Chapter 27
AIRPORT ANXIETY
I’m still tired from all the back-to-back traveling, the press, the nonstop pushing myself to the limit. My body. My mind. My fucking soul. But I wouldn’t change a damn thing. I live and breathe for this.
That’s why it’s easier to talk about tournaments than people. They don’t ask you to feel, just to fight.
Dad, Henry, and I just got back from Miami two days ago. I’ve barely finished unpacking, and I’m already back to fixing my bags for my trip to Mexico.
God, I’m nervous.
I’ve been busy, tired, and distracted enough these past months that I’ve done an okay job at forgetting I’ll be traveling with Henry alone for this one.
After Australia, things haven’t been the same between us.
And I didn’t expect them to be. They’re not exactly bad, either.
We reached a neutral zone where our interactions revolve mostly around tennis, training, tech talk, ranking points, other players’ ranking points, and watching my tapes until our eyes and fingers bleed from taking notes.
We’re in no man’s land. But I know I’m mostly responsible for it.
Henry’s been kind enough to follow my cues.
I’m the one who dodges every opportunity we get to talk about anything personal by quickly changing the subject back to tennis or telling him I’m tired, which I usually am, and escaping to my room.
Not that being tired ever stopped me in the past from staying up later than I should’ve, talking to him on the balcony, or watching a movie in the living room in comfortable silence.
It’s for the best.
My feelings for him haven’t changed. My heart still jumps out of my chest every morning when I look at him, but I’ve become an expert at disguising it. Whatever trace of affection he was able to detect in the past is gone now. Hidden and locked away where pain can no longer find it.
Having Henry around is enough. It’ll have to be for as long as he’s my coach. For as long as he keeps his promise to stay in New York and accept one of the many offers he’s received from various universities.
MIT sent him an acceptance letter, as expected. My hands trembled when I saw the envelope staring up at me from the kitchen counter. I wanted to rip it open, but I walked away because I’m not a felon.
Henry rejected the offer that same day. I found out because he blind-copied me in the email he sent them, explaining his decision to decline.
I replied with a simple: Thanks for letting me know, and never spoke of it again.
“Skirts, tops, and socks are ready,” Gemma says, placing the last freakishly neatly folded top on the stack on the bed. “Do you want me to start packing these in the brown suitcase?”
“Yes, thank you,” I say, walking to the bathroom to grab my two toiletry bags. “I wish you could teach me to fold clothes like you do. It saves so much space. But I don’t have the patience for it.”
Gemma’s mom taught her how to fold clothes in that perfect, compact way they have mastered through generations. She’s a neat freak, but it figures, since both her parents are, too.
“I wouldn’t dare teach you my folding tricks,” Gemma chuckles. “I need to make myself useful, or else you won’t invite me over to ‘watch you pack.’”
I laugh.
She’s not lying, though. I phrase it like that every time.
Would you pleeeeease offer your moral support and watch me pack?
I know she won’t be able to help herself and will end up taking over the packing operation.
But with all the traveling, these are the rare moments we have to hang out, so we make the most of it.
Either way you look at it, it’s convenient.
Someone knocks on the door.
“Must be Henry coming to complain about traffic,” I say, zipping up one of my suitcases.
We still have four and a half hours before our flight leaves, but he’s an airport freak who likes to get there with plenty of time or else he’ll go into a fit of hysterics.
So I’ve learned to prefer waiting for hours at the airport lounge than listening to him mumble: We’re not going to make it on repeat all the way there.
His airport anxiety is contagious. Eventually, I start believing we’re not going to make it either, and my dad has to step in and remind us we’ve never “not made it.”
“Come in!”
The door slides open, and Robbie, not Henry, walks in. His eyes widen for a fraction of a second when he sees Gemma sitting on the floor, deeply concentrated on making my clothes look like origami inside my suitcase. Even though he already knew she’d be here.
“Hey,” he says, leaning against the door frame.
“What’s up?” I get up and pull my suitcase upright. Gemma’s still focused on folding clothes as if her life depends on it. Still refusing to acknowledge Robbie.
“What do you think?” He quirks his brows and rolls his eyes playfully. “Henry’s waiting for you in the car downstairs and wondering if you’re ready to leave. You turned off your phone, and it’s making him anxious.”
I groan.
“Why doesn’t he come up and tell me himself?”
“He really doesn’t want to get out of the car,” he says with a mocking laugh. “He says it’s rush hour, and it’s best if you guys leave with enough time, just in case.”
“Tell him I’ll be down in a minute.”
“Okay.” Robbie wets his lips and glances down at Gemma.
“Are you going to Josh’s birthday party this weekend, Gemma?” he asks.
“I’m not sure,” she says, refusing to look at him.
Pretending to be fully invested in a suitcase that will be a total mess the moment I arrive at the hotel in Mexico.
I mean, she is invested, but it wouldn’t kill her to make a little eye contact.
“I have this dinner I need to attend with my parents. I still don’t know if I’ll be able to get out of it in time for the party. ”
Gemma’s been avoiding Robbie like the plague since we got back from Australia.
When I tried talking to her about what happened that night, about how the guys were played by Zoya and her publicist, and about her reaction, she said she was furious at them for being so stupid.
And on my birthday of all days. Especially after everything that happened with my mom.
It overwhelmed her. She also blamed her reaction on jet lag and the two-and-a-half beers she had at the cocktail party.
“That sucks,” Robbie says, clicking his tongue and taking the hint. Gemma doesn’t want to talk to him. He straightens and looks at me as I double-check my backpack. “Let me know if you need help with your luggage.”
“Yeah, thanks.” I smile, feeling a bit bad for Robbie.
He likes Gemma. He always has. And I know things have been awkward and different between them.
I’m sure he misses her. The playful banter.
Being able to tease her and get a reaction.
He stopped trying, though. Weeks ago. So that fun and mischievous dynamic they had going on between them simply … evaporated.
Robbie’s not one to open up to me about these things. But even if I don’t know exactly how he feels, I might have a clue. All he does is ask how Gemma’s doing, trying to sound casual, like I can’t tell how everything changed after Australia.
They hadn’t seen each other since the last week of February, when Gemma and I had a sleepover here at the apartment right after I returned from Dubai. That is, if Gemma fixating on my suitcase instead of looking at Robbie counts as “seeing each other” today.
My bedroom door clicks shut after Robbie leaves.
“We kissed,” Gemma blurts out, not bothering to stop packing my bag or look at me.
“Wait, what?” I almost choke on my saliva as I shriek out my response. “You and Robbie? When? How? Why?”
I’m shocked, but after Australia, I’m not brain-dead shocked. I’ve been putting together the puzzle pieces, even if Gemma tried to brush off her reaction to thinking Robbie was either hooking up or wanting to hook up with Zoya after the cocktail party. Among other context clues …
“We … did.” She rests her hands on her thighs and stares down at my suitcase. “Anything else you need to add before I zip this one up?”
I shake my head.
“That’s all of it.”
Gemma leans in, closes the suitcase, and pulls the zipper shut. She sticks the levers on the lock and scrambles the numbers.
“Wait, what’s my number code again?”
“It’s 228 for the black one,” Gemma replies, pointing at it. “And 226 for the brown one.”
Right.
Gemma pulls the suitcase upright and rolls it next to the other one, aligning them perfectly side by side. She grabs my tennis bag and places it on top. She sighs, brings her hands to her hips, lets her head hang for a second, and finally turns around to sit on the bed.
“It was right before I left for the summer in Korea last year,” she finally reveals.
“We were at this house party in Montclair. I got bored. He noticed. He sat with me in the living room, and we started talking about your Roland Garros win. About how ridiculously proud it made us feel. We couldn’t shut up about you.
Robbie couldn’t shut up about what a badass you are. ”
“Robbie said I’m a badass?” I deadpan. “Verbatim?”
Gemma chuckles, but it comes out sad.
“Yes! You dummy! You’re like his idol or something.” She looks down at her hands on her lap and quickly swipes her lower lip with her tongue. “Anyway … he started teasing me, like, ‘Don’t leave me alone for the summer, Cho.’”
I snort out a laugh. “You sound just like him.”
“You know I love a good impression.” She smiles. “And then it just … happened. His lips were on mine, and we were kissing, and before we realized what we’d done, there was no way to take it back. No way to undo it.”
I take a deep breath and keep quiet. It seems like there’s more to this story.
“Jesus, Gemma. All this time … Why didn’t you ever tell me about it?”