Yoko stuttered as she explained that there was very little to say. “I spend all my time on the tennis court,” she said. “I see my coach and my parents, and that’s about it.”
“That focus you have is spectacular,” Akira said. “I’ve always admired it.”
If Yoko wasn’t mistaken, Himari seethed internally. She pulled her eyes from Yoko’s and studied the small plates between them. Yoko was beginning to wonder if her mother had been right. Maybe she shouldn’t have met Akira and Himari. Perhaps it was too painful for everyone involved—everyoneexcept Akira, apparently, who seemed not to care about Yoko romantically at all. Not anymore.
Her hand shaking, Yoko reached out for her glass of sake and accidentally spilled it across the table and into Himari’s lap. Yoko yelped with alarm and jumped to her feet. “I’m sorry! I’m sorry!” She rushed for a napkin. But Himari played it cool, tapping a napkin across her lap and laughing evenly.
“It’s all right! Things happen,” she said.
Akira kissed his girlfriend on the cheek. “She never gets upset about anything,” he said of Himari. “I don’t think we’ve ever had a real fight!”
Yoko’s heart spiked with a mix of anger and jealousy. “That’s lovely,” she murmured. She sat back down, stabbed a fork through a piece of fish, and chewed methodically. When the napkin proved not strong enough, Himari got up to tend to her dress in the bathroom, leaving Akira and Yoko by themselves. Yoko felt heat on her neck. Could Akira tell how clumsy and silly she felt? Could he sense how out of place she was when Himari was around? A strange part of her urged her to tell him what was on her mind—that she was in love with him and always had been. She couldn’t possibly feel worse right now, could she? She allowed herself to gaze into Akira’s eyes for a whole lot longer than she would have dared if Himari were here. Her heart thudded.
“It’s so good to see you,” Akira repeated, shaking his head as though he was at a loss. “I feel like you’re the most important person from my past. And now, look at us: grown up and doing exactly what we’re meant to do.” He bowed his head.
Yoko felt struck dumb. Although what Akira said was technically sweet, and although it was clear that she meant a great deal to him, that word “past” rang out, strong and clear. Yoko and Akira were like ghosts, haunting one another’s presence. She took a big bite of food and urged herself not to cry.
Later, after picking through the last of their dinner, Akira suggested that they go to a bar down the road. Himari looked visibly annoyed, her eyes showing more of their whites. Yoko insisted she was too tired. “I have to get some sleep,” she said. “I need today to be over with. It took everything out of me.”
Akira seemed to understand, although he was disappointed. “We’ll see each other again while we’re in England,” he said. “We’ll be exploring London for the next few days. You know I’d love to see your parents as well.”
Yoko opened and closed her lips, unsure of how to respond. In truth, she had very little will to see Akira again during this trip. A dark, secret part of her prayed that he and Himari would break up, that, in a year or two, back in Osaka or elsewhere on the globe, Yoko and Akira would laugh about how wrong Akira and Himari were for one another. She imagined Akira telling her it was always supposed to be them as he gently laced her hair behind her ear.
Yoko said her stiff, formal goodbyes and got into a cab, where she immediately burst into tears. Japanese people were taught from a young age not to show emotions so blatantly, but exhaustion and sake and sorrow had gotten to her, crafting a perfect storm of tears. The taxi driver was very kind and very British and told her that everything would be all right in the end. At least, that was what Yoko could understand of his English. He also called her “love,” which felt overwhelmingly cliché. It helped—a little bit.
When Yoko arrived, she found her mother in the front sitting room of the hotel, nursing a mug of tea. It was clear she was staying up to watch for Yoko. When Yoko approached, her mother stood, nodded curtly, and said, “It’s good you’re back. We have many things to tend to over the next few days. You have an interview in the morning, and we’ve arranged a tour of the Tower of London.”
Yoko’s vision felt blurry. She could hardly muster a reply. Together, she and her mother walked to the elevator, where, after they rode up, they separated. Yoko turned left, and her mother, right. They said a soft good night.
Back in her room, Yoko couldn’t calm her pounding heart. For a few minutes, she paced back and forth in front of her window, watching the car lights stream past. It was ten fifteen, which probably meant that both of her parents were asleep by now, comfortable and soft in the darkness of their room. Yoko felt more alone than she had in many years. The glint of her second-place Wimbledon medal taunted her from the hotel dresser. She had to get out of there.
What happened next changed the course of Yoko’s life forever.
Downstairs, Yoko sat at the hotel bar and ordered a glass of white wine. The bartender was bored, cleaning glasses and gossiping with the server, who had no tables left in the restaurant. At least, Yoko assumed they were gossiping. They wore the same expressions as her mother and her friends when they got together to play card games like Karuta and Go, and talk about their neighbors. Yoko filled her mouth with wine and allowed herself to feel very sorry for herself. Maybe next year or the year after, she would win Wimbledon. Or perhaps she’d get injured and never play another game again. Anything could happen in the world of sports.
What would she do then?
Suddenly, Yoko realized she wasn’t the only person at the bar. A broad-shouldered man, with thick light brown hair and hands the size of dinner plates, had entered. He was talking to the server in a flat accent, one that reminded Yoko of American movies she’d watched through the years. Was the man American? She so often struggled to make sense of accents. It was also tricky for her to gauge people’s ages, especially whenthey were from different cultures. A Japanese man of fifty looked at her, far different from an Englishman of fifty. But if she had to guess, she’d say this American man at the bar was in his forties. He was healthy, maybe a runner, a biker, or a swimmer.
Probably because she was staring at him, the American man turned and looked at her. Immediately, his expression changed. Yoko’s chest thudded. She knew he recognized her as the runner-up champion, which meant he’d been at the match today.
He raised his cocktail toward her. “Congratulations. I didn’t imagine I’d run into you here.”
Yoko raised her glass of wine and said, in shaky English, “I lost. Do you remember?”
The man’s smile widened. For a moment, to Yoko, he looked like a shark. “There always has to be a winner and a loser at these things, huh? It’s a tragedy.” He gestured at the chair nearest to Yoko. “Can I come over?”
Yoko felt stung with panic. The last thing she wanted was to make conversation with anyone, least of all in a language she was less than medium-good at. But how could she escape him?
“I am quite tired,” she said finally, by way of indicating that she didn’t have time for this.
But the man didn’t want to take no for an answer. He carried his cocktail over and slid into the chair beside her, bringing a wave of expensive cologne. The bartender had turned around to continue his gossip session with the server, leaving Yoko and the other guest to their bar conversation. It occurred to Yoko that plenty of people tried to pick up other people at hotel bars. She saw that the man was wearing a wedding ring, but knew that didn’t stop many people from pursuing nights with strangers. Yoko shivered. All she wanted in the world was Akira’s love. This felt sour by comparison. She was misplaced.
“The thing is, I watched you out there today,” the man said. “You’re a brilliant player when you want to be. But you aren’t there yet.”
Yoko understood the man much more than she wished she did. She hunched over her glass of wine and tried not to glare at him. Japanese women were meant to be agreeable. But she couldn’t bring herself to smile, as her mother would have wanted her to.
“How long have you been with your coach?” he asked.
