Page 62 of Pickled
“You?” Lisa’s eyes widened. “I thought for sure it was him who had done something.”
The judgment in his voice wasn’t exactly nothing, but if there was a bad guy in our story, I was it. “It was me. He thought I lived in the Lockelhursts’ house. Like, it was mine. He made assumptions, and I didn’t correct him. He saw me as a person from his world, and… I let him. I didn’t tell him about Olive or about my job. I screwed up.” My voice trembled. “It was so goodwith him. But when he found out the truth, he was pissed. It’s probably a good thing anyway. We never would’ve worked.”
Lisa was quiet for a moment. “I know you really liked him. That must have been hard.”
“He looked at me like I was a stranger. Like everything between us had been fake. The only thing that wasn’t real was my address, job, and parental status.” I swallowed hard. “Maybe it was fake.”
“Was it? Fake, I mean.” A cacophony of laughter broke out from the table of women. Judy’s laugh was the loudest. Her arms flailed wildly as she continued with her story. We had a few minutes before whatever scene she was re-enacting was done.
“No.” The word came out sharp. I softened my tone and made sure no one was eavesdropping. “None of it was fake. Not the way we talked, or laughed, or…” My cheeks heated, remembering his hands on my body. “Not any of it.”
“Then maybe he just needs time to process.”
“Lisa, you didn’t see his face. He was done. Completely done.” I shifted my paddle to my other hand. “And honestly? Maybe that’s for the best. I mean, what was I thinking? That a professional athlete would want to date a single mom who cleans houses?”
“Hey.” Lisa’s voice was sharp. “Don’t talk about yourself like that. I understand why you didn’t tell him. He’s the one who’s walking away because he can’t handle the truth of who you are. That says more about him than it does about you. It makes me sick. You’re a wonderful person, and any man would be lucky to have you.”
“Right. That’s why I’m alone at twenty-three with a five-year-old and two jobs.”
“You have two jobs?”
“I’m about to. I need the money for a few lessons for Olive…” I trailed off as Judy sashayed over to us.
“Shall we play?” She gestured to the courts like a butler.
As we walked to the courts, Lisa turned to me. “Piper.” There was excitement in her voice. “I might have a solution for Olive. Nikki is spending the year in Switzerland, so her daughter’s spot opened up. It’s pricey, but it’s a hell of a lot cheaper than private lessons with the Myers sisters.”
My heart jumped. “Really? When?”
“Applications are due next week. It’s ten thousand for the year, but—”
“Ten thousand?” My heart didn’t just nosedive; it crashed into the pavement and exploded. “Per year?”
“It’s elite-level coaching, Piper. The best instructors, small class sizes, tournament travel…”
Ten thousand dollars might as well have been ten million. “Right. Of course it is.”
The pickleball game was a disaster.My muscle memory kicked in after the first few points, and soon, I was making points and remembering to stay out of the kitchen. Thespeed and close proximity to the other players was challenging, and I had to hold myself back from hitting all of Judy’s shots.
The disaster was that I was too good.
“Wow,” gasped Izzy, our fourth player and one of Judy’s ABCLWL friends. “Where did you learn to play like that?”
I’d just executed a perfect cross-court dink that dropped exactly on the kitchen line, unreturnable. The kind of shot that required years of training and natural talent.
“I used to play tennis,” I mumbled, trying to dial back my intensity, but once you’re a competitive athlete, it’s hard to play games casually.
“Tennis?” Izzy exchanged a look with Judy. “What level?”
“Just… college level.” I served the next ball with the intention of making it easy for Lisa to return. She did, but Judy fanned the ball on our side. She was too close to the net. I could’ve lunged and smashed it from her side of the court, but I didn’t, and we lost the serve.
Judy crossed her arms. “Piper, you’re holding back. Don’t you dare.”
If Judy wanted to win, I would make it happen. For the next twenty minutes, I played like the athlete I used to be. I covered the court like I owned it. Even Lisa, who was pretty good, could barely keep up.
When we finished, I was slightly winded while the others were panting.
“Wowza.” Izzy fanned herself with her visor. “I haven’t been schooled like that since I played Janice Winger n an exhibition match.”
