His smartwatch vibrates, and a quick glance at the screen has him squinting and shaking his head before he lowers his arm and gives me a sheepish smile. “Sorry. One of my diabetic patients keeps messaging me photos of their dinner. I told them I’d help with carb tracking until they got the hang of it, and now I get a visual log every evening.”
My insides go ridiculously gooey. “That’s kind of adorable.”
“It’s a lot of…bologna sandwiches.”
I crinkle my nose, and he laughs.
“Can’t say I’m a fan, either, or that she’s using bagels for the bread…” He sighs and runs a hand across his jaw. “Anyway, you were saying?”
Now I’ve got to work up my bravery once again, and my rapid pulse seems to be racing on without me. “Right. I was just wondering if you’d like to grab dinner or a movie, or I’m open to whatever–if you even have the time, because I know you’re super busy.”
Great. That last part sounded more desperate than accommodating, and I’m questioning if I read the vibes right, because what if he went out with me only because my grannies coerced him?
Intrusive thoughts are piling up in my brain, admonishing me for thinking I could pull this off, as my insecurities form a blockade in my throat.
Embarrassed heat blazes through my cheeks, andugh,I have enough on my plate without having to obsess over the awkwardness I’ve just caused between us.
“Actually,” Carlos replies through my haze of self-flagellation, “I’m headed to the tennis courts and was just wishing I had a partner.”
“Oh, that makes sense,” I say with a swipe of my hand to show it’s not a big deal and I totes understand, even though he sidestepped answering the question. Less humiliating than flat-out rejection, I suppose.
His lopsided grin spreads as he steps close enough I have to peer up at him, and obviously there’s a joke I’m not in on. I definitely want to be, I decide, as he skims fingertips down my arm and threads our fingers together, so similar to the night at the salsa club. “I’d love for you to join me. I even have a spare racket in my car. What do you say?”
…
Twenty minutes later, I squeeze the handle of my borrowed racket as if a tighter grip will somehow make me better at tennis.
Across the net, Carlos bounces the ball against the court and catches, bounces and catches, the move practiced and efficient.
By the time I realized he was asking me to join him for a game, it seemed rude to refuse, especially given my invitation was what prompted his. It did, however, leave me with a whole new dilemma—I am absolutely disastrous in the athletic department.
But once he enthusiastically offered to snag his spare racket from the car while I ran home to change and grab my sneakers, that’d sealed my fate.
Go big or go home, right?
Is it too late to go home?
Nervous energy churns my gut when he asks if I’m ready, prompting me to toss out another disclaimer. “Like I said, I’m not very good at sports. I’d go so far as to say I’m verynot good.”
“Don’t worry, I’ll take it easy on you.” His wink makes me think he doesn’t understand how bad a person can be. Thanks to high school, I’m not only painfully aware, it spikes my anxiety.
Almost as hard as Carlos is going to spike the ball at me, I just know it.
Or maybe that’s only in volleyball? I blacked out most of gym class to preserve my dignity.
A twang accompanies his serve, and I have no doubt he took it easy, but it’s more difficult than I expected to runtowardthe ball when every instinct is shouting at me to runaway.
I swing and miss and then I’m chasing the bright yellow ball across the court like a toddler, taking two steps and bending a second too late, and how far is it going to roll?
At long last I seize the damn thing and turn to show it off, like otherwise Carlos wouldn’t have seen, only he’s no longer on his side of the court.
He’s on mine.
“Sorry,” I say at his approach, despite the many years of untraining myself to apologize for everything.
“You’re all good. You told me you were new to tennis, and I’m happy to give you a few tips.”
New to the sport is such a nice way of saying it, but my go-to for dealing with feeling self-conscious will always be jokes and sarcasm. “Is the first tip not to take up tennis?”
