Richard glides through the lobby while I try to not trail behind him.
Ironically, my old-money husband doesn't know how to play tennis. I'm mediocre at best, but Ben and I used to rally after school, twice a week training where he barked orders at me while I pretended I didn't like it, and after we split, I kept practicing.
The heat outside hits like a physical force again, even the palm trees sagging.
The green clay court sprawls ahead, bordered by manicured hedges, sprinkles hissing for working overtime.
Lisa is already there, across the court. Ugh.
High-pitched, perched under a giant umbrella, she waves when she registers us, singsongs: "Hellooo!" Then back to her guy. She's still mid-monologue when we reach her. "Water. Lots of ice. No plastic straws. I'm eco, you know. And the shade... Could we getmoreshade? Something inventive you can do?"
The waiter desperately tries not to frown. "I'm afraid it's already at maximum, miss."
She exhales, long and tragic. "Really? These courts should be covered in heat like this. "
He can't help it, looks at her like she's an idiot. "Well, we do have indoor courts."
"No, fine," she snaps dryly. She mists herself with some pink bottle. "Just the drinks. For now."
The guy nods and peaces out. I'm about to join him when Lisa chirps, her tone back to saccharine, "So glad you guys made it!"
"We were really looking forward to it." Richard lies so hard I almost admire him. I lost count of how many times I hinted Iwasn't in the mood. This morning, while brushing his teeth, he grunted he finally regretted it too.
He surveys the court with an approving nod. "The place reminds me of my childhood in the Highlands. My sister and I used to play golf there."
"You played golf? Ilovegolf. So relaxing. Ben calls it boring—not enough contact for him." She rolls her eyes.
"I don't really." He shrugs off his sweater and wipes his forehead. "One of my many failings, according to my mother," he jokes. "I'm all about billiards, yachting, and occasional polo."
Her eyes light up. "Oh, do you know of any polo events in San Francisco? I've always wanted to go. Horses are just so noble. The whole game is so elevated."
I almost roll my eyes. What isn't Lisa into that Richard mentions?
"There might be something," Richard says, pretending to search his mental calendar.
"Amazing. Don't worry, I'll remind you," she says and swivels to me with a tight smile, running her eyes down my legs. "You look great, Emma. I love the all-white. I thought about wearing it myself, but with all the reflection I didn't want to... overwhelm anyone's eyes."
Queen of sweet stabs.
"Yeah, thanks. Same," I say flatly. Because, annoyingly, it's also true.
She's thinner than I remember, and not in a healthy way, more eclipsed, but still flawless. Her hair's in a perfect ponytail while mine's already a staticky halo before I've even doneanything. Her pale blue set grazing her knees? I almost cringe at how well she'd photograph with Richard, how they'd make sense. Better than her and Ben, if I'm being honest.
And yet, the cringe is on me, when I am the one who tore her relationship.
"How did you enjoy your trip?" she asks me. "I heard it was wild."
"Yeah, good. It wasn't that wild," I say quickly, brushing it off.
"Ben tried to make me come but I was unfortunately busy with work. He hates how much I work. He complains all the time." She smiles, rolling her eyes, and I'm tempted to dig in and roll them even more for her—irretrievably.
"Ah!" She perks up suddenly, pointing somewhere behind me. "Ben's here. Finally."
My pulse spikes. Then I turn, and it detonates.
Ben jogs across the court: shorts riding high, sleeveless tee molded to his chest, white socks pulled up his lethal calves. Duffel in one hand, racket slung over his shoulder like a weapon.
He's indecently good-looking for this hour—for any hour—and I'm already losing.
