They were evenly matched, neither one ever more than a game or two ahead of the other. Jude took the first set in a tiebreaker, 10-8. Then Charlie rallied back from a 5-3 deficit to capture the second set 7-5. At times, Charlie got the feeling that Jude was holding back, keeping things close when he could have broken the match wide open, surged ahead, dinking the ball over the net instead of hitting the clean winner deep in the corner for the pleasure of watching her run. She got the feeling that he was toying with her, in other words. Whatever. If he wanted to underestimate her as an opponent, that was his business. Or rather, his loss. She’d make sure of that.

Charlie served for the match at 5-4 in the third set. A point away from the win, she hit a weak backhand slice up the line. Instead of blasting the ball crosscourt, Jude opted for one of his patented feathery drop shots. Charlie sprinted forward, managing to get the ball over the net, but barely. Again, instead of going for the outright winner, Jude decided to get cute some more, throwing up a high topspin lob that the wind blew short into the service box. Charlie waited for the ball to bounce up to the perfect height, making small adjustment steps with her feet just the way she’d been taught, then smashed her racquet head into it as hard as she could. She aimed for the center of Jude’s chest. She would have hit it, too, had he not ducked at the last second (the fastest he moved all day). She threw up her arms in triumph.

If Charlie had been hoping for tears, she didn’t get them. She didn’t even get a flash of annoyance or bad temper, which she would have settled for, gladly. Instead Jude hopped over the net and laughingly congratulated her on a match well played. She couldn’t help but notice that he was roughly half as sweaty as she was, making her feel foolish for trying so hard, for getting so worked up about a dumb game that obviously meant nothing. She’d been tricked, she realized, duped into showing how much she cared. A winner, and yet, somehow, in a more important way, a loser, too.

• • •

Jude took Charlie to the café for a victory lunch. She was looking forward to spending time with him in a way that didn’t involve standing seventy-eight feet apart and slugging a little yellow ball back and forth. Consequently, she was less than delighted when she saw Cybill sitting at a table by the bay window, staring down at her iPhone, looking fresh and clean and pretty in a pink cap-sleeved polo shirt and a pleated white miniskirt that showed off her long, high-crossed legs. Charlie felt like more of a disheveled mess than ever.