Page 39 of Set to Love

“Yeah, well table one just each ordered one of every dessert on the menu.”

I roll up my sleeves and rush toward the sink. “Can you buy me ten minutes? I’ll knock out the plates and silverware so we can reset.”

“Katie . . . you’re still on break,” Lina says in a challenging tone.

“Yeah, Katie, listen to Lina,” Zoe interjects. She’s already at the sprayer, nozzle in one hand and a stack of plates in the other. She looks at me over her shoulder, her eyes hard with that protective best-friend authority.

“When did you get here?”

“Five minutes ago. I told you I was in the area,” she says. “Now scoot. Get back into that office and take another ten minutes.”

“But I’m finished eating, I can help⁠—”

“No, cara. Out,” Lina says, appearing from behind a cloud of steam with a tray of fresh cannolis. “You are not back on this floor for another ten minutes at the earliest. That’s an order.”

I stand there for a second, my hands half-raised, feeling strange being helpless. I’m used to being the one who carries the load.

“Fine,” I mutter, backing away toward the office. “But if the silverware runs out again, I’m coming back in.”

I retreat into the office, pull the door shut, and sink back into the chair. I guess now is as good a time as any to start apartment hunting. I open my internet browser and type in “studio apartments near me.”

As the page loads, however, my eyes bulge and my stomach sinks.

A one-bedroom place in a complex ten miles from here is fifteen hundred? Out of the question.

A “charming loft” that’s actually a converted garage? Still double my budget.

I scroll faster, zooming out on the map hoping to find some hidden, affordable pocket of the city. I tap on red pin after red pin, but it’s just the same depressing numbers over and over again.

The map of Orlando starts to look less like a city and more like a series of closed doors. Everything within a thirty-minute radius of Lina’s, the gym, and the tennis center is priced for people with full-time salaries, not somebody like me, a girl who makes minimum wage and lives paycheck to paycheck.

No. If I want something within my budget, I’m looking at a ninety-minute commute from the outskirts of the county. But there is absolutely no way I can spend three hours a day behind the wheel of my 4Runner. I barely have enough hours in the day as it is.

I lean my head back against the brick wall and close my eyes. I’m not just looking for a room. I’m looking for a way to keep my dream alive.

If it doesn’t work out, tennis becomes impossible.

And if I lose tennis . . . I lose everything.

Twelve

The following morning, my alarm wakes me at five-thirty. Every muscle in my body is screaming in protest for yesterday’s marathon day. I drag myself to the bathroom, stumbling over a stray shoe, and twist the shower handle. The pipes gurgle before the showerhead starts blasting me with a stream of ice-cold water.

I squeeze my eyes shut, leaning my forehead against the tile. Great. Just great. The pilot light is out.

I take the world’s fastest, most miserable shower, then shiver as I towel off. I shove my hair into a messy bun and guzzle a chalky protein shake while typing a quick text to Aunt Sarah.

Katie

Morning! Hot water is out again—probably the pilot light, but I didn’t have time to mess with it. Talk to you when I get back.

Twenty minutes later, I’m at the Winter Park Community courts. It’s barely light out, but the humidity is already clinging to the air. I have a hopper full of balls at my side. I set up my tripod, mount my phone, and hit record.

As I jog to the baseline, my ancient ball machine starts its rhythmic thwump-thwump. I should be focusing on engaging those core muscles Max talked about as I work on my swing mechanics. Instead, my concentration keeps drifting.

I knew I didn’t have to, but I stayed at the restaurant until after midnight. After logging twenty-three thousand steps yesterday, my body is running on fumes.

The machine gives a hollow hiss. It’s out of balls. As I grab the hopper and start collecting them, frustration bubbles up inside me. I shouldn’t have to rely on a shaky tripod, a second-hand ball machine, and a phone screen to figure out what I’m doing wrong.