Chapter 12
12
Evelyn’s legs in a tennis skirt are a problem.
She’s knelt on the pickleball court, lathering SPF onto her exposed legs. It’s 8:00 a.m., an hour before the tournament is set to begin, because she wants to practice on a real court before their first match. In the nine days since accepting Ms. Connors’s invitation to the Foothill Elementary Faculty Pickleball Tournament, Theo and Evelyn have been studying the rules, watching serving tutorials, and listening to the most popular pickleball podcasters. Last night, they stayed up until 1:00 a.m. volleying a wiffle ball back and forth across their living room, using their recently thrifted couch as a makeshift net, then agreed to an early arrival today because it isn’t in their nature to half-ass anything. Not when the alternative is winning.
But.
Winning requires focus.
On the game.
Theo is focused on something else entirely, sipping water as his eyes—safely hidden behind tinted aviators—fixate on the flex of Evelyn’s calf muscles, on the way her hands move in methodical circles up, up, up each leg, on their refusal to miss even a millimeter of skin. Satisfied, Evelyn stands, then lifts and folds over the hem of her tank top so as not to sunscreen stain it while she protects the sliver of midriff exposed to the sun and it’s so hot. Sun protection. Evelyn.
“Get my back?” she asks, handing him the tube of sunscreen and pivoting.
Theo wordlessly applies sunscreen to the back of her delts, her traps, her upper lats exposed by the halter top that’s his new favorite shirt because it gives him an excuse to touch her. His eyes shift down to that skirt—that skirt —wondering what tiny animal print is covering her ass today. It’s another problem, his inability to stop thinking about his best friend in goddamn corgi panties. Theo swallows. Hard. Pulls his eyes back up as his hands linger on her shoulders, massaging out a knot and when she lets out a soft moan…
Fuck.
He lets go.
“Thanks.”
Evelyn takes the sunscreen back, swipes an extra layer of protection over his prone-to-burning nose, then jogs across the court to drop the tube in her duffel bag—completely, thankfully, oblivious to the effect that she has on him. She props one foot on the bench next to her and reties neon pink shoelaces. Theo’s aware that he’s still staring at her, that he has been since the moment they stepped onto the court, that he cannot stop—
“Theo?”
His eyes shift toward the voice that pulls focus from Evelyn, a voice spoken from lips that taste like strawberry ChapStick. Her red hair is not chaos curls splayed on a hotel pillow, but two perfect braids cascading down her back. Theo glitches, seeing this woman on a pickleball court in Pasadena. So entirely out of context. Her aquamarine eyes flicker to the gold band on his finger and he catches the furrow of her brow, the question in it, before her expression resets to neutral indifference.
“Violet?”
“You know my sister, Cohen?”
That voice belongs to Juniper Delgado. Theo’s closest teacher friend, turned zoo proposal thief, now nemesis. She smiles at him, a sincere one because, of course, Juniper doesn’t know she’s been demoted from friend to nemesis. Of course, he’s only actually beefing with her in his head.
He blinks.
Sister?
“We met at EdCon,” Violet says, then turns to Theo. “What… three, four years ago?”
“Four,” Theo confirms.
Met is the lite, elementary-school-teacher-appropriate way of saying hooked up at the educational conference Theo attends on behalf of Foothill Elementary. Every summer, he spends the first week of August at a conference center in Santa Ana attending curriculum workshops and debating policy and reading legislation, and he loves his kids—he does —but that week surrounded by educators who are just as passionate about making the system better as he is? It’s always so restorative. As is— was —casual sex with Violet Garcia, a former fourth-grade teacher, now vice principal in Long Beach.
“Small world,” Juniper says.
“Are you here for the tournament?” Theo asks.
A stupid question, considering Juniper and Violet are in matching pink tracksuits.
“Agatha is in labor. Joey’s assisting with the birth,” Juniper explains.
Cool.
Violet is only here because an elephant is giving birth .
“Congratulations?” Violet asks, eyes once again on the ring, that single word a challenge because the last first week of August is a recent memory. Just three months ago, she texted Theo her room number and he showed up with veggie pizza and a six-pack of Blue Moon. He hears the question mark. Have I been screwing a married man?
Theo stuffs his hands in his pockets. “Thanks.”
Juniper smiles at him and either he’s reading way too much into Violet’s energy or Juniper is choosing to ignore it. “Newlywed looks good on you, Cohen.”
“I think so, too. Hey, Juniper.”
Evelyn is back at his side, looping her arm through his.
“Ev, this is Juniper’s sister. Violet,” Theo says, gently squeezing her freezing fingers because she knows about his initial, ridiculous puppy-dog crush. Even helped him craft the texts that Violet ultimately left on read four years ago after he returned from EdCon not at all ready for a commitment, but all-in on a gorgeous (and, more important, safe ) distraction.
Yes, that Violet.
Be nice.
Evelyn lets go of his hand, holding it out to Violet. “Evie. His wife.”
Violet wraps her perfectly manicured hand around Evelyn’s, whose nails are chipped blue and bitten down to the quick, and everything in Theo’s conflict-averse core screams run . Really, is sucking up to his boss worth this ?
“Veronica roped you into the tournament, too?” Juniper asks, still oblivious.
Theo nods.
“Cool.”
“How long have you been a pickler?” Violet asks.
“Oh, it’s—”
Evelyn bumps his hip with hers, effectively silencing him. “We don’t give intel to the competition, Theodore.”
Violet points at Theo with her paddle. “Okay, don’t tell me. Show me .”
Theo flushes, that rasp, the innuendo , taking him back to that hotel room in Santa Ana. “Actually—”
Evelyn cuts Theo off. “You’re on.”
Juniper and Violet laugh, clueless as to how serious Evelyn is right now. Only Theo sees the tiny wrinkle between her eyebrows, feels the intensity radiating from her skin, hears the competitive edge in her voice. It’s more confident than she has any right to be. The same fearless tone she’d have in the dance studio before leaping into a new stunt, so sure that Theo would catch her. After extended held eye contact with Violet, Evelyn pivots and claims a quadrant of the court, gripping her right ankle for a standing quad stretch—and because Theo’s watching her, always watching her—he clocks her almost imperceptible wince. It activates an internal alarm, a visceral panic, that screams:
Pain.
Evelyn is in pain.
He jogs over to her because nope .
Theo will not be responsible for his best friend’s pain.
Again.
“Don’t,” she says.
“Your ankle—”
“—is just a little stiff, but otherwise fine.”
Her tone is sharp, her words defensive. It snaps him out of the irrational panic, and Theo backs off, raising his arms in retreat. Because no one knows Evelyn’s body—its limits—better than she does. It’s an established boundary since her diagnosis. Theo can express concern… but he must listen to her, must believe her when she’s in pain and when she is not. Most of the time, he does. Believe her. Sometimes, though? Right now? Anxiety wins. He drops his shaking hands to his sides. Checks his pulse: 144. Shit.
He closes his eyes.
Takes slow, intentional breaths.
And because his eyes are closed, he doesn’t see it coming. Lips—holy fuck, Evelyn’s lips—pressing against his jaw in a soft but firm kiss that lights his skin on fire. Her teeth tease him, grazing along his jawbone until her mouth is millimeters from his. It’s enough to make him forget where he is, who’s watching, his own name. A past, younger, reckless version of himself wants to lean into this moment. Smash his lips into hers and pretend that it’s real. Admit how much he wants this to be real.
But he isn’t that Theo.
And it isn’t real.
So he pulls back.
Asks, “What was that for?”
Evelyn looks at him.
Past him.
Then shrugs innocently. “I just wanted to.”
Evelyn and Theo got pickled.
Definition?
They suck. Didn’t score a single point in the practice game played against Juniper and Violet, who shouted nonsense phrases at them after every rally—
What an unfortunate falafel!
Smash!
Did you see that tweener?
Evelyn full-on sprinted away from the court when Violet screamed “Scorpion!” at the top of her lungs only to learn that a scorpion is not just a predatory arachnid but also the name of the shot Violet had just executed. Overall, Theo and Evelyn’s instincts are good. It’s the execution that’s lacking. It doesn’t help that he can still feel her teeth on his skin. Or the sting on his right butt cheek every time Evelyn swats him with the paddle. Theo keeps hitting the ball out of bounds. She keeps fouling by stepping into the kitchen. Both lack a total awareness of their bodies and how they relate to each other within the boundaries of the court.
It’s a mess.
Evelyn hasn’t stopped laughing, her cheeks flushed from exertion as they rehydrate and lick their wounds before his colleagues begin to arrive for the tournament.
“We… really thought we had a shot.”
“Speak for yourself.”
“Next time, less falafeling.”
“Next time, pretend we’re home and stay out of the kitchen.”
She shoves his shoulder, and the snackle she emits—that ridiculous sound—makes his heart flutter. That sound? It’s worth the humiliating defeat. Even at the hand of his nemesis and his fuck buddy who still look like Greek goddesses and… how? Theo’s shirt is sweat-drenched. Evelyn’s face is the color of a tomato. Juniper and Violet didn’t even break a sweat.
“Good luck in the tournament, Theodore ,” Violet says.
“You need it,” Juniper teases.
“Kick rocks, Juniper,” Evelyn snaps.
Juniper’s eyes widen.
Evelyn’s narrow.
“ Bitch ,” she mutters under her breath once the sisters are out of earshot.
“Was that really necessary?”
“You know I don’t fuck with Juniper.”
“She’s not so bad.”
“She wronged you.”
Evelyn’s voice is low, serious, fierce .
“Is this still about the zoo? I can’t fault her for advocating for her kids. Also? She didn’t do anything to you.”
She shakes her head. “That’s not how we work.”
I could kiss her.
“Also?” she continues. “Violet kept aiming for your crotch. She’s pissed. Can’t blame her. I, too, would be if I thought I banged a married man.”
“Evelyn.”
She laughs, enjoying this.
“Theo? You made it!”
He turns toward the voice that belongs to none other than Veronica Connors. His boss. Her entourage of doting colleagues surround her, duffel bags slung over their shoulders. Mary Pendergast. Diane Silver. Shana Jones. Corrine Baptiste. Wendi Simmons. All teachers. Well. Wendi is the school’s psychologist. All faculty.
All picklers.
Theo stands. “Hi, Ms. Connors.”
“ Veronica ,” she says, unable to get it through her head that Theo is incapable of calling his elementary school principal by her first name. “You must be Evie!” Evelyn stands, and Ms. Connors, hit by something he can only describe as overwhelm , throws her arms around her. “I didn’t put it together, but of course! You’re Lori’s Evelyn.”
“Oh. I suppose I am.”
In Ms. Connors’s embrace, Evelyn looks at Theo like she could cry. Theo feels like he could cry. He senses his colleagues’ eyes on him, feels the awkwardness that emanates from people uncomfortable with grief. Which is, honestly, most people. He’s never prepared for these moments, for people casually mentioning his mom. Every time, it feels like that person is picking off a scab. Every time, it leaves a fresh wound.
“It’s so wonderful to meet you!” Ms. Connors says.
Evelyn smiles. “You, too, Veronica. I’m looking forward to dinking with you.”
Ms. Connors laughs, loud (because even his boss is a twelve-year-old), then squeezes Evelyn’s arm tenderly. They exchange pleasantries and a few jokes at Theo’s expense before Ms. Connors assigns them a bracket number and a court. He feels the entourage watching them. Mary, Diane, and Shana. Second-grade teachers. Lori’s best friends. Theo waves. Diane waves back. Shana averts her eyes. Mary looks a little teary. And it throws him—more than the jaw kiss, more than even Violet.
He turns toward Evelyn to comment on this, but before he says a word, she mutters, “You’ve got to be kidding me.”
Juniper and Violet have also been assigned to their court. At the net, Juniper apologizes to Evelyn . Violet wins the coin toss. Chooses first serve and the shady side of the court. Then yells “Kick rocks!” as she sends the ball toward Evelyn, who returns it in earnest and Theo sees her mouth form a perfect O when it lands in bounds, initiating a volley that she returns once, twice, three times… until Juniper faults, the ball landing in the net.
Evelyn drops her paddle and throws her arms around him. “Holy shit! We scored .”
Theo laughs. “We did not.”
In pickleball, only the serving team can score.
“Then I shall rephrase. They didn’t score!”
I could kiss her.
He thinks it, again, the moment their eyes meet. Justifies it. Everyone is watching. Is this not a situation to rebrand from the teacher his colleagues still see as their student? Be the image of a doting husband by kissing his wife? Marriage (and Louisa’s sprained ankle) got him into the pickleball tournament. Already, Ms. Connors put a meeting on his calendar Monday morning to discuss the planetarium. Being believable… could mean being taken seriously , which could lead to more invitations, more opportunities.
For the children.
Obviously.
His logic brain grasps at straws, refusing to admit that if he kisses Evelyn right now it will be for one reason and one reason only.
Because he wants to.
She lets go before he can make up his mind, skipping to her side of the court to get into position. Theo, off-kilter from the adrenaline, from the body contact, from the desire that’s becoming harder by the millisecond to control, botches the return when Juniper serves. Evelyn nails it. Does she run on vengeance? Theo is mystified as the game progresses and, well, they’re not great, but they are less pathetic than they were an hour ago. Twenty minutes later, the score is 9–7. Somehow, impossibly, they’re only down by two and Theo is officially delusional enough to believe that not only can they even the score—they can win .
Evelyn serves.
Violet returns.
The ball flies toward the center line, within reach. Theo hustles, at full speed, toward it, sure that it’s his rally.
Only so is Evelyn.
They collide.
Just like last time, Theo is two beats behind.
He can’t catch her.
She goes down.
Hard.
And he’s seventeen again. They’re no longer on a pickleball court, but in a ballroom in Anaheim, at their final dance competition. Evelyn’s on the ground, unable to stand on her own. Because of him . Theo’s pulse pounds in his eardrums. He doesn’t remember screaming her name or running to her or dropping on his knees at her side. What brings him back to now is the crimson on asphalt. Blood. It gushes from both of her knees, where skin used to exist. Fuck. What if her ankle got reinjured? What if she needs PT again? What if she has to quit the fellowship in order to properly heal? What if he has to take her to the hospital and she catches a virus that her immunocompromised body can’t fight off and this results in a flare-up? Over pickleball ? How is this happening again? Didn’t Theo learn anything ?
“Ev? Are you okay? I’m so sorry. Fuck .”
Theo can’t breathe .
He’s choking on his heart.
Then there’s a hand on his chest. Sometimes, Theo swears that the pressure of her hand is the only thing that has kept his heart inside his chest cavity for almost twenty-eight years. At ten, when stuck on a section of jazz choreography a week before the recital. At twelve, when on the verge of failing sixth-grade math. At fourteen, when his mom uttered the word cancer . At eighteen, when he was terrified that going to New York would be a huge mistake. At twenty-two, when the cancer came back. At twenty-three, the moment he became a person without a mom.
“Hey,” Evelyn says, her voice so soft it hurts. “ Theo . I didn’t land on it. Look .” She points and flexes her bad ankle, then rolls it in both directions. “I’m okay. I mean, my knees sting like a bitch. But I’m okay. Okay? Breathe.”
He covers her hand with his, and they stay like that, tethered together, until his heart calms down and his rational brain regains consciousness. She’s fine. I’m fine. We’re fine. He lets go of her hand. Runs his fingers through his hair, then bends down to scoop Evelyn into his arms and carry her to his car, conceding the game. Obviously. Theo sits her in the trunk of his hatchback Nissan Versa and cleans up her wounds with the first-aid kit in his trunk. Checks her vitals. Checks his vitals. Memorizes his own—141/89—to record in his health log.
“I’m sorry,” Evelyn says.
“What?”
“We could’ve won! But then I got overzealous and ran into the brick wall that is you and—”
“Evelyn. If you think I care about the game right now…” His voice trails off as he wraps gauze around her knee. “I don’t.”
“Okay.”
They’re quiet while he wraps the other knee, then the swollen, bloodied knuckles of her hand that kissed asphalt. Once she’s settled in the passenger seat of his car, he jogs back to the court to let Ms. Connors know that they’re going to head out.
On their way home, Evelyn speaks first. “I’m sorry about Violet.”
“Ev.”
“What?”
“Stop. Please.”
Theo cannot bear it, Evelyn apologizing when she’s the one in pain. Those were her first two words to him a decade ago, when she woke up from the surgery that meant she’d never dance again—at least not at a competitive, professional level. I’m sorry. Because they didn’t place in a regional dance competition. Because she fell. No. Because Theo, so wrapped up in his feelings to the point of distraction, didn’t catch her. It’s his fault. He’s furious with himself. He swore nothing would change, only for this marriage to reignite feelings that cannot differentiate between fact and fiction and he’s so mortified, so ashamed that those stupid, reckless feelings hurt her.
Again.