“Of course.”

  “So we know that we’re going to be training together for the next month…”

  Bowe looks at me, his eyebrows furrowed, as if he cannot tell where my train of thought is headed.

  “But who knows if we’ll even be sleeping together tomorrow.”

  Bowe pulls his arm away from me. “You’re fucking impossible,” he says, rolling onto his back. “Absolutely impossible.”

  “What are we doing, Bowe?” I say.

  “I don’t know,” he says. “You won’t tell me.”

  “You tell me.”

  “I don’t know!” he says.

  “See? You don’t have a plan. You don’t know what you want.”

  “I do know what I want,” he says. “I’m here, aren’t I? You fucking rejected me back in ’82 and took up with Randall, of all people. You rejected me back in Melbourne. You all but rejected me back in Paris. And still, I’m here, every night, any second that you want me. I know exactly what I want, Carrie. I’ve made it clear.”

  I watch him throw his head back on the bed. And I let myself believe for a moment that maybe he means it. Maybe this time, maybe this man, means it.

  “Just forget it,” he says. And then he turns his back to me and fluffs his pillow angrily. And I smile to myself because you don’t fluff a pillow you’re not planning to sleep on.

  * * *

  —

  Bowe and I both take Sundays off from training. We need one day to recuperate. And sometimes, in the morning, I’ll watch tapes with my dad. But in the afternoons, even I need a break from tennis, and I can tell that my dad does not know what to do with himself.

  Bowe starts coming over in the afternoons to play chess with my father on Sundays. Then it evolves into the two of them going to Blockbuster together and renting war movies.

  They pop popcorn and watch the movies in our home theater, pausing every few minutes to talk about historical references to World War I or II or Vietnam. And I normally sit in the lounger in the same room, only half paying attention.

  I’ve never realized until now that my dad is into war movies. But in hindsight, it’s painfully obvious that he would be drawn to them.

  One Sunday, the two of them catch me tearing up at the very end of the movie, when the sergeant salutes his captain.

  AUGUST 1995

  Two weeks before the US Open

  I am running sprints across the court, training harder than ever.

  “¡De nuevo!” my father says as I stop short at his feet.

  “Sí, papá.”

  Bowe has a wild card for the US Open. But I do not need a wild card or to qualify, because I am now ranked twelfth in the world.

  Twelfth. A delicious, enticing number, with the capacity to carry a boatload of fuck-yous.

  When I am done with another sprint, I look at my father for what to do next. But instead of sending me to the baseline, he pats the spot on the bench beside him.

  “¿Qué pasa?” I say, sitting down.

  “I see a change in you that I can’t quite describe, since Wimbledon. You’re…freer.”

  “I’m less afraid,” I say. “Of losing.”

  “Because you’ve made your peace with it?” he asks.

  “Because it’s unlikely.”

  My father laughs. “Well, then you need to keep that with you, heading into New York. Especially up against Chan. New York is her best court.”

  I nod.

  “And I think we both know that I can’t go with you.”

  We’ve spoken around it for weeks—that he is not yet healthy enough to travel. “I know.”

  “I will be watching,” he says. “I can’t wait to see you take that record back. Probably right out of her hands.”

  I breathe in deeply, trying to push down the grief that is blooming in my chest.

  “I’ll just be doing it from here,” he says. “Instead of in the stands.”

  “Yeah,” I say. “Of course.”

  “You will go and win the US Open, and then you can retire again and come home, and we can throw a party,” he says.

  “You make it sound so easy.”

  “It is not easy,” he says. “But you will do it.”

  “And if I don’t?”

  My father looks at me and narrows his eyes, trying to gauge my reaction.

  “I don’t need you to guess what I want to hear,” I say. “I just want the truth. If I don’t win, then what?”

  “Well, if you don’t win the US Open, I don’t care. That’s the truth.”

  I erupt in laughter. “Unreal.”

  “You said you wanted the truth. It will be no different to me if you win or you lose. It won’t affect me at all.”

  “I mean, it matters a little,” I say.

  “To you, maybe. But to me? It was never the point.”

  I put my head on his shoulder and absorb what he’s saying. I look up at the bright, unending L.A. sky, palm trees swaying in the breeze.

  “He’s in love with you,” my father finally says.

  I don’t pull away. I don’t even flinch.

  “And he knows you’re a better player than he is,” my dad says. “I was always worried about that with you. Because the only person who could ever understand you would be another player. But how many players would be okay knowing they were second place? He takes to it well, though. Which is about the highest compliment I can think of. I’m not sure there is a greater strength.”

  “Playing second to a woman?” I ask.

  My father winks at me. “Feeling secure, even knowing you are not the best.”

  I feel both sides of that sword, the compliment and the sharp edge meant for me.

  “He is a good guy,” I say.

  My father nods. “Even if he is sneaking into your house every night like some sort of pirata.”

  I laugh. “Well, that’s on me,” I say. “I’m not…I don’t know if there’s any future there, and I don’t want to make it too much of a thing.”

  “So you push it away, because it’s easier to pretend you don’t want it,” my dad says.

  I look at him.

  “Please,” he says, pulling me under his shoulder. “Open your heart the tiniest bit, pichona. Being married to your mother changed my life. She made me feel joy. She gave me purpose. We became a family. Tennis is nothing compared to that.”

  “But then she was gone. And you were left with such…heartache. And I don’t…I don’t know how to do that…to live that way,” I say.

  “If you did not know how to do something on the court, it would not stop you from figuring it out.” He grabs my hand. “I was so broken when your mother died that I buried my heart in the earth. And I taught you to as well. I thought I was showing you how to move on, but I was showing you how to never open up to anybody. I taught you the wrong thing. But I’ve told you that now, and it’s on you to fix it. Okay?”

  “Yeah, Dad,” I say. “I already knew it. But thank you.”

  “I know you did. Sometimes, you’re much smarter than me. So much stronger too. You’re like a bright diamond, one shiny, tough…”

  “Bitch,” I offer.

  My dad laughs. “Okay, sure. One shiny, tough bitch.”

  I laugh, and he pulls me back to him. “Te amo, cielo. Being your father is the best thing that has ever happened to me. My Achilles. Greatest of the Greeks.”

  “Dad…” I say.

  “No,” he says. “Just accept it. Let me feel it and say it. You’re the meaning of my life.”

  * * *

  —

  That afternoon, Bowe comes over and we play a set with my father barking at us from the sidelines through his megaphone.

  “Bowe, get higher up on your toes when you make contact,” he says. “And Carrie, don’t get lazy on that follow-through!”

  Bowe squeaks out a win against me—he’s getting better and better, almost by the hour, lately. And it stings to fall just short of him.

  At the end of the session, my father gives me a few pointers, but it is Bowe he’s focused on. “I think you need a more open stance,” he says as Bowe zips his racket into its case. “So your weight is on the right foot as you prepare to move for the return.”

  “I told you I’m not messing with my footwork now,” Bowe says. “Not when it feels right and feels intuitive. I just beat one of the greatest players in the world with my stance. C’mon.”

  “Good is the enemy of great,” my father says.

  Bowe looks at me and then my father. “Spoken like a Soto.”

  Bowe puts his kit over his shoulder, and my father starts discussing dinner.

  “See you all tomorrow,” Bowe says, waving goodbye as he heads toward his car. I watch him go, so casually, with no expectations.

  I look at my father, who looks back at me, incredulous.

  Oh, fine.

  “Bowe!” I call out.

  He turns around.

  “Stay for dinner,” I say.

  Bowe looks at both my father and me. “Really?”

  “Yeah,” I say. “Yes.”

  I walk toward him and take his kit off his shoulder. “Stay. Please.”

  He watches me take his racket bag and put it down on the bench. When I catch his eye, I can tell that he wants to ask me many different questions. But I have just one simple, precarious answer. “I want you to stay.”

  He smiles. “Okay,” he says.

  He claps his hands together and says, “All right, let’s do this. What are we having? Javier, don’t even try me with the steak or the salty food right now. You know what? Why don’t I fire up the grill and make chicken?”

  My dad laughs. And then he begins walking to my house with Bowe and me. Bowe walks up ahead of us, ever so briefly. And my father puts his arm around me.

  “Siempre supe que no hay montaña que no puedas escalar, paso a paso.”

  I have always known there is no mountain you cannot climb, one step at a time.

  Bowe makes dinner, and we eat outside. They play a game of chess while I look up at the stars. My dad hugs me good night. And nobody pretends Bowe is going home tonight.

  Bowe and I go inside. I start doing the dishes, and Bowe comes up behind me. He kisses me and I laugh. He says he loves my laugh, and then he says, “Can I say that? Can I say I love your laugh?”

  And I say, “I don’t know. I mean, I guess yes. Sure.”

  I can see my father’s living room window from my kitchen. I watch as his light goes off.

  Bowe grabs my waist and spins me toward him.

  And I wonder for a moment why I have spent all my time worried about losing things, when there is so much here.

  * * *

  —

  When Bowe and I wake up in the morning, instead of sneaking out, he goes downstairs in his underwear and makes me a blueberry smoothie. I drink it while he makes himself a black coffee. When we’re done, he picks up the paper and goes into the den. I go out onto the court.

  I stretch my legs. As I start on my shoulders, I look at my watch. It’s three past eight.

  Where is my dad?

  My heart drops through my belly.

  I run toward my father’s front door. I put my hand on the doorknob and I turn it.

  There he is. Lying on one of his sofas, with the TV on ESPN.

  Here but gone.

  And all that escapes from my mouth is a hushed yelp. “Papá.”

  From then on, everything feels like those moments just before you wake in the morning. I am not asleep but somehow still dreaming, the world an ambiguous combination of reality and hallucination.

  At some point, I am standing on my father’s front stoop, staring at my sneakers when somebody—I can’t tell if he’s an EMT or someone from the coroner’s office—comes to find me. I look over and realize Bowe is at my side, holding my hand.

  “Your father had another heart attack last night and passed away, most likely sometime between eleven and one a.m.,” the man says.

  “Yeah, no shit, genius!” I hear myself shout.

  Bowe pulls me into his arms.

  I think someone gives me a sedative.

  * * *

  —

  Gwen comes over with dinner. Bowe tries to make me eat something. When I look at him, I can’t figure out why Bowe Huntley is in my house, why he is the one beside me.

  Gwen tells me this is going to make the news soon. “I’ll do my best to hold it all off until you’re ready.”

  I tell her I don’t care who knows. Hiding it won’t fix it.

  * * *

  —

  Bowe feeds me lunch and dinner and breakfast the next morning. I know that because I can see the dishes piled up around me in my bed.

  I see my own face on the television and see Greg Phillips reporting that “Javier Soto, father and coach of Carrie Soto, has died unexpectedly. He was not with his daughter at Wimbledon this past July, and some speculated it was due to health concerns. But he was expected to be with Carrie in New York next week for the US Open.”

  Bowe tells me later that I threw the remote at the TV and cracked the screen.

  * * *

  —

  In the paper, they print a picture of him from the early seventies at the French Open. He looks young and handsome in his polo shirt and panama hat. He would have loved it. I try to tear it out of the paper to save it, but I accidentally rip it.

  * * *

  —

  At some point, Bowe gets in bed and holds me. He makes me smoothies every morning. He always gives me the wrong type of straw, but I don’t know how to tell him without screaming at him and I don’t want to scream at him.

  I walk into the bathroom, thinking Bowe is in the shower. But instead, I find him sitting on the edge of the tub, with the shower running. When he sees me, he looks up and his eyes are bloodshot. He stands up and asks me if I am okay.

  I wonder when he is going to leave. I’d have left by now.

  “I’m not going anywhere,” he says, even though I can’t tell if I said any of that out loud.

  * * *

  —

  After my father’s funeral and the reception, Gwen is packing up all the food as I stand there in the kitchen, not moving. She’s telling me about all the times my dad made her laugh.

  “Can you please, for the love of God, shut up?” I say.

  She stops putting cheese slices into Tupperware and looks at me.

  I say, “I’m sorry.”

  She takes my hand, but hers is cold and I want her to let go of me. But I also know that even if I ask her to, she won’t.

  Bowe goes out onto the court every day. Sometimes I watch him from my window.

  He comes inside after a particularly grueling session with a hitter. “How are you?” he says, breathless.

  “How the fuck do you think I’m doing?” I say.

  I look down and see I’m wearing my father’s slippers. And I don’t remember when I put them on.

  Later, I ask Bowe if I should drop out of the US Open, and he tells me I already know the answer. But he’s wrong. I do not.

  * * *

  —

  I am in a T-shirt and pair of Bowe’s boxers when Bowe comes into the room and tells me he’s scheduled to play Franco Gustavo. I’m scheduled to play Madlenka Dvořáková in the first round in New York.

  I hear my father’s voice. “Ah, será fácil. You can whoop her ass.” I turn to see him, but he’s not there.

  * * *

  —

  I am standing in the middle of my living room, looking at all the flowers people sent. The house is overflowing with blooms that are starting to die.

  So many people have sent something but not come by. Which is more than I would have done for any of them.

  * * *

  —

  The phone rings as I am lying in bed, and I don’t answer it. But I can tell by the way the ringing stops that Bowe has picked it up.

  He comes in a few moments later.

  “It’s Nicki,” he says. “Chan.”

  “I don’t want to talk to her,” I say. But then I take the phone from his hand anyway.

  “Hi.”

  “I’m so sorry, Carrie,” Nicki says.

  “Thank you.”

  “Listen, I want to tell you something…. If you don’t play the US Open, I will consider bowing out as well.”

  I can’t quite process the rest of what she’s saying until she adds, “Just let me know what you’re thinking. I want it to be a clean win. I want a fair fight.”

  “Honestly, Nicki,” I say, “it just doesn’t matter very much.”

  Nicki laughs, like I am making a joke.

  * * *

  —

  My first moment of clarity is the following day—when I finally get up the guts to go into my father’s house.

  I stand in the same spot where I stood when I found him. I look at his things: his remote controls and the half-filled water glasses, his magazines and his books lined up on the shelf, his movies stacked to the side, his leather chairs, his panama hats.

  I pick up one of his hats. It smells like English Leather and shampoo, earthy and human.

  I wonder if this is how he felt when my mother died: flattened by the impossibility and yet inevitability of tomorrow. I am suddenly so tired, no match for the heaviness of gravity. I look at the floor and it calls to me, as strong as a magnet.

  I lie down on the carpet of the home I bought for my father. The gift I gave him. And I do not get up for what feels like hours.