentedness of late nights where we’re all falling asleep watching a movie less than half of us want to watch.
By the time I shut the door, Matteo has gathered bowls and glasses, walking them to the kitchen. Nic and I pick up the trash littering the coffee table and toss it before folding our extra blankets and putting them in the basket by the TV, pitching the extra pillows on top.
When we’re done, surveying our work, my eyes land on her, and a nostalgia for a time we’re currently in builds behind my eyes. She notices, giving me a small smile, and though she hates to, opens her arms for me.
I close the distance in seconds, flinging myself into her arms. “I can’t believe the offseason is almost over,” I whisper into her hair. And without doubles together, who knows what this season will look like for us?
“I know,” she responds quietly, tightening her rigid grip almost imperceptibly, like she needs this as much as I do.
Sniffling, I say, “Every tournament we both play in, we have to have dinner at least once. And at least one hitting session.” We pull away, and Nic nods, eyes averted. To break the tension, I add, “Even if you beat the heck out of me. No takebacks.”
She lets out a watery laugh. When I peer at the doorway of the kitchen, Matteo is watching us with a small contemplative smile. He points to the front door. “I should go too.”
If I was on an emotional precipice, I’m falling now. I should ask him to stay, but when I try, my tongue sticks to the roof of my mouth. Instead, I manage, “Oh, yeah. Let me…” I trail off, making sure Nic won’t mind if I walk him out.
Reading my mind, she shoos us off. “Go, go. My mom will be calling any minute.” She gives Matteo a quick wave.
I don’t know if it’s a made-up excuse or if today is the day she gets her “weekly” call with her parents, which seem to come once a month, but either way, she’ll want her privacy after the moment we shared.
Closing our front door, I fall into step beside Matteo. “You okay?” I ask him as he opens the door to the stairwell for me, his palm hovering near my back.
His eyes dart to mine. “What do you mean?”
“You seem like you’re frowning more than usual.
” He’s not, but with all the time we’ve spent together recently, I can read the subtle language of his body: the shoulders that are slumped only a millimeter or two; the movement of his hands in his pockets, like he wants to wring them but also doesn’t want to draw attention to it.
Matteo doesn’t answer immediately. He opens the door to the ground floor, guiding me toward the covered spot in the alley between our building and another, where I told him he could park.
“I’ve never had anything like this. A friend group that wants to spend all their free time together and see each other outside of tennis.”
“I’m sorry.” And I am. I wish we could’ve found each other sooner.
“No, that’s…it was, is, my fault. You know how I am. Everyone does.”
I frown, looking over my shoulder at him. “I know what everyone claims you’re like, and I know you. Those are not the same.”
He shrugs, and I stop abruptly, so much so that he runs into me. His hands land on my waist and stay when I turn to him.
“No, Matteo. I’m serious. Now that I know you, not a single headline I’ve read about you got it right.”
The corner of his mouth tips up, though his eyebrows stay drawn. His thumb rubs circles at my waist. “Maybe so. But I am the reason I haven’t had friendships like yours. I just didn’t realize why until tonight.”
“Why?”
He pulls me into the alley, then leans against his car, eyes resting on our shoes.
“My mom…the day she died, she was on her way to get me. It was the first summer we didn’t go back to Italy.
I was upset about it. Threw a fit at tennis camp.
I didn’t want to be there, so I called her and asked her to pick me up. ”
My heart comes crashing up my esophagus, anticipating where he’s going. I slip a hand into his.
“Some guy on his phone blew through a red light and T-boned her at an intersection a few blocks away. Sometimes I think I can hear the crash, but I’m not sure if that’s my guilt or if it really happened like that.”
“Oh, Matteo.” With my other hand, I cup his cheek, my thumb smoothing over his stubble. “I’m so sorry.”
“I blame myself, of course. How could I not? If I had finished out the day, she never would have been in that position.”
I open my mouth, ready to defend him, but he continues, “Dad thought so too. Couldn’t stand the sight of me, even if he tried to hide it.
Sent me to live with my nonna. And I kept playing tennis because it reminded me of the joy on Mom’s face when she watched me.
I grew to love the game too, but…” He sighs.
“I was angry. So angry. Felt it festering, worse every day. At first, it was just at myself, but then Dad got remarried, had a couple more kids, acted like nothing happened, and then that rage grew to fill a never-ending pit inside me. I became volatile on court. Off court too. I pushed everyone away, for years. It wasn’t until this season that I decided to do something about it. ”
“What’d you do?” I murmur.
“Started therapy.” He shrugs like it’s nothing. “Thought it was helping. Then, six weeks ago, my dad reached out, and it all came back.”
Little pieces fall into place. His surlier-than-usual demeanor when he first began training at the facility. Him being late to our first practice together, and the cloud that seemed to hang over him the next time.
Like a broken record, I say again, “I’m so sorry, Matteo.
I’m sorry that you lost your mother and that you or anyone else blamed you for it when you were just a kid.
It was not your fault. The only person to blame is the person who drove through the light.
” He opens his mouth, but I shake my head, my thumb swiping along his bottom lip.
“It was not your fault. Maybe you dealt with the pain in a different way than some. Nobody can fault you for that. Even so, you’ve come so far so quickly.
You’re nothing like you have been in past seasons, and it’s clear in every practice. ”
Matteo lets out a deep breath, rubbing his chest with two knuckles. “I just don’t understand why he’s reaching out now.”
“He could be having his own revelations.” I know the next thing I say may drive him away, but if our roles were reversed, I’d want him to say it.
“I wish I had a parent who apologized for their mistakes. Made an effort to be better, even if it’s years later,” I whisper gently.
Truth be told, I’m still the eight-year-old waiting by the phone.
Waiting for my mom to come back. Waiting for my dad to come back to the man I remember.
Matteo scoffs but doesn’t push away from me like I thought he would. “Even if it’s to be better for someone else? Another wife and his other children? I wasn’t enough for him to be better?”
Tears bite the edges of my vision. He’s right. Our situations are not the same and neither are we. “Of course you are. He wasn’t enough. And if you never want to speak to him again, you have every right to that.”
His arms snake around my back, pressing me against his muscular body. “I wonder what life would have been like had I treated people better. If I would have had friends like yours. I wish I’d matured earlier, realized that none of what I was doing made me feel any better.”
I sink into his embrace like it’s quicksand, desperate to make him feel as comforted as he’s made me feel these past few weeks.
“Everyone’s timeline for grief is different.
Same for their reaction to it. So yeah, maybe it took you longer than some, but it probably took you less time than others.
And maybe anger isn’t every person’s go-to in this situation, but it’s what you felt.
There’s nothing wrong with that. Making mistakes is the human condition.
That doesn’t mean you are a mistake. You’re owning up to yours.
” I tighten my arms around him. “Give yourself grace. Building friendships isn’t something that only people of a certain age can do.
You can make friends until the day you die if you want.
And you’re welcome to any and all of mine. ”
“How do you do it?” he murmurs.
“Do what? Make friends?”
“Be so happy and kind all the time.” Quieter, he says, “So perfect.”