Chapter 11
eleven
I spend the last thirty minutes of Friday afternoon updating a brand calendar, but it’s almost impossible to focus.
Pickleball night is upon us, and all my emotions are cranked up to full throttle.
Nerves over how I’ll play or what might happen with Garrett.
Excitement, of course, but there’s something else hiding away beneath all of that jittery energy. I can’t quite put my finger on it.
I duck into the office restroom with my tote, swap my pencil skirt for the skort that has now become a wardrobe staple, and meet Sam and the others in the lobby.
Everyone’s in a good mood as we walk over to The Court Collective together. The leaves are in full autumn color, dropping and swirling in the street, adding social proof to the pumpkin spice signs on display in the café window we pass.
I love this time of year. The air smells different, the sun seems a little more golden. More than anything, I look forward to the permission the colder weather gives to slow down a little bit. Something that’s not easy for me to do.
After warming up, I play two games partnered with Jerome, one with Brenda, then a prepress guy who’s a real banger.
I learned that term while watching Calder play the other day.
There’s a whole new language and culture with this sport.
An underground world I knew nothing about.
It feels like when I discovered poutine exists.
My world is forever changed, and I’m not sure I can live without it.
I win some, lose some, remember to call the score half the time, and the whole evening runs as it should’ve the first time. No stress because of unexpected visitors.
I play with Garrett twice. Catch him watching me at least once. All in all a perfect night thus far.
Sam finds me between games. “You okay?”
“Yeah. Why?” I take a swig from my water bottle.
She shrugs. “I don’t know. You look a little bored.”
My face pinches. “What? I’m having a blast.”
Her lips purse. “Okay.”
“Okay?”
“Yeah. Okay.” She walks toward her next court. “Just haven’t heard you laughing as much.”
“As much as what?” It was a Friday. I was a little worn down from the week. Sure, my energy wasn’t at a ten, but what did she expect?
“I don’t know. Lessons?”
My eyes widen, and I scan for Garrett. He’s still in the middle of his game, which is lucky. Sam gets to keep her life tonight.
Playing pickleball here versus playing in lessons wasn’t a fair comparison. In lessons, I have Calder constantly pushing my buttons. Forcing me out of my comfort zone. Here, I can just do what I’m supposed to do. Take the shots I know I’ve got. That’s what makes a good partner, right?
It’s nice to just play and let Garrett or Jerome or whoever my partner is take the tough shots. To know I don’t have to do anything special, just not screw it up. When we wrap, Garrett tells me I’ve leveled up since last week, and I glow for an hour. That was a real compliment.
The next day is Oktoberfest with Sam, which means we commit to pretzels as a food group and joyride a pedal cart with too many seats and a custom countertop down a closed-off block with a dozen strangers who become our best friends for exactly seventy minutes.
The guide has thighs like a Greek statue and a whistle he uses with far too much exuberance.
The playlist is all 2000s bangers intermixed with party polkas.
We cycle past a guy in lederhosen playing the accordion, which really solidifies the vibes.
Sam insists on us taking turns as “steering captain.” A total farce because the wheel is fake and we all know it. But why is it so damn fun to pretend?
I have two steins of something with a name that sounds appropriately German and a third drink that smells and tastes like sour apple suckers. It’s delicious and mostly sugar syrup. It makes me think of Calder, which is annoying and a little bit hot now that I’m tipsy.
“I think Calder would be fun as, like, a one-night stand.”
Sam laughs. “Oh yeah?”
“Yeah. He’s got that intensity, you know? I bet he’s . . . really focused.”
She chortles. “And Garrett’s the long-term option?”
“Yeah. He’s got a stable job—”
“You don’t know Calder doesn’t have a stable job.”
I scoff. “How could he? He’s always at Smash Point. Like, what does he even do besides pickleball? That’s probably why he doesn’t talk about himself. He doesn’t want people to know he’s got nothing going for him.”
Sam takes a long draw from her beer, then sets it down and starts singing along to Death Cab for Cutie.
“What, no comment?”
“I have plenty of comments. I just don’t think you want to hear them.”
I fold my arms over the countertop and stop pedaling. “I always want to hear your comments.”
Sam sets her drink in the cup holder and leans in, cupping her hand around my ear. “I think you have a thing for Calder.”
“What?” I rear back, losing my balance on the bucket seat. “No! He’s—no! For sure he’s hot, but then you get to know him—”
“See? That’s why I didn’t say it.”
I roll my eyes. “He’s just annoying. And wildly unhappy.”
“He makes you laugh.”
“Because he’s ridiculous.” I don’t have time for a stronger rebuttal because we’re stopping for schnitzel and if I don’t eat some solid food, I’m going to yarf.
At one stop, the barman slaps down free shots “for the pedal cart athletes,” and I learn I am not, in fact, an athlete when it comes to cinnamon liquor. Sam leans her head on my shoulder on the way back, cheeks pink, eyes bright, and I think this is what makes everything in life possible.
“Maybe we should just get married,” Sam says.
I laugh. “If only I loved boobs, this would all be so easy.”
She swoops her hair over her shoulder, her speech slow and dreamy. “I know. But you can’t ever leave, okay? You have to stay here.”
Tears prick my eyes. She doesn’t have to say it, I know exactly where that’s coming from.
No amount of therapy can fully erase our deepest, darkest fears.
We just have to learn to live with them.
But it’s a lot easier said than done when those fears have become a reality.
Losing a friend isn’t a theoretical to her.
“I’m not going anywhere, babe.” I pat her cheek.
We ride the rest of the way back to our meeting point humming along to “Mr. Brightside” and share a car home.
She makes me get dropped off first even though I hate wondering if she’s going to be okay alone in the rideshare. I know why she does that, too.
Sunday is a hangover that goes through the stages of grief.
Denial (I just need to sleep a little longer), anger (who even invented light!), bargaining (if I drink two liters of water will the maracas in my brain stop?), depression (I’ll never feel normal, why do I do this to myself?), and finally acceptance.
I peel myself off the couch in the afternoon, wobble to the kitchen, and put together my healing ritual of eggs, ibuprofen, and an orange. I stretch my legs, roll out my calves on a water bottle, and text with Sam.
Twice I consider asking her more about Calder’s comments.
But I know if I do, it’s going to seem like she hit a nerve, which she absolutely didn’t.
The only reason I can’t stop thinking about it is because it doesn’t make any sense.
And that he showed up in a very inappropriate dream last night.
Only because we were talking about it, obviously.
All of which I need to scrub from my imagination since I have a date with Garrett tomorrow night. And I’d really like to look at the benches at the pickleball club again without my cheeks flushing.
By five on Monday my inbox is a firework show of small emergencies, but I shut the laptop and head to the restroom with my bag.
I’ve got a new slate-blue skirt I ordered online, a white tank, and a zip-up hoodie for the walk.
I pull my auburn hair into a high ponytail, secure it with a cute scrunchie, and give myself a once-over in the mirror. Low-key. Classic.
Garrett waits for me in the lobby. His eyes trail over me—he’s never done that before—and he smiles. “You parked on the street?”
I nod, my cheeks heating. Was this it? Was Garrett actually interested in me? Had Calder’s advice been the only missing piece I needed?
A voice that sounds a lot like Sam rings in my head. Red flags, A.
I slap it away. It wasn’t necessarily a red flag that Garrett needed a fire under him to make an effort. That’s how most guys are these days.
Garrett holds up his keys. “I got a court at a different club tonight. It had more availability. We could drive together in my car, but I was thinking I’d play at the open play after for a bit. You can stay for that, too, if you want—”
“No, that’s fine. I can follow you.” A new place? My heart starts to race like it knows something I don’t. It’s just a different club. “Open play sounds fun, though.”
I don’t want to poo-poo it, but if all the players are at Garrett’s level, that would be zero percent fun for me. I’ll have to watch the warm-ups before I make a decision on that.
Garrett heads for the revolving door. I trail after him, dread settling in like a weighted blanket. It couldn’t be . . . could it? There were so many pickleball clubs in the city. The chances were slim. But why didn’t I just ask the name?
“Do you want to send me the directions? In case I lose you?” Perfect. That was nonchalant.
He looks over his shoulder. “I’m a great leader.”
I smile like that’s exactly the answer I was hoping for, then get in my car and wait for him to pull out in front of me.
We start out in the coppery light of early evening, and for ten minutes I play faithful convoy.
Until he takes a left and heads west, crossing over I-25.
And then turns right at the grocery store.
Noooo! He’s heading straight to Smash Point, and there’s nothing I can do to stop him.