Jersey Tomatoes are the Best (34 page)

“I was worried about you,” he says angrily.

One, two, three bounces. Toss, palm open to the sky. This one goes a little long.

“Yeah. Right,” I say. His enormous bag hits the ground. I hear a zipper. I look to see him pulling out one of his rackets and walking quickly to the opposite side of the court from me. There are a few balls in his way and he kicks them viciously to the side.

When he reaches the baseline, he bounces the strings of his racket a few times on the heel of his hand.

“Go on,” he calls, almost savagely, to me. “You wanna practice instead of talk? Fine. Let’s hit some balls.” I blink. I stare at him in amazement for about two seconds, then I reach into the basket, grab two, then shove it, hard. It rolls swiftly away and bangs against the fence.

I float a rally ball to his forehand. He attacks it brutally. He smashes it crosscourt, both feet in the air when he makes contact. It’s behind me before I can whiff at it.

I drop my racket and clap.

“Awesome. Just awesome, David. You know, I can wail on easy feeds, too.” He glares.

“Another,” he calls back.

This time, I pound it. I hit it low, flat and deep into his backhand. It skitters on the baseline, but he manages to return it high crosscourt. I take it in the air, and come in. He smashes it back. Kindly enough, not at my face. But so hard, I practically hear a whooshing sound as it clears the net and flies past me, unanswered.

“Tell you what, Tarzan,” I say angrily. “How about three
reasonable
rally balls beyond the service line, then anything goes?” He nods.

“Fine,” he says. His feet shift restlessly. I return to my baseline.

Somewhere along the way the grunting starts. “YUH!” David shouts as he fires one down the line. Miraculously, I get my racket on it and lob it defensively to his backhand corner, a desperate “EH!” escaping from my lips when I make contact. “A-YUH!” he yells back, a screaming shot I can’t return. We start again … one, two, three unfriendly smacks … then “YAH!” I finish it with a sharply angled forehand.

“Shit!” I hear him say.

“No swearing,” I bark at him.

“Says who?” he snipes. He fires a rally ball over the net.

“Says me. We’re on
my
reserved court time.” I slice it back to him.

“Well, f-you, Henry. I’ll swear all I want.” He smacks one at me.

“Oh yeah? Well, happy f-you to you, too!” I yell. I lay on the ball with everything I’ve got, straight down the middle. David returns it hard up my middle and races in. I lob. He anticipates, and spikes an overhead into my backhand.

“Shit!” I exclaim. He aims a wolfish grin at me.

“No swearing,” he says.

“Jerk,” I say. He takes two steps forward.

“Baseline grinder,” he retorts. I move in as well.

“Prep-stroker,” I say. He’s still closing.

“Typical,” he replies. Quietly. He’s about a racket’s length from the net. For a split second I don’t know what he means. Then I remember. That night in the Overlook. That first night we ever actually spoke, when he rescued me from the evil Dundas. Right before he insulted my game. Once upon a time, before he made me fall, head over heels, so hard for him … I reach the net, resting my racket on top of it.

“Traitor,” I whisper. I’m spent. I’ve exercised the anger clear out of me. I think I’m going to cry. His face falls.

“What the hell are you talking about, Henry?” he says. “How am
I
a traitor?”

“I needed you,” I say to him. A wail, caught in my throat, threatens to rise. I gesture, with my free hand, around me. The court. The teak table. The beautiful grounds and buildings beyond. “But all this? And these people? They’re more important to you than I am.” He shakes his head vehemently.

“You asked me to make an impossible choice!” he says angrily. “It was like, ‘Hey, David. Breathing or eating? Pick
one.’ What was I supposed to do? I’ve got my girlfriend telling me I have to drive to freakin’ Jersey or else, and my coach telling me to get my ass back to Florida or else!”

“Don’t diss Jersey!” I fume at him. This random response startles both of us for a moment.

“I’ll diss Jersey all I want,” he says.

“Don’t,” I say threateningly.

“Why are New Yorkers so depressed?” he snaps.

“What?”

“Because the light at the end of the tunnel is New Jersey!” he exclaims.

Jersey jokes. Unbelievable.

“Oh, that’s so weak!” I sneer at him. “I heard that in fifth grade.”

“Why do seagulls fly upside down in New Jersey?” he continues. “Because they can’t find anything worth crapping on.” The corners of his mouth turn up slightly. He likes that one.

“This is ridiculous, David,” I say. “Stop it.”

“What do you call a smart guy in Bayonne?” he says.

I’ve heard this one, too.

“Lost,” I reply quickly. This draws a genuine smile from him.

“Very good,” he says. “How do you know you’re from New …”

There’s a Wilson in my pocket. I pull it out and attempt to stuff it in David’s mouth. He lets out a yelp of laughter, drops his racket and grabs both my wrists. My racket clatters as well,
and the two of us stand there with the net between us. I look into his eyes. They remind me of the caramel center of a Cadbury chocolate bar. I sigh. A long exhale. A long letting go.

“David, you called Missy, and made a plan to dump me at a train station in North Carolina. How do you think I felt?”

“You forget: I asked you to come with me. They wanted us both.”

“It felt like a plan made behind my back.”

“Henry, no offense, but … you sound like your father. All paranoid.”

This stings. A ready comeback flies to my lips. But I don’t want to confirm what he just said and act like Mark. I count to ten before I reply.

“It’s not just that. She’s too into you. They all are, and it creeps me out. You know, sometimes I got the feeling that our relationship was just one big Chadwick photo op.” He looks a little embarrassed when I say this.

“Okay, when you started winning at the invitational? Missy did take me aside and tell me to pull you into a few photos. But I don’t see why that’s bad. When we win, they win. You know? Win-win?” I shake my head. It’s so easy to think clearly about all this when I’m alone. But now, with him again? With those warm, melting chocolate eyes pleading with me?

I could get so lost in all this. In him.

He’s still grasping my wrists, and I pull them free. I pull them free so I can think beyond the electric current that travels from his fingertips to mine.

“I’m going to ask you a question and I don’t want
you
to take offense, but if we’d done it? That night in the motel? Would you still have left me at the train station?”

He looks like I’ve just slapped him.

“Is that what you think of me?” he says, incredulous.

“It’s not what I thought until it happened, David.”

Hurt and confusion play out across his face. It would be so much easier for him if I were yelling and unreasonable right now. You don’t have to take responsibility for your own actions, or admit where you went wrong, if the other person conveniently acts like a lunatic. Something else I’ve learned from Mark Lloyd.

“I’m not Dundas, Henry.”

“I didn’t say you were.”

“Yeah, you just did. C’mon! Don’t you know me better than that?”

“No, I don’t. That’s the point. I’m just getting to know you, and I’m … not ready … for a whole lot of stuff.”

“I respect that,” he says quickly.

“Yeah, I know,” I say patiently. “That’s what a nice guy would say. And let’s face it: you’re a nice guy. But you’re a
guy
. And I want to know. Did my saying no influence your decision to head back to Boca?”

An eternity passes as David thinks about this one. A light breeze blows across the court, ruffling his hair, which is drying into stiff, salty curls at his neck. When he finally answers me, his eyes are clear.

“Probably,” he says. “If things had gone the other way that
night, I probably wouldn’t have checked my cell phone messages in the morning. Instead, I woke up thinking,
Damn! What the hell am I doing here?
Then, once I started talking to Harvey and Missy, I got completely reoriented. Nothing seemed more important than getting back to Florida.” I nod.

“Thank you,” I say. “For being honest.” There’s a buzzing sound as lights from the surrounding courts flicker on. Dusk. We’ve been out here for a long time. David frowns. He takes one step closer to me.

“I was also being honest about what I said after the
quinces,
” he continues. I nod again.

“I know that. And David, for the record? Never in a million years would I compare you to Jon Dundas. He’s not in your league.”

The hands, the fingers, are lacing themselves through mine now. He’s moved so close I can feel his breath on my cheeks as he breathes.

“But it’s not enough, is it?” he says quietly. Sadly. My eyes fill, and everything I’ve held back through sheer will and anger spills out now.

“See, that’s what I don’t get,” I say tearfully. “The way ‘I love you’ doesn’t go with what happened in Smithfield. You lose me there.”

“Sure it does! Absolutely it does! ‘I love you’ means I want what’s best for you. I don’t want you to make stupid choices that will hurt you.”

“Putting my best childhood friend before tennis is not a stupid choice!” He sighs, shaking his head.

“There’s no comparison,” he says wearily. “Why are you comparing the two?”

“Because I had to. David, I knew I wasn’t going to make Eva better. But if my best friend in the whole world died while I was practicing forehands in Florida, I’d have never forgiven myself. I
had
to be there, and let her see me.”

He wants, so badly, to see things my way. But we’re not there. We stand on opposite shores of a great, rushing river. A huge canyon. Or maybe just a thin, invisible line that separates the ways we see the world. He thinks I’m careless. I think he’s so caught up in this crazy life that he doesn’t realize what he’s given up to be here.

He pulls me against his chest and holds me, tightly, as my tears soak into the front of his shirt. When I finally lift my head, my face feels puffy.

“You know the one thing, the only thing, that makes sense right now?” I ask him. He shakes his head.

“Hitting a tennis ball. Before you came out here, I was really getting into it. It’s just … pure.”

This flash of recognition crosses his eyes. This he understands. He smiles and gently, softly, brushes his lips against mine.

“So let’s do it,” he says. He releases me, then picks up his racket. For a moment, he reminds me of a little boy. An eager little boy who’s just been told he can stay up past bedtime to play his favorite game. Something in my chest fills, and I’m there, too. This familiar place, once upon a time, back when I was a little girl playing
my
favorite game.…

“Okay, but no more death shots.”

“I promise,” he says. He’s already backpedaling to the baseline.

I drop-feed him a deep forehand. He returns a crisp crosscourt shot, great topspin.

Mental note, Henry: you’ve got to get him to show you how he does that
.

It’s a perfect Florida evening. As the sun sets, the court lights burn brighter. The sky glows pale blue, then pink, then deepening gray. A light breeze fans our sweat-soaked bodies, carries a hint of flowers. The only sound is the steady, solid
pock!
of our rackets hitting the ball. My feet have springs. My legs are tireless. I could do this forever.

But, of course, we can’t. Eventually, it’s time to pack it in and head back to the dorms. The showers. Dry clothes and the reality of sweat-soaked laundry.

Chapter Thirty-Eight

“S
o what’s the weather like?” I ask her. “Not that I’ll be getting out much.”

Henry and I are making the most of her unlimited minutes, riding the cell phone airwaves between Florida and New Jersey. She’s called to wish me good luck. I’m getting transferred tomorrow.

“Let’s just say you will definitely lose your aversion to air-conditioning,” she replies. “There’s nothing like an August day in Florida to make you appreciate one of the greatest inventions ever.”

“Right. Air-conditioning. I forgot about that,” I mutter.

“What?” she says.

“Nothing. Just having random thoughts about global warming and wondering if it might not be such a bad thing after all.” Understandably, she doesn’t know how to respond.

“So … how’re you feeling about all this?” she asks.

“It’s like I landed on Chance and picked up the card that
reads ‘Go to jail. Go directly to jail. Do not pass Go. Do not collect two hundred dollars,’ ” I say. Henry laughs.

“You always hated Monopoly,” she says.

“Yeah, and you always wanted to play!” I remind her. “I hate competitive games, especially Monopoly. I always end up with my properties mortgaged.”

“That’s because whenever I started losing, you’d lend me money,” she says.

“I know. I’m a real sucker, aren’t I?” I sigh.

“You’re a softie. And the best person I know,” she says emphatically.