Girls in Love

by Hailey Abbott

  “Wait,” Lily called, and started down the path after her. “Jessica, wait.”

  “What?” Jessica wheeled around and saw Lily reaching out for her.

  “Just hang on,” Lily said. “You’ve got it all wrong. Connor’s not the father.”

  Jessica’s mouth fell open. Connor’s not the father?

  “The dad is a guy from my history class,” Lily went on, her voice now flat. “Andy Marcus. He’s a total wannabe frat guy jerk, and I can’t believe I was stupid enough to fall for him. He can’t even spell, Jessica, and I thought I loved him.” She shook her head at the memory, or maybe at her own foolishness. “He won’t even talk to me now. He says the kid’s not his, even though he’s the only guy I ever slept with. And so Connor, who has been one of my best friends since we were six, told me that he would help me out however he could.” She turned to Jessica and looked her in the eye. “That’s it,” she said firmly. “He’s just being a good friend, because that’s the kind of guy he is. He loves you, Jessica, not me.”

  Jessica hardly knew what to say. There were so many emotions coursing through her—surprise, relief, happiness, pity—that she felt like she might be going temporarily crazy.

  “Let’s take a walk,” Lily said, and Jessica, not knowing what else to do, fell in step beside her. They strolled down the quiet road as tiny white butterflies danced in the wildflowers on either side of them.

  Lily reached over to the road’s shoulder and plucked a pretty blue flower and tucked it behind her ear. Jessica noticed in that moment how beautiful she was. “I told Connor not to tell anyone,” Lily explained softly. “For a long time he was the only person who knew. Until that party, and then suddenly a lot of people knew.”

  “I’m really sorry about that,” Jessica managed to get out. Her mind was filled with thoughts of Connor—she should have known he’d never betray her like that. No wonder he’d been so furious with her. She felt like bursting into tears. For her, for Connor, for Lily.

  Lily shrugged. “Well, my parents needed to know sometime,” she admitted. “You just sort of speeded up the process.”

  Jessica smiled ruefully. That was certainly a generous way of looking at it. “Did I ever,” she agreed.

  They walked a little farther down the road, and in the distance Jessica could see the buildings of downtown Pebble Beach, with their brightly colored storefronts and their cheerful signs.

  “This is a nice place to raise a kid,” she offered shyly.

  Lily nodded. “That’s what I tell myself,” she said. She put her hands on her belly. “I’m scared, though. I mean, terrified.”

  Jessica put her arm around Lily’s thin shoulders. “I’m sure it’s scary,” she whispered.

  Jessica watched as a single tear slid down Lily’s freckled cheek. “This never should have happened,” Lily said. “But it did. And so I just have to go on. My parents will help me, too, even though they’re still pretty upset.”

  “You’re going to be okay,” Jessica said.

  Lily wiped the tear away fiercely. “I know. Eventually it will all be fine. In about twenty years.” She laughed humor-lessly. “But you know what? Despite all of it, I think I love the baby already.”

  You’d better, Jessica thought grimly. Because babies are no freaking picnic. “You’ll be a great mom,” she assured Lily. “I just know it.”

  To her surprise, Jessica felt herself reaching out to give Lily a warm hug. Lily hugged her back, and Jessica understood why Connor was such a good friend to Lily. She was a special person.

  And so was Connor.

  And now she’d pushed him away.

  After saying good-bye to Lily, Jessica turned and set off, determined to remedy that.

  28

  “Thirty-love,” barked the umpire at the Pebble Beach Athletic Club’s annual Mother-Daughter Tennis Tournament. The aging amplifiers gave a hiss and a squawk as he cleared his throat. “Serving for the Pebble Beach Princesses is Monica Milner of Greenwich, Connecticut.”

  Greer wiped the sweat from her brow and stifled the string of curses she felt like uttering. Even after a summer of lessons, she still didn’t understand tennis scoring—why did they use the term “love” anyway, instead of simply saying “zero”? And how many games were in a set, and how many sets in a match?

  Of course, she didn’t need to know the answers to these questions to know that she and her mother were seriously losing to Monica Milner and her daughter, Madeline.

  And surprisingly, it wasn’t even her mother’s fault. Cassandra had begun the summer a poor player: She’d been more interested in flirting with Hunter and making catty remarks about Monica, the woman who wintered in Aspen instead of Gstaad and wore diamonds so blingy she looked like a white, female version of P. Diddy. She’d also had a terrible serve and a short attention span, so that every time Hunter tried to explain the physics of the tennis serve—believing, perhaps mistakenly, that this would help her master it—she’d end up spacing out completely and then asking him who he thought was a better player, Rafael Nadal or Roger Federer. (Cassandra preferred the former because she thought he was cuter.)

  But thanks to Hunter’s patient and knowledgeable tute-lage, Cassandra Hallsey had blossomed into a reasonably decent player. Her serve was more than adequate, and, given the chance to use it, she had a wicked overhead smash.

  It was Greer who was screwing everything up, even though she was better at the game. In fact, she was a natural athlete, but (a) she wouldn’t admit it, and (b) she hated sports in general and team sports especially.

  No matter how hard she tried, Greer couldn’t keep her head in the game, because she kept thinking about Hunter. Of course she’d scanned the crowd when she arrived, and she’d peered hopefully into the employees’ lounge area, but she hadn’t seen him. Which, she admitted to herself, was no surprise. Why would a guy she’d publicly accused of hitting on her mother want to watch her hit a yellow ball back and forth across a net? She could only hope that he’d gotten her letter. And that he’d read it instead of just wadding it up and tossing it into the trash. Though she had to admit, she’d understand if that was what he did.

  “Greer,” Cassandra hissed. “Snap to it, will you? That wench is going to serve it straight for your head.”

  Greer gripped her racquet with both hands and crouched down a little, preparing to return the ball. When it came spinning at her, she ran forward, extended her arm, and slammed the ball hard—right into the net.

  “Shit,” she muttered.

  Her mother stalked over to her side. “Greer,” she said firmly. “You know I love you. And so I mean what I’m going to say in the most loving possible way. If you don’t help me kick that fishwife’s ass, I’m going to hang you upside down by the ankles using my collection of Hermès scarves.” Then she pinched Greer’s cheeks and grinned. “Seriously, honey, pull it together.”

  The umpire’s voice crackled over the speaker. “Forty-love. Game point.”

  Time for a rally, Greer told herself. Come on, you can do it.

  She glanced down at the sparkling Cougars name on her shirt and tried to draw inspiration from it. If she couldn’t do it for herself, maybe she could do it for her mother, who would rather have her head shaved down to the bare skull than lose to Monica Milner. After all, one could always purchase a very nice wig—but one could not purchase a victory.

  Monica’s first serve went straight into the net and Greer felt her heart lift with hope. Serve number two came seconds later, and Greer, using all her concentration and power, dove for it.

  And missed.

  Cassandra Hallsey paced back and forth under the shade of a large maple tree. “Okay, we lost the first set. But it’s the best two out of three to win, which means we can still take them down. I can’t stand those Princesses. Did you see how that Monica was gloating? I didn’t know a face with that much Botox in it could be so expressive.”

  Greer leaned against the trunk tiredly. Yes, Monica had gloated in a very un
sportsmanlike fashion, and Madeline had given Greer the serious stink-eye. But maybe they’d earned the right to rub it in a little. After all, the Cougars hadn’t scored a single point in the last game.

  Greer rolled her ankles around, warming them up again. “It’s my fault,” she said, hearing a weird little pop in her ankle as she did so.

  Cassandra nodded. “I won’t lie to you. It is your fault. But you’re a great player, Greer. You can do this! Remember Hunter and what he taught you!”

  Greer grimaced. She was remembering Hunter all right, but it had nothing to do with tennis. She was remembering how strong his arms were, and thinking about the knowing softness of his hands. She was daydreaming about how it felt to lie next to him under the stars, feeling the rise and fall of his chest against her cheek and hearing the steady beat beat beat of his heart.

  Her mother interrupted her thoughts. “Remember, shot preparation is as important as the actual shot itself. Without good preparation, your body can’t get the power and control you need to hit a good shot.”

  Greer gazed up into the leaves of the maple as her mother droned on and on about topspin and forehand grip and net exchanges and reaction time. Cassandra had never been this passionate about anything before, unless you counted Proenza Schouler’s spring collection last year, which she said was “absolute genius and perfection.” Who knew a tennis competition could bring out such fervor in a Park Avenue matron?

  Maybe, Greer thought, this tree will fall down on my head and kill me and I won’t have to play the next game. She sort of hoped that it would.

  She was considering making a wish for a lightning strike or a tidal wave—anything to stop the tournament from continuing on—when she heard her mother squeal. Greer tore her eyes from the tree branches to see her mother scurrying away, arms outstretched, giddily running to embrace a very familiar-looking figure.

  Greer pushed herself off the tree and squinted. It couldn’t be. Was it—was that Hunter?

  She held her breath and then let it out in one great whoosh that was half relief, half nervousness. It was Hunter, wearing a PBAC baseball cap and his tennis whites, and he was coming toward her with his arm linked through her mother’s.

  She gave him a small, hopeful smile, and he returned it times ten. His blue eyes were as clear and untroubled as the summer sky.

  “You got my letter,” she whispered.

  He leaned in close to her ear and she could feel his warm breath on her neck. “Yes, but let’s talk about that later.” And then he stepped back and clapped his hands together briskly. “Ladies!” he exclaimed. “I believe we have a match to win.”

  He held out his arms to bring them into a huddle. Greer almost shivered when he touched her. She wanted him to touch her more. But she shook her head to clear her thoughts. Now was the time to focus on the game.

  “Okay,” he said confidently. “We’re going to go with an up-and-back strategy, because we want to be thinking both offensively and defensively. Greer, I want you to play at the net. Cassandra, you’re going to play baseline.”

  This time, Greer had no problem paying attention to her instructions, and when the Cougars walked onto the court for the next set, there was a spring in Greer’s step. She narrowed her eyes at her opponents, the Pebble Beach Princesses, who were looking too confident for their own good. When Greer caught Madeline glaring at her, she brought her hand up to her cheek, slyly raised her middle finger, and smiled.

  It was Greer’s turn to serve. She bounced the ball at her side, savoring the annoyed look that Madeline was now giving her. Then she threw the ball into the air, slammed it with her racquet, and watched it zing across the net to land inches from the line. It bounced up, and Madeline swung hard.

  And missed.

  Now, that was more like it, Greer thought.

  “Fifteen-love,” called the umpire, and Greer grinned. She was going to enjoy this game a lot more than the one before it.

  Her mother giggled in delight, and Greer prepared for another serve. The Cougars were going to win—she just knew it.

  And when they did, and the Pebble Beach Princesses stormed off the court in a huff, Hunter came running out to where she stood by the net and picked her up and whirled her around. She let her racquet fall to the ground as she wrapped her arms around him. When their mouths met in a passionate kiss, Greer realized that the crowd was applauding wildly.

  She wasn’t sure if they were clapping because the Cougars won, or because the coach was kissing his star player. But she didn’t care at all. She just closed her eyes and lost herself in Hunter’s forgiving embrace.

  29

  As Jessica rode by the pier on her way to Connor’s house, the bright clanking of the boats’ rigging against their masts filled her ears with what sounded like a chorus of tiny bells. Above her, the white clouds, fat as sheep, drifted lazily on the breeze.

  It was an achingly beautiful day—the kind of day that made her never want to leave this little town with its sandy roads, its rocky beaches, and its chilly, blue ocean. She passed by Izzy’s Ice Cream and the crepe shop and watched a small boy chase a ball down the sidewalk. It seemed strange to her that a town that looked so peaceful and bucolic could hold so many secrets and so much drama.

  A fisherman, his truck loaded down with the morning’s catch, drove by and blew her a loud, appreciative kiss.

  Or maybe, she reflected wryly, the town was plenty peaceful on its own—it was the Tuttles who brought the drama.

  She could only hope that a visit to Connor’s house would settle the next bit of unpleasant business of which she was a part. Lily had forgiven her, and she hoped Connor would, too. (And she hoped that she’d be feeling a little more forgiving toward Lara eventually as well.)

  She pedaled faster and tiny pearls of sweat broke out on her forehead. She was glad she’d opted for her traditional summer outfit of a tank and shorts rather than following Greer’s constant advice to dress “more like a sixteen-year-old girl, and less like a six-year-old boy.”

  She tried to decide if she was mad at Greer, too, and she came to the conclusion that yes, she was. But Jessica was by nature a forgiving person—having two older brothers who spent their entire childhoods teasing and harassing her had taught her a lot about letting bygones be bygones. The only time she’d held a grudge for more than a day was when Drew, who was then eight, pantsed her in front of the horrible, mean neighbor kid. That had been seriously humiliating, and Jessica hadn’t let Drew forget it. In fact, she could still to this day make him feel guilty just by saying, “Tommy. Underpants.” (When she was in middle school, that was how she’d gotten a lot of her pocket money.)

  Jessica began to pedal her bicycle more slowly as she neared Connor’s house. She wanted to cool down—no sense in showing up on his doorstep sweating like a professional wrestler—but she was also nervous. Just because Lily had forgiven her abominable behavior didn’t mean that Connor would. But all she could do was apologize, and then wait to see what he said.

  She knocked on his door, and then tapped her feet apprehensively. A moment later, she knocked again. When, after five minutes, she was still standing on the front porch, eye to eye with a locked door, she decided there was nothing more to do but go home. She could call him, she supposed. Or maybe she should send a text: SO SRY. WANT 2 TALK 2 U ABT US. Yeah, right—that would totally work. Not.

  As she was getting on her bike, she heard a noise behind her, and when she whirled around she saw Connor coming up the road wearing headphones and carrying his lacrosse stick under his arm.

  She stood still as he approached but waved at him hesitantly.

  “Hey,” he said quietly, removing his headphones and resting his lacrosse stick against a birch tree.

  “Doing a little practice for next season?” she asked. She hoped that if she just made a little small talk first, he’d give her the chance to apologize.

  Connor shrugged noncommittally. “That, and working off a little aggression.” The way he looked at
her told her that she was to blame for said aggression.

  Jessica nodded. So, the small talk avenue wasn’t going to work for her. Well, there was always Plan B. Plan B went like this: grovel.

  She reached for his hand, and she squeezed it as he let it lie lifelessly in her palm. “I came to apologize to you. I never, ever, ever should have jumped to that conclusion about you and Lily, and even if I had, I should have kept my big mouth shut.” She paused, bit her lip, and then continued. “I don’t want it to sound like I blame my cousin Greer, because I don’t. But I think her whole inability to trust guys might be a little contagious.” She grinned ruefully. “According to Greer, no guy is ever truly capable of staying loyal when there’s a willing girl around…”

  “I am,” Connor said, his voice grave.

  “I know,” Jessica replied. “I know. I mean, I saw that firsthand! Because it seemed really weird to me when we agreed that we were going to…you know, sleep together, and then when I tried, you made it seem like you didn’t want to. And so when I saw you with Lily, I guess I just thought to myself, ‘Oh! That’s why he won’t sleep with me. Because he already has someone.’”

  Connor shook his head as if he were disappointed in her. “Jess,” he said, and his hand tightened around hers, “you should have known that I would never do something like that to you. When I told you I loved you, I meant it.”