Page 5 of A Summer of Stars
“Okay, okay, I’m getting up,” he muttered.
“I just got off the phone with Dad—heard you’re giving him a hard time,” I teased.
“If he considers not going bankrupt ‘a hard time,’ then sure. It’s not like I fly out to meet with a board every time he finds something interesting.”
“What time is that meeting?”
He reached for my phone. “Hour fifteen.”
“At least you get free lodging.”
“Not free meals.”
“You want me to cook for you?”
“Ew.”
“That’s what I thought.” Neither of us got that gene from Mom. “Get off my couch so I can clean up.”
He stood from the rearranged cushions to collect ruffled papers from the coffee table. “Why are you in such a rush?”
“I have a meeting in the city too.”
“Perfect, we can drive in together.”
“Not if you’re going this slow.” I whacked him with a cushion.
“Wait, what do you have a meeting for?”
“I’m rejoining the WTA tour.”
His hands paused on a stack of papers. “You’re serious?”
“Completely.”
“You’re sure?”
“Completely.” I picked the pillows off the floor.
“You don’t think you’re rushing into this?” he asked. “Seeing as everything just blew up like… two months ago.”
“It’s embarrassing enough that I’m jumping in in the middle of a season. I’m not going to wait until next year and prolong this. Then it’ll be a whole thing.” Tournaments began as early as January, and it was already the end of May.
“I think this is already a whole thing.”
I stopped and stared at him. “Thank you for your support,” I deadpanned.
He rolled his eyes. “I’m not supposed to be back in the city for a bit, but I can always find a reason if you wanted to go over a plan or needed help making a statement of some kind?”
That was Walt—a plan of attack, a spreadsheet, a formal pre-planned statement. He never knew what to say, but he sure could helpyoufigure out what to say. Ensure things went smoothly. Avoid future catastrophes. Hence why Dad (a man who dropped catastrophes behind him like pieces of pocket lint) caused him so much stress.
Walt always inserted his opinion. You’d think getting a word in was a personal achievement for him. But his words had a melancholic edge, dripping with protectiveness.
It reminded me of when we were kids. We’d go from bickering over the shower before school to him giving me a head start to the bathroom by pretending to sleep in, knowing I had had a disappointing practice the night before. Even as an adult he didn’t know what to say.
“It’s okay, PR has a plan, so I’ll let them handle that while I handle winning,” I reassured him.
“And that plan would be?” he asked, moving so I could place another pillow back.
