Theo waves off her concern but avoids eye contact. “Of course it’s okay.” He inspects his paddle, hitting it against the palm of his hand as if to make sure it won’t spontaneously combust.
“I just couldn’t stay away from my little friend!” Rose pokes him teasingly in the stomach, and her tone makes Theo smile, and then all at once, everything is normal again.
We practice dinking first. I have to bend down in order to get my paddle low enough on the ball. It’s strange getting used to how light the ball is. Every time I go to hit a ground stroke, it flies out of bounds.
For this reason, Theo has taken to calling me “Muscles.”
“Hey, Muscles!” he calls out. “Take your aggression out elsewhere.”
Or, “Hey, Muscles! A little too much strength behind that one.”
This makes Rose laugh, a lot. Admittedly, it makes me laugh, too.
He’s a good teacher, patient and engaging. I can immediately see why he’s in high demand at the club. He makes it fun, inventing silly games and showing overexaggerated enthusiasm whenever one of us hits a good shot. At one point, he tries to lift Rose into the air after her overhead lands directly on the baseline. “We’ve got ourselves a WINNER!” he screams, running in circles around her.
A foursome two courts down looks up, startled.
It’s also amusing to see how he dresses when he’s not on the job: neither in his bartender getup nor his tennis whites. Today he’s wearing what look to be jean shorts and a white T-shirt with green writing that says, “Sweet Pickle Books: New York’s Best Pickle Bookstore.”
When I ask him about the ensemble, he’s eager to explain.
“These shorts took me forever to find,” Theo says. “They’re almost exactly like the Nike jorts Andre Agassi wore to the 1988 US Open. But these are a fake denim printed on athletic shorts, so they don’t chafe.” He winks again. I’m starting to wonder if the winks are meaningless, almost a reflex, or perhaps even a twitch.
About the shirt, he says it’s his favorite bookstore in New York.
“And I thought it fit the theme because we’re playing pickleball today. Get it?” He gestures back and forth between the shirt and the pickleball paddle, emphasizing the connection in case we didn’t get it at first.
“You are such an odd boy,” Rose responds, shaking her head with amusement.
After the hour is up, we sit for a break on a bench in the shade. Rose checks her phone, pulling it out of a crowded beach bag amidst a sea of lip balms and old receipts.
“Shoot!” she says. “Client emergency, I have to leave now. Sorry, guys. Lily, any chance you can get a ride home from Theo?”
He nods eagerly. “Oh yeah. It’s no problem.”
Rose turns to him before running off. “Thank you for everything, Theo. You’re a delight.” He waves her off with a salute as she hurries to the car.
In the wake of her absence, there’s a shift in atmosphere, an intensity. I tighten my ponytail and take a long drag of water. Theo and I have been hanging out during every shift at the club. He’ll come by every hour and chat for a few minutes or offer to help me with one of the front desk tasks during his break. He’s already become a friend, but still, it feels different seeing him outside of work.
“So, you invited your mom on our first date,” he says. He bounces his left knee, shaking the entire bench. “I’ve got to say, still not one of my worst first dates. What does that say about me?”
His tone is light, but I feel a squeezing sensation in my temples, like I’ve been stuffed in a vacuum. When will I stop letting everyone down?
“I didn’t think you were being serious about that. I’m sorry.” I try to look him directly in the eyes but he’s squinting toward the sun, just behind my back. “If I had thought it was a date, I wouldn’t have brought her.”
“Nah, I was just joking,” says Theo, playfully punching my arm. “We’re pals, right? Coworkers and now pickleball legends.”
He lifts his arms in the air, interlacing his fingers and cracking his neck. Afterward, he shakes them loose.
There was a part of me that hoped behind all the jokes was something real. And today, seeing how much my mom enjoys him, it had all felt so natural and easy—more than anything in my life has felt lately. But then I think about Emily, their casual closeness. Maybe she’s the one he likes, or maybe he’s this flirty with everyone and I’m a fool for thinking there’s more behind it. Besides, I’m in no emotional shape to date. It would only complicate everything.
I stand and start to stretch for something to do. “Right,” I say, not looking at him. “We’re ‘little friends.’?” The callback makes him chuckle. “Anyway, I should be getting home. I have some work to do. Would you mind driving me?”
“Work to do?” he asks. Am I imagining it, or is there a note of disappointment?
“Yeah,” I respond. “I’ve been getting back into drawing. I went on a walk earlier with my camera, and for the first time in a while, I felt inspired. I want to do some sketching this afternoon and follow up on some more emails inquiring about job openings.”
In the two and a half weeks since I’ve been back on island, I’ve developed a new schedule: I get up before work and paint. Or I draw. Or I go for a walk and take photographs to paint later. The medium doesn’t matter, the point is I’m back in the mood to create. It’s a tremendous transformation.
