Chapter 38
“He wants you in his box?” Charlotte says, pacing around her apartment in her bathrobe, soaking up every ounce of this new development. Meanwhile, I’m collapsed on her couch, still piecing it together myself.
“Auz, his box?” she asks again, so hot for the drama. “In front of everyone?”
“Yes.”
“You know that’s a big deal, right?”
“I told him that. I don’t think he sees it that way. I told him it’s intense.”
“Because it absolutely is. Boxes are for coaches and your team and parents and girlfriends and husbands and people who sneak down and sit there accidentally.”
“They can be for friends too, right?”
“No—no, this is not a friend thing. That is not why he asked you.”
“He told me…he wants to be with me.”
“What?! He did what? Why didn’t you lead with that?”
“At a later date,” I reply. “Someday, he said.”
Charlotte stops. “Oh.”
“See?”
“Yeah.”
“I’m not doing that. It may not look like it, but I have some self-respect.”
“But, Auz, his box!”
“Stop saying box!”
She pushes my legs off the couch and plops down beside me.
“I don’t know. I think whatever we had is over. I think we just downgraded into some kind of fucked-up friendship.”
“And you’re okay with that?”
“I don’t know. I don’t have a lot of friends.”
Charlotte twists her mouth. “I still…think you have to go.”
“I have a flight.”
“Well, change it, Grand Slam Tournament Money Bags.”
“It’s—it’s not that easy.”
“What are you worried about?”
I pause. I don’t even know if I want to say it out loud. “I don’t think I can go back there. I think it would freak me out.”
“Oh,” she says, realizing. “Shit. Great, now I’m the insensitive sister not thinking about your mental health.”
“Shut up. It’s fine. I just—it’s too soon to go back.”
“It is different, though, right? You’d be there watching a match, not playing in it.”
“The cameras will be on me the entire time. People will say shit. They’ll speculate.”
“Auz, they already are speculating.”
I’ve been trying to keep my head out of the chatter on social media since my match against Diego, but I know Charlotte has been watching it like the hawk she is.
And since the New York Times incident, she’s been very up-front about all the interview requests coming in.
We’ve declined all of them, and that’s fine with me. I’ve said all I want to say.
“And your boyfriend wants you to be there,” she adds.
“He does not want to be my boyfriend. He said that to my face in the locker room. Nothing has changed.”
“But he wants you to be there. Publicly. And he’s fine with that?” she says with an eyebrow raise. “You’re married. It’s over.”
I roll my eyes. She doesn’t understand what it’s like to be gay. And she doesn’t understand the blurry line between friendship and something more.
“Do you still want to be with him?” she asks.
“I’ve been trying very hard not to feel that way. I think it’s the only way out.”
“That sounds like a yes, though?”
I wince, shrug. My defenses are crumbling.
Just then, my phone buzzes next to me. A block of text from a random phone number:
Austin, it is unfortunate how your match ended last week and I hope you have found time for some much needed recovery. Please take care of yourself. I know you understand how important tomorrow is. That being said, I cannot allow anything or anyone to disrupt our focus.
“What is it?” Charlotte asks.
A fire crackles in my stomach as I stare at the last sentence of the message.
Do not attend.
“Who the hell is that from?” Charlotte says, reading over my shoulder. “His coach?”
Yep, Emiliano is the only suspect here.
“Nope, no. Fuck that guy,” she says, entering big-sister mode. “That asshole doesn’t get to decide that. Diego asked you to be there.”
I don’t respond. I just nod, processing this.
“What do you wanna do?” she asks.
I turn to her. This decision seems pretty fucking easy now. “Let’s change my flight. We’ve got one more match.”
—
Helen texts me while I’m on the way down to her office later that morning.
It’s a gorgeous day. Let’s meet in Washington Square Park by the fountain.
The temperature has dipped to sixty-four degrees—fall is in the air—and I’m all right with shaking things up.
Walking under the large white arch leading into the park, I spot her on one of the benches.
“I couldn’t let this weather go to waste,” she says as I take a seat next to her.
“And at this hour, we pretty much have the place to ourselves.” A breeze gently moves the trees and lifts bits of water from the fountain in front of us.
“It’s too bad you’re leaving right when it turns nice.”
“Well, I’m not leaving quite yet.”
“Oh?”
I bring her up to speed on the latest with Diego, pretty efficiently since my rehearsal with Charlotte. Helen nods through the story, and at the end she leans back on the bench and asks, “Is this why you’re in a good mood?”
“Am I?”
“Seems like it. This is the first thing you’ve been eager to talk about all week.”
“Well, he asked me to go to his match. There’s a few complications, but it’s the first thing that’s gone well in a while.”
“And that makes you happy?”
“Is that fucked-up? Like, a source of happiness is wrapped up in the attention of some guy?”
“I could tell you it is. And it might be,” she says, “but I think most people can relate very well to that feeling.”
“I’ve felt worthless the entire week. I lost. I let everyone down.
Robbie left. I have no idea what my career is gonna look like this year.
I have no idea how to fix myself. I feel like a failure.
And then—he needed me. It made me feel a little better.
And if this ends in a friendship, I’m okay with that. I’m ready to accept it.”
She takes a moment, thinking that over.
“Austin, you have a crush—had a crush. You could be in college right now. Do you know how many crushes you would have in college? Do you know how gay you can be in college? I was so gay—so, so gay—and I loved it. I majored in dance…” she adds, eyebrows up.
“These experiences—winning, losing—as much as they hurt, are important. Let yourself feel. Let yourself cry. And start over again. There will be other tournaments, and other guys, and we will figure all of it out.”
I know that what she’s saying is true. I just wish that I could believe her.
“You know,” she says, “it occurred to me that I finally understand the scoring system in tennis. At first, I must admit, it was frustrating. It seemed complicated for no apparent reason. But I was watching the women’s semifinals, and I think I understand the genius of it now.
The score resets. Each new game, each new set, is an opportunity for a fresh start, to let go of the last one and try again with a clean slate.
” Helen continues, excitement growing on her face.
“That first match of yours, the first set,” she says, “you barely won a game—”
“Thanks for the reminder.”
“You lost the set, and it felt like there was no coming back. You were outmatched. Little old me—I was about to get up and make dinner, but it wasn’t over at all. You fought back, and it was beautiful, just beautiful.”
She pauses, shakes her head. “I think…I think I love tennis.”
I chuckle.
“And I’m jealous that you’re going to the match,” she says.
“So yes, go be there for him—as a friend or whatever he is. It sounds like he’s much further than you from sharing who he is with the world.
He may be a wonderful athlete, but it takes just as much strength to be open about who you are, to do what you did in that press conference.
So when you tell me you lost, that you’re a failure… I don’t see that at all. Not one bit.”
I nod. Run my tongue over my teeth. Give her a small smile. And we sit there quietly with the sound of the fountain.
“Honestly, it’s just nice to have him as a distraction,” I say. “There are so many other things I should be worrying about.”
“Well, it’s our last session sitting face-to-face like this, so let’s check some things off. You tell me what you’re worried about, and we’ll go through them one by one.”
“Rapid-fire therapy?”
“Why not?”
She really is unconventional.
“How do I stop having anxiety attacks during matches?”
“Well, you started with a hard one,” she says. “Actually, I was going to mention, there’s a psychiatrist I’d like you to see when you get home.”
“Look, I’m not an anti-vaxxer, but I don’t know if I want to mix meds into my routine.”
“I understand, and I didn’t want to suggest that in the middle of a tournament, but I think it would be worth your time to try. Medication works very well for many people.”
I know it does. It’s a big step, though, and I’m not sure that I’m ready for it. Helen uses my silence to move on. “What else is worrying you?”
“I don’t have a coach.”
“Yes, you do.”
“No. He left, and I don’t think he’s coming back.”
“Austin, family comes back.”
“I know for a fact that they don’t.”
“They come back in different ways. As for Robbie, I imagine he needs some time. All of this has been difficult for him too.”
“How did you guys meet? Why won’t anyone tell me that?”
She sighs for longer than usual. “We dated,” she says plainly.
“I knew it!”
“Yes, yes, you’re very smart. One of our first dates was over there, actually.” She points to the corner of the park. “A little Italian restaurant.”
“Wait. We went there, maybe. I forget the name.”
“La Lanterna?”
“That’s where we went!”
“Oh, that’s nice. That’s lovely,” she says, genuinely touched.
“So, you dated him and then got turned off to guys completely?”
She laughs. “No, not at all. I’ve dated many people in trying to find my way.
Robbie was a good one, though, earnest, caring, a little grumpy—all things we know.
It was too hard with him on the tour, so it didn’t last, but I’m happy it happened, and happy to have him as a friend, although I don’t hear from him much anymore—that is, until you came along. ”
“Thank you, by the way, for all of this. I’ve been an asshole this week, and I’m sorry. You don’t deserve that. You’re not even charging me.”
Helen pauses.
“Austin, there’s something I have to tell you,” she says, her face changing. “I absolutely am charging you. I don’t work for free.”
A wave of heat rushes to my face. I flash back to that conversation I had with Rob after my anxiety attack at practice. He told me she’s a friend and she’s not charging us. Is this a misunderstanding?
“I’ve been sending your bills directly to Robbie, at his request,” she says. “And he’s been paying them. He insisted on my full rate.”
He’s been paying them. Fuck. I haven’t seen the payments coming out of our account because he’s been paying for the sessions personally.
“Oh,” I say, quickly looking away. I want to cry. I want to crouch on the sidewalk and bawl my eyes out for everything Robbie has done for me. I’ve treated him like shit so many times. And he’s sat there and taken it—and he’s turned around and given me even more.
“He loves you, Austin. He loves you very much.”
“I haven’t talked to him since he left. A few texts, but…he calls me and I don’t pick up.”
“So call him back.” She says it like it’s an easy thing to do. And maybe she’s right. “And there’s one more thing you should know. I’m sorry I haven’t told you this before. Maybe it isn’t a big deal, but I didn’t want to complicate things further.”
I have no idea where this is going.
“I met your dad once. It was brief. I just had a drink with him and Robbie after one of his matches. Honestly, I was so infatuated with Robbie that I didn’t pay much attention to him.
Sorry if that sounds bad. But I remember him—your dad—going on and on about the match.
Robbie had hit some shot that he was raving about.
He was so proud of him, so proud. I know they had a wonderful friendship, because Robbie would talk so fondly of him,” she says.
“And, Austin, I know your dad would be so proud of you right now. To see how far you’ve come.
To see how much you’ve been able to handle. ”
She pauses, waiting for me to turn back to her. “Robbie has that same pride in you. In a strange way, it seems like it transferred. I know you feel that. I know you do.”
My eyes, my heart, my throat…Everything burns as all of this swirls through me. Like it’s too much information for me to process. Like someone’s handed me a brand-new chapter to a book I’ve already read.
Helen smiles softly, then leans over to rummage through her tote bag on the ground. “Here,” she says, placing something in my hand.
I look down to find a small package of tissues.
—
I wander up Broadway in a daze. Behind my sunglasses, I let the tears continue to fall as I walk for blocks and blocks, under buildings and scaffolding and trees.
There’s been a crater in my heart since Dad died, and it doubled when Robbie left.
I miss Robbie so much. I feel so lonely without him, so lost. When my face finally dries, I settle on a bench in the garden of an old brown church.
Staring at my phone, I scroll down to my message thread with Dad, with its years of unanswered texts—and I send another.
i qualified for the us open dad. i lost in the fourth round but im going to be back and one day im gonna win it. you werent there, but robbie was. thank you for him. thank you
Then I call my coach, and I pray that he answers.
Of course he does.