He turned around. She held up the notebook. His face reddened as he jogged back to retrieve it. Running his finger along the spine, biting his bottom lip with two very slightly—and very adorably—crisscrossed front teeth, he said, “I know it’s pretty girly, having a diary, which is why I call it a journal, more masculine-sounding. But my English teacher told me that if I’m serious about wanting to be a writer, I should write every day. It seemed like keeping a journal would be a good way of making sure I stuck to that resolution.”

“I don’t think it’s girly.”

He nodded, as if he appreciated her saying that, but avoided meeting her eye. Then he turned and started walking again. She watched him until he disappeared inside his house, the screen door swinging shut behind him.

• • •

Charlie had been a little worried that she’d be too intermediate for an intermediate clinic, or not intermediate enough. But that wasn’t the case. She was just the right amount of intermediate. It’d been fun. And she could already feel the improvement in her game. She’d even taken a practice set off Sasha, who was on the team at St. Augie’s. Charlie dropped her racquet on top of her bag, picked up her crappy cell, a strip of masking tape holding the battery in, to see if Cybill had returned the text she’d sent before stepping on the court. Nope. Nothing. She hadn’t imagined Cybill asking her to go to the beach today, had she?

As Charlie was showering in the locker room, she decided to go to the beach anyway. Maybe Cybill was already there, had left her cell at home or hadn’t programmed Charlie’s number right in her phone or something. In any case, Charlie had bought a bikini and she planned to wear it. After drying off, applying the complimentary lotion, she changed into it. She shoved her new purchases, racquet bag, and dirty clothes in a locker. Then she caged a second Band-Aid off the concierge guy—the tag in the bikini was in the same place as the tag in the tennis skirt—grabbed a fluffy white club robe, and headed down to the water. As she passed the café, Stan leaned out the window.

“Saw you slugging away out there,” he said. “Maria Sharapova better watch her back.”