Serve

by C.W. Farnsworth

I’ve learned people will think what they like and there isn’t much you can do about it. But, God, do I get sick of it.

“You’re not pretty.” The words are out before I’ve thought them through. Before I’ve considered how they’ll sound. “Way to kick a girl when she’s down, Ethan.” Georgie scoffs. I can’t leave things like that, so I continue. “You’re more than pretty. Like sunshine. It hurts to look at you.” I’m not sure if she grasps what I’m really saying. That it hurts me to look at her. That she makes me want things I shouldn’t—desires that jeopardize what I’ve worked hard to achieve.

I stare at her. Trace the features that I could probably paint from memory. The slope of her nose and the curve of her cheek. The one strand of hair that still bears a trace of lavender. The faint, half moon-shaped scar on the left side of her chin. I stare, and I wonder. Is this what falling in love feels like?

Do you keep falling, after you acknowledge you love someone? Is it a slow tumble or a fast cascade? Can love change or is it always tied to the moment you first acknowledge it? I don’t know. But Ethan keeps humming my favorite song. And I realize: I’m completely and totally, utterly screwed.

That’s mainly what I associate love with—losing. And not just in tennis.

My mom has always said she knew—when she met my dad. Knew they had something special that couldn’t be replicated with other people. The sort of magic that some people never find. I glance at Georgie, flushed and smiling beside me. And I think, I know.