Page 47 of The Comeback Summer

As I send off my first serve, I realize I feel so much more relaxed here than sitting at a bar. Maybe I don’t hate dating. With the right activity and person, it could be, dare I say, fun?

The first game I win by only two points. It’s nice having a well-matched opponent, and we’re both playing hard and enjoying it. After some good-natured trash talk, we launch into game two.

When I win the second game, Landon says the sun is in his eyes. We switch sides, and I win the third game, too—this time by six points.

Now the excuses really start coming in: he couldn’t find his usual pickleball paddle, so he borrowed a friend’s and “it’s just off, I can’t explain it”; it was leg day yesterday at the gym and he might have partially torn his hamstring; he wore the wrong shoes and they don’t have enough tread on the court.

Still, he insists on playing one more game. I consider holding back and letting him win since he clearly thinks he has something to prove, but then I think about my last journal entry, how staying in my comfort zone is allowing me to remain afraid, to stay quiet, to play small. And something new pops into my head:Why shrink myself down so he can feel big?

During the fourth match, Landon brings his A game, but so do I. We’re neck and neck, and we’re having fun, laughing and shit-talking each other. But then I fire off a beautiful cross-court dink, which gives me the win.

And then I witness a grown man throwing a temper tantrum.

Landon chucks his paddle across the court, cursing as hestomps away, ranting that pickleball isn’t even a real sport anyway.

“Good game,” I say as we both pack up.

Landon stuffs his paddle and balls in his duffel bag, shoots me a glare, and says, “You know, it’s not attractive when a woman is so competitive.”

My cheeks heat. My first instinct is to feel embarrassed for being so intense about a silly game. But I didn’t cheat, and I wasn’t a dick about winning. If the tables were turned and he’d beaten me four times, I might have been frustrated, but I would’ve been a good sport.

As he turns to go, I think about Generic Rob and how I wish I’d stood up to him more.

“You know,” I say, trying to keep my voice from shaking, “it’s not attractive when a man can’t handle a competitive woman.”

Landon flinches but doesn’t turn around. I have no idea if my point landed.

I’m still glad I said it.

•••

I’M WALKING HOMEwhen I check my phone and see three new texts from Josh, right below his one-word nonanswer.

Josh:Banana! Sorry! I was wrapped up in a project for work. WOW! SUPER COOL ABOUT THAT BOOK! When’s it coming out? I’m almost done with season one of the podcast and I’m obsessed.

Josh:Give me a call?

Josh:If you want

He answers on the first ring. “Hey! I was just thinking about you.”

“Yeah?” My smile grows. “What are you doing?”

“Don’t make fun of me.”

“Never.”

“Remember that swing on my parents’ back porch?”

“Of course.” We used to sit out there on warm summer evenings, drinking peach Fresca, which his mom bought in bulk because it was my favorite.

“I’m sitting on that porch swing, knitting my first hat. It’s for my niece, Zella—”

“Aw, she’s gonna love it, Meemaw!”

He chuckles. “And I just finished the last episode of season one ofMurder on the Mind.”

“Wasn’t that ending phenomenal?” I say, excited. “Could you believe the part about the fingerprints—”

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