Page 125 of Carrie Soto Is Back

“Well, that I can do something about,” he says.

—

The second half of the summer is a train heading full speed toward Flushing Meadows.

There is not much time between Wimbledon and the US Open. My father has his work cut out for him, training both Bowe and me, day in and day out.

He sits on the bench for my morning training sessions, barking drills at me. After the first day, I buy him a megaphone so he won’t strain so hard to yell.

After I go in for lunch and to take a shower and rest, Bowe usually shows up and trains with my father for a few hours. Sometimes, as I’m getting dressed, I watch the two of them in the backyard. Bowe and my father are always either passionately agreeing or disagreeing about what Bowe should work on next. The two of them bicker at full volume—Bowe yelling to be heard over my father’s megaphone.

As the days pass by, I can see Bowe’s first serve growing more and more bold, his second serve more consistent, all from my window.

Then, every day around three, I get back on the court. And Bowe and I play a match.

Bowe always starts off trash-talking. And then I often trounce him—and my father gives us both a series of pointers for the next day.

At which point, Bowe says he’ll see us tomorrow. My father and I have dinner. And then I say I’m going to bed.

But instead, I wait until nine-thirty, when I open my door, and Bowe is always standing on my doorstep.

“Hi.”

“Hi.”

Every night, I grab his hand and pull him inside and bring him to my bedroom. And every night, he presses himself against me and kisses my neck and makes me wonder if anyone has ever survived jumping off the edge of a cliff.

—

A month before the US Open, Bowe is lying in my bed in the middle of the night. His arm is cradled perfectly under my neck; his right hand is tracing shapes on my upper arm, and I’m almost asleep.

“Your dad knows what’s going on,” he says.

“He just thinks you’re into me.”

“No,” Bowe says. “He knows that I’m parking across the street and sleeping here until the morning, when I go home for four hours and then come right back, pretending I’ve been gone the whole time.”

“He doesn’t know any of that.”

Bowe laughs. “He does. Today after he was done barking orders at me about my backhand, he calmly asked me if I had any idea of my plans after I retire. And when I said I wasn’t sure, he said, ‘Well, do you think settling down is in your future?’ ”

I cringe so hard I nearly spasm. “No, he didn’t,” I say, sitting up. I’m now fully awake. “You must have misunderstood him.”

“I assure you, I did not.”

“Yes, you did.”

“We could tell him the truth,” Bowe says, turning onto his side, toward me in bed. He’s been sleeping here so consistently that I’ve started wondering if I should get another nightstand. But I have always had one nightstand, and I can’t conceive of being the sort of idiot who would buy a second.

“No, c’mon,” I say. “Let’s not make anything weird, all right? I want him to train you for the US Open. I want you to win the damn thing. And I want to win it too.”

“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.”

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