Issuu

She needs to score. But is he serving trouble?

ILANA LONG

Pickle Perfect PENGUIN BOOKS

Ilana Long first heard about pickleball when her sporty friend confessed that she was addicted to a game that was “like Ping-Pong but standing on the table.” Shortly after, Long joined the pickleball craze despite her utter lack of hand-eye coordination. A standup and sketch comedy writer and actor, Long studied improv and performed at the Second City in Chicago. She is the author of her debut romantic comedy, Pickleballers; and the picture book Ziggy’s Big Idea; and her essays appear in multiple books in the Chicken Soup for the Soul series.

Praise for

PICKLEBALLERS

“Pickleballers delivers the ultimate serve . . . a fun new rom-com that will defi nitely have you hitting the court ASAP as you follow along with Meg’s new journey in the sport that comes with some unexpected game (and life) changing experience.” — Cosmopolitan

“Flirty fun.”

— Good Housekeeping

“Like a perfectly executed third shot drop, Ilana Long’s Pickleballers is a delightful banter-fi lled rom- com sure to plink all the heartstrings as the adorable heroine and a swoon-worthy hero navigate love and life both on and oﬀ the court. Highly recommend!”

—New York Times bestselling author Jenn McKinlay

“A funny, feel-good adventure you won’t want to miss.”

—Kirkus Reviews (starred review)

“This spirited and well-plotted rom-com sparkles. . . . Readers won’t have to be fans of the sport to appreciate this charming love story— but Long’s irresistible descriptions of gameplay may inspire newcomers to take to the court themselves.”

—Publishers Weekly

“An amusing read, full of puns and situational comedy.”

—Library Journal

“Pickleball history and lore, as well as nuances of the game, ﬂesh out this amusing, ﬂ irty rom- com. With a background in stand-up and sketch comedy at Second City in Chicago, Long serves up witty volleys of banter and clever plot twists that play out with winning aplomb.” —Shelf Awareness

“There are a lot of pickleball fans out there, and this sexy romance is sure to please them.” —Booklist

Pickleballers

ALSO BY ILANA LONG

Pickle Perfect

ILANA LONG

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For Benji Blatt — For Marina Blatt

You shine, and you illuminate my world.

Fifteen years ago . . .

There it was again, a thunderous bonk against Lulu Gardner’s window frame. She raced to the window, threw it open, and stared incredulously at the scene out in the night. “What are you doing?”

Lulu whispered. “Did you just throw a tennis ball at my window?”

“Nope,” said the familiar, playful voice. “I hit the siding. I would never throw a ball at your window. If I even looked at that glass with my tennis arm, it would break.” Although she couldn’t see Tyler Demming’s face in the darkness, she imagined his cheeky grin. The corners of her lips lifted.

Surely her parents had heard that. If they caught Tyler out here, they would lose it. Her mom and dad were convinced that Tyler, who at twenty had just made the pro tennis circuit, was inﬂuencing Lulu to follow his lead the instant she fi nished her senior year.

And they weren’t entirely wrong to worry. Tennis was in her blood. And Tyler was in her heart. She couldn’t imagine a future without either. Throwing on her jeans and sneakers, Lulu tumbled inelegantly out of the window and into his embrace.

“A little midnight tennis?” he asked, producing a pair of rackets. “I thought we could hit it.” His lip quirked with mischief. “The

ball . . .” he explained and his eyes darted, skimming her T-shirt sans bra, “and then . . .”

“You are so bad!” She teased and thumped her palms against his chest. “Yes,” she said, decisive as ever. The sudden thrill on his face made her laugh. “To the tennis!”

Although the June day had been unseasonably warm, now the nighttime breeze nipped at her cheeks. By her second try, Lulu managed to wriggle over the chain link fence at Strawberry Hill Park. Her adrenaline pumped up with the exquisite illicitness of sneaking out of her house, breaking into the courts, and mostly, Tyler’s nearness. He tossed the rackets over, and one clattered within her reach.

“Shh! You’re going to get us caught!” She hiccupped with giddiness.

Tyler hopped the fence like his feet were made of springs. “Not around here. It’s empty,” he said. Quick- stepping in place, she warmed up while Tyler jogged over to hit the lights. The slow brightening spotlighted the courts, but on a Sunday at midnight in the boondocks of Bainbridge Island, Washington, Tyler was right. No one was likely to spot them at the deserted park. Even with it lit up like a beacon.

Lulu let her body relax as she and Tyler began to play. She felt a shift in the air, like a spell had been cast that pulled them out of time and space. While their usual play was peppered with goodnatured goading and deep-rooted competition, tonight was diﬀerent. As they hit, Lulu listened to the soft thud of the ball on the pavement as it created a musical beat. Instead of going for a win, they hit cooperatively for rhythm, for style, for unity. The ball ﬂew between them, and as it soared, she imagined it pulling an invisible thread, like the shuttle on a loom, lacing them together.

This is freedom, Lulu thought, as the hours stretched. This is

happiness. Here on the courts, her limbs behaved exactly as she wanted. She shifted with easy grace, her body a ﬂuid and changing companion to the ball’s movement. Usually when they practiced together, Tyler was her toughest opponent. But tonight, although they leapt and spun on opposite sides of the court, this was a pas de deux.

They played until their arms ached, but they did not stop until at last the ball hit the edge of Tyler’s racket and it popped up like a wild rocket. They watched their one ball sail over the fence and disappear into the dark border of trees. Smiling at each other with their rackets hanging loose against their legs, neither of them moved.

“Tired?” he asked. Above the spotlight of the courts, the velvet universe swirled around them in a vast and silent canopy.

“Not even a little.” Her skin bristled with energy.

“Me, neither.”

They turned oﬀ the overhead court lights and sat down right where they were—both of them recognizing that this year, something stronger than a tennis rivalry and deeper than friendship had blossomed between them. Something rare, and maybe something they weren’t ready for. Only the white moonlight lit their faces. Cross-legged, they faced each other, and with both hands, Lulu curled her fi ngers over his. “Are you excited?”

“Nervous. But yeah, excited,” and when he said it, twin sensations ballooned in her chest. Joy for his success; he would join the pro tennis tour in two weeks’ time. Balanced against the heaviness; she missed him already.

They lay down on the cool pavement, their heads upside down to each other’s. Her gaze took in the reﬂection of the moon glinting in his eyes. They talked and talked. About her last weeks of school. About his move from his apartment. About how to combat her

parents’ unreasonable attitude toward Lulu devoting herself to tennis after high school, and how one day they would support their own kids no matter what they wanted to do. And about how there was this girl they knew who got one of those new phones that had a selfie camera. They talked about a scrawny dog that had been found wandering the 7-Eleven parking lot and had been adopted by the economics teacher. The topics ebbed and ﬂowed, like the natural cadence of the tides surrounding their northwest island.

Lulu rolled over so she faced Tyler. For a moment, she just took him in. His dark wavy hair. His skin, pale and ﬂ awless in the moonlight. Leaning forward, her nose brushed his chin, and she kissed him, sighing when he returned the kiss, deepening it as his tongue teased her lower lip.

“You’re gonna be big. I can feel it.”

“That’s what she said,” Tyler quipped. Giggling, she rolled her eyes. “A tennis superstar.”

He laughed, low in his throat. “I hope so.”

A ﬂush of emotion caught her oﬀ guard, and she was surprised to fi nd tears pricking her eyes. She had been harboring a fear for weeks now. “You’ll forget about me.”

He hitched himself up on his elbow, his eyes searching hers. “Lu.” In his soft voice, her nickname soothed and aroused her all at once. “Forget about you? I could never. Even when I’m bigger than Federer.” He smirked at his own bravado.

Then his features stilled, and he studied her face with rare solemnity. His gaze traced her dark curls, the shock of her lashes, and her strong, straight nose. With a feathery touch, he ran a fi nger down her jawline, then slowly, slowly, over her throat, and down between her breasts. She shivered, goose bumps rising on the olive skin of her arms.

“I’m here,” he said, his fi nger poised over her heart. Gently, he

touched his palm down onto the center of her breastbone. “I’m always here for you, Lu. I promise.” Lulu absorbed the raw realness of his words as he pressed them into her heart.

She pushed him onto his back and straddled him, her lips covering his words with her absolute trust. How easy it was to give herself to Tyler Demming, the boy who promised to protect her heart. Always.

THE SERVE

OneLulu stared at her laptop, trying to will away the distractions. Behind her, Aunt Laverne muttered indecisively while she sorted the greener tomatoes into a cardboard box marked Neighbors. Below the table, Lulu’s three-year- old daughter, Zoe, was testing out a variety of animal growls while slamming a plastic dinosaur into the underside of the wooden tabletop. Add in her uncle Rooster’s clunking footsteps as he rounded up sports glasses and sunscreen for their Costa Rican pickleball vacation, and Lulu had to knock her knuckles against her forehead to keep her head in the game.

Yet there was hope on the horizon. If she powered through, she could fi nish grading this batch of assignments by three o’clock and put Zoe down for her nap. Then she could stand in the shower for at least five blissfully undisturbed minutes. Lulu’s attention drifted as she indulged in a daydream involving a closed door and nothing but quiet. Since her daughter’s birth, her fantasies had shifted from hot and steamy sex to hot and steamy showers.

“You’ve been at this for hours, sweetheart.” Laverne brushed aside Lulu’s dark, springy curls and placed a hand on her niece’s shoulder. “How ’bout a break?”

“I will. In a bit.”

Aunt Laverne tsked. “I hope at least it’s good reading material. How are the young entrepreneurs this year?”

“What they lack in academic integrity, they make up for in technology skills. Want to hear?” she asked, not waiting for the response. Tilting the screen, she read from her laptop. “ ‘In this plan, I will estimate revenue based on indexed market research and recumbent pricing strategies.’ ”

“What kind of gibberish is that?” Rooster called from the stepladder in the pantry.

“My Intro to Business class. They have to build a marketing plan and tell me the best way to pull an audience to their brand. I’m going to go out on a limb here and guess that this one was not written by a ninth grader.” With only one week until spring break, and with the end of the school year on the horizon, her students were tossing blind, ninety-nine-yard Hail Mary passes with every assignment.

“Probably the kid’s parents wrote it,” Rooster said. “Or they copied the paper from a webline.”

“More likely, the kid’s AI generator wrote it. And it’s online. Or website. There’s no webline.”

“Ought to be.” Sighing, he climbed oﬀ the stepladder. “I give up. Has anyone seen my spare pickleball paddle?”

“Did you check the car?” Laverne asked. “I think I saw your pickleball bag in the trunk.”

“The car?!” Rooster asked, his brow dipping with skepticism. “Why would I put my pickleball paddle in the car?” A hand injury had stymied Rooster’s hopes to play with his partner, Meg, in the high- stakes Picklesmash tournament three years ago, but since then, he had been making up for lost time. And now, with an allinclusive pickleball vacation less than three days away, he was downright exuberant. Lulu hadn’t seen Rooster this excited about something since Zoe’s birth.

She adjusted her laptop to align it with the angle of the tabletop while Rooster lumbered oﬀ to the garage. She clicked open her assignment instructions and reread the example she had posted for her students.

“Oh shoot,” she muttered to herself. Instead of writing “servicing the public sector,” she had written “servicing the pubic sector.”

Massaging her scalp, Lulu consoled herself with the fact that she was, likely, the only one who actually read the instructions.

Still, Lulu pushed through. The grading and the meetings and all the outside- of-instruction-time minutiae were totally worth it for the rewards. Lulu loved the perfect balance and empowerment of teaching and learning. She thrilled when her lessons clicked, and she could see the results when a single student’s face lit up with an “aha” moment. Sharing her own excitement with her students felt like a way to reclaim the energy that sometimes waned in the wake of single parenting . . . and adulting in general.

Wistfully, she glimpsed the bag of pickleballs that would probably push her uncle’s suitcase into the realm of oversized luggage. Rooster’s pickleball enthusiasm reminded her of her own fi re, that vibrant readiness she had once felt with a racket in her hand. Once in a while, she still sensed that longing around the fringes of her tangible memory, like it was only last week and not fifteen years ago— when the pleasure of placing the right tennis shot was a win in itself, and back when she had every intention of playing professionally. In fact, until her parents’ death in a car accident at the end of her senior year, Lulu had designed a precise trajectory to guarantee her success.

Now, Lulu was struck with the irony. She taught her students to build business plans but had put her own future on the back burner. Getting Zoe down for a nap and taking a quiet shower was about as far into the future as Lulu could schedule. And the shower would be a stretch.

“What do you think?” Waving a head of broccoli, Laverne swooped into Lulu’s line of vision. “Does it last ten days? Or should I put it in the box for the neighbors?”

“Please just leave it in the fridge,” she said, pulling some patience in through her nose. “When you’re gone, Zoe and I will sit at this table and do nothing but eat broccoli.” It was the least she could do. After all, even though she had struck out on her own for the years after college, moving back into her aunt Laverne and uncle Rooster’s home with her infant daughter three years ago was the life raft keeping Lulu aﬂoat. With her parents gone, Laverne and Rooster were not only Lulu’s godparents, but they had adopted the role of Zoe’s grandparents, too.

Yet why, Lulu wondered, did there have to be so much lastminute vacation preparation? Why not just buy less groceries if they knew they were going on a trip? And keep an itemized, alphabetized packing list for warm- and cold-weather vacations and a photo catalog of outfits for each day. That’s what she would do—if she ever went anywhere exciting. Besides the shower.

And for an instant, she let her mind whisk itself away on a fantasy. One of these days, she promised herself, she would get away to a tropical beach or a mountain retreat for some self- care time. She just wanted to wait until Zoe was fully potty-trained. And into a solid university program.

“Found it!” Rooster said, coming back into the kitchen as he smacked the paddle at an invisible ball. “My paddle was in the car! Can you believe it?”

Beneath the table, Zoe tugged on Lulu’s shirttail. “Lookit, Mommy. Mr. T likes jelly. Just like me and Papu.” She oﬀered her mom the plastic tyrannosaurus, coated with purple goop.

Lulu plucked the sticky dinosaur from her daughter’s fi ngers.

Clearly, Rooster did not understand that sugar was akin to toddler jet- engine fuel.

“Zoe, honey?” she asked, knowing the answer. “Are you feeling ready for your nap?”

“Nope.” The three-year- old sighed sadly, like a fi fty-year- old boss who was going to have to let go of a long- time employee. “No nap.”

Lulu shut her eyes a moment and exhaled. No nap, she reminded herself, is not a global crisis.

Hearing her niece’s sigh, Laverne stepped away from the fridge to rub comforting circles onto Lulu’s back. She nodded to the business plans on Lulu’s laptop. “How ’bout some help with your grading?”

Lulu paused, tempted. Aunt Laverne, now retired from her long career as a successful playwright and stage actress, did have a keen eye for language. “I could pre-read them for you,” Laverne suggested. “Take the pressure oﬀ. Then you can slap on a grade after I’m done.”

There would be no grade-slapping. “No, thanks. I got this.”

Eyeing her niece, Laverne pulled up a chair and hunched into Lulu’s personal-space bubble. “Let me try. Just show me one.”

Knowing her aunt’s stamina for tenacity, Lulu conceded. “Fine.”

Scooting her chair out of the mix to make way for the hostile takeover of her laptop, she said, “Skim it, then read it, then click on the student’s name, then you can write a comment. Or you can push this button here to record a comment, and I’ll score it later. The essential question is, What techniques attract a consumer to a product?”

Laverne’s eyes glazed over. “You lost me at skim it. But I’ll figure it out.” Peering at the screen, the older woman mumbled to herself

as she looked over the writing until fi nally she barked out a laugh. In her theatrical voice, she read, “ ‘I would market my car wash business by helping people see how dirty their cars are. One thing I could do would be to use my fi nger to write Wash Me on the teachers’ cars .’ ” Laverne shot Lulu a look of wry surprise. “ ‘And if I’m still not earning enough money, I bet I can figure out a way to make the cars dirtier.’ ”

Lulu shrugged. “Welcome to my world.” Yes, this was the sort of reading material that had already sucked away seven school years’ worth of her weekends. But the grading had to be done, and it was kind of nice that someone else could commiserate for once.

“If you want to give it a try, you can make a comment,” Lulu offered. “Type it into this comments box. Or just record with the microphone. What advice do you have for . . .”— she read the header—“Carson Manning?”

“Well.” Pursing her lips, Laverne turned back to the screen. “It’s not very good.”

“You can’t say that. These are fourteen-year- olds. You have to say something encouraging.”

Laverne bent over the laptop, clicked on the microphone, and said, “Good work. A-plus.”

Carson Manning’s name turned green. A little “read” checkmark appeared with a ping.

“O-kay.” Lulu pinched the bridge of her nose. “You just sent that.” Carson Manning was probably jumping up and down on his bed or texting his classmates about his fi rst A ever. “I better take back the wheel.”

“One more. Let me try one more.” Laverne fiddled with the mouse, scrolling through the student names and checking and unchecking boxes.

“You don’t have to do all that. Just click on another student.

Here.” Lulu reached over and pointed the cursor on Kavya Bhatt’s responses. “Try Kavya. She writes well.”

From under the table, Zoe murmured, “I need to go potty.”

“One sec, sweetie.”

A light thunk sounded from beneath them, followed by several seconds of silence while Zoe waited for some kind of validating reaction. Then the toddler struck up a piercing wail.

Nipping back into the kitchen from, well, who knew where— Lulu had long since given up guessing how her uncle always seemed to be at the ready—Rooster found his granddaughter and ducked his head beneath the table. “I gotcha. Papu’s gotcha.”

“Oh, this student’s answer is much better than the other one,” Laverne said, invested in Kavya’s business plan. “Listen to this.” She read, “ ‘There are many ways to attract consumers to products, but traditional advertising is not always the solution. Sometimes, stirring up bad press is a great way to get attention from your target audience. Like how “The Rocket” got himself kicked oﬀ the pickleball pro tour. On purpose, if you ask me. And now, everybody’s talking about his brand .’ ” Laverne squinted. “The Rocket?”

“The Rocket?” Rooster set his granddaughter on her feet. “Whoo, boy. She’s got that right. Everybody’s talking about Tyler ‘The Rocket’ Demming.”

At the mention of Tyler’s name, Lulu’s head snapped up. She shot her uncle a startled look. Rooster guﬀawed. “You didn’t hear about that? Tyler Demming. Your old tennis team friend, right? Hold on. Let me fi nd it.”

“Rooster . . .” Laverne warned, shooting her husband a meaningful look. “I don’t think Lulu wants to see that.”

But Rooster had already pulled up the video and pressed the phone into Lulu’s palm. Heart jackhammering, Lulu’s mouth dropped open as she watched the action on the little screen.

There was Tyler Demming in all his long-haired, tatted-up glory. Just as handsome, maybe even more so than when she’d last seen him in the ﬂesh fi fteen years ago. Just as dreamy as the night when they’d lain on the cool pavement of the moonlit court and he had promised to never break her heart—and then instead went and crushed it to smithereens.

Sure, she had caught glimpses of him in the media over the years. During the hype about his switch from tennis to pickleball and his subsequent rise to glory on the small court, it seemed Tyler Demming was everywhere. Lulu would be going about her day when his famous physique would pop up online, advertising men’s cologne and boxer briefs and teeth whitener. Or gracing the cover of the sports section of the Seattle Times when he took gold at pickleball nationals. Or in those static images in tabloids at the supermarket checkout line, where she learned that the player had fi nally settled down and married the foxy sports commentator Sapphire Roe.

At that last thought, the residue of a thing she refused to call jealousy ﬂ itted through her brain. She pressed her lips into a thin line.

Now, as Tyler “The Rocket” Demming smirked at the camera in living, moving color, her nerves began to whistle. Fifteen years had almost been long enough for her to get over her mixed feelings for him, a push-pull that felt like it was breaking her apart. But the sensory reverberations still clung to her.

Tyler’s muscles glistened with a sexy sheen of recent exercise, and he beamed with his annoyingly charismatic grin. “Winner, winner!” Tyler crowed as he pulled several paddles from his bag. Laying the paddles on the pavement, he took his time swaddling the handles in cotton bandages. The video caption scrolled. Wildman Tyler “The Rocket” Demming Takes Gold but Gets Tossed Oﬀ Tour. “Unbelievable.” Lulu shook her head in disgust. Of course he

would go ahead and throw away a golden opportunity. Talk about on-brand.

“Just watch,” Rooster crowed, still absorbed in the video. “It’s a doozy.”

“Rooster. Turn that racket oﬀ,” Laverne urged, but by now, both Lulu and Rooster were hypnotized by the action.

Lulu glared at the screen in disbelief as Tyler, a mischievous gleam in his eyes, held the paddle heads and took a lighter to the wrapped handles. Whooping with glee, the pro player began juggling the ﬂ aming pickle paddles. Mid-toss, he called out, “This is for you. You know who you are!” He beamed and shouted, “And now, the spin maneuver!”

Lulu scolded the part of her brain that wanted to stare, not at the spectacle, but at his sculpted limbs and ﬂuid athleticism. Because she was over him. Enough of her precious months had been wasted pining over that lost love. Tyler Demming was nothing more than a pinching reminder of a diﬃcult time.

But just look at him. Look at him! If ever she needed a reminder of Tyler Demming’s ﬂ aws, it was right there in front of her. In that full-of-himself, overconfident, bullshit artist with the tattoos drawing her attention to his glistening, muscled biceps. Dammit!

His skin had been untouched when they were together. Now tattoos moved with each ﬂex of his perfectly conditioned muscles. Yep. He was still hotter than a baked potato thrown in a hot- oil fryer and then nuked in the microwave.

Lulu swallowed hard. “Idiot,” she mumbled.

“Idiot,” Zoe parroted from somewhere near the refrigerator and then added, “Look! I pottied all by myself.”

“Code yellow. Code yellow,” Rooster called.

But Lulu could not take her eyes oﬀ the miniature screen. Paddles a-ﬂyin’, Tyler executed a 360. Mid-twirl, he glanced up at the

windmilling fl ames, shrieked, and jumped backward without catching a single one. Noisily, the paddles scattered across the pavement, where they sparked and smoldered—all except one, which flew onto the straw- colored grass of the empty spectator area. The spark caught, and in seconds the fl ame rolled across the dry grass. Another caption rolled. Demming Charged with Reckless Endangerment and Destruction of Property. Whoever was holding the camera yelped, and when the video righted itself, Tyler was aiming the lens at himself. “I promised that if I won gold, I’d juggle fi re. And I keep my promises.”

Rooster chuckled, and the reel started again. Lulu felt her hands curl into fi sts. Tyler Demming. Lighting the paddles. Juggling them. Setting the field on fi re. Again with his swagger, his smugness, those damned taut buttocks.

Her head swam with the fury and disappointment that she had managed to keep at bay for fi fteen years. But now, here was Tyler Demming butting into her life again when she was simply minding her own business. Lulu watched, her attention trapped in the looping video, fi nding the whole spectacle seriously triggering. Because there was no deeper betrayal, Lulu thought, than to draw in your rival, seduce her, then disappear in her moment of need without looking back.

Beneath the video, she caught a glimpse of the fi nal caption. The Rocket Keeps His Promises.

Lulu’s eyes narrowed to slits and her back teeth clamped together. Forget about him, she told herself. Take ten calming breaths. One. Two . . . okay. Screw that. She may be over him now, but Tyler Demming had been the crush and the curse of a lifetime. And right now, the curse had returned with a vengeance.

Her voice erupted like years of contained lava. “Keeps his promises! Ha!”

Wrath lifted her to her feet, but a rush of dizziness threw oﬀ her footing. Still, her tirade continued, even as she threw out her hands to steady herself. Even as she fell toward the keyboard that would seal her fate.

Even as the heel of her palm landed on the record button. Her voice had reached a venomous peak. “Are you fucking kidding me?!” Lulu fumed. “That is the biggest load of bullshit I have read in my life.”

Ping, went her laptop. On her screen 153 check marks rippled down the line.

Message sent to all students.

Two

In the vast and humming galaxy, the winds died. The oceans stilled and birds plummeted from the skies. Fussing babies hushed midwail. Basketballs froze, hanging on the rims. The world skidded to a halt: a still and silent ball of blue. An “oh shit” moment if there ever was one.

Then Lulu’s phone began to ring. Soberly, she cradled her cell and dragged herself into Zoe’s room for privacy.

Now the shower was really out of the question.

For the next twenty minutes, in a cascade of contrition, Lulu backpedaled and apologized and agreed that typed comments would have been a better choice. But in the end, she returned to the kitchen, a picture of defeat.

“Well,” she said, after plunking into the chair. She shook her head sadly at Rooster’s inquisitive expression. “The parents went all . . . Rambo: First Blood, Part One. They’re calling for my dismissal.” Lulu sighed. “At least my principal went to bat for me. So for the time being, I’m suspended. The school board will meet after the break and . . .” She slumped, feeling the hopelessness bear down on her. “Who knows when, or if, this will get cleared up?” Groaning, she dropped her head in her hands.

“Buck up, pancake.” Rooster took the seat across from her. “They didn’t say ‘fi red.’ They’re giving you time oﬀ until they come to their senses. I know you, Lulu. Hang in there and stay strong. Live by the sword, die by the sword.”

Patting her husband’s wrist, Laverne whispered, “I don’t think that’s the saying you’re looking for, sweetheart.”

The wooden tabletop provided a cool and solid place for Lulu to lay her cheek as she counted the mistakes that led to this moment. 1. Relinquishing control of Zoe’s nap schedule. 2. Relinquishing control of her computer. 3. Getting sucked into anything having to do with Tyler “The Rocket” Demming. Yes. That was the most damning of all. As if fi fteen years hadn’t been enough to get away from that egotistical player. Somehow, some way, this was absolutely his fault.

The exhale from her solar plexus lasted a good five seconds. “I screwed everything up.”

Rooster lifted Zoe onto his knee, and she snuggled under his arm. “It’s not all so terrible. Look at this wonderful girl. She’s still smiling. Everything is just fi ne.”

Lulu pinched her lips together. She couldn’t aﬀord to lose her job. How would she ever pull together the resources to get out of her aunt’s hair? Make strides to being more independent? And more importantly, how could she have allowed herself to lose her cool like that?

Oh. That’s right. Tyler Demming keeps his promises. What crap. She would have laughed if it all didn’t feel so painful. How infuriating to get one more moment’s frustration out of a guy who only existed, as far as Lulu was concerned, inside a screen no bigger than fi ve inches. Although she was pretty sure he would have claimed it was six.

Her aunt worried a napkin between her fi ngers and oﬀered Lulu a sympathetic pat on the hand. “I’m sure things will calm down. These things take time.” The irritation that had coursed through her while watching the video had dissipated, but Laverne’s soothing tone hit a reminiscent nerve, pitching Lulu back into those agonizing days after her parents’ death.

“I’m so sorry about this,” Laverne said.

“It’s not your fault,” Lulu said, an echo of her aunt’s words all those years ago.

And there she was again, as viscerally as if it were yesterday, holding hands with her aunt during the funeral service. The knuckles on the older woman’s cool hand had turned white with the effort of keeping both of them from breaking down. Yet even numb with mourning, Lulu had felt some hope as she scanned the faces at her parents’ memorial. Tyler had promised he would be there for her. Surely, he was standing with the throng in the back. Maybe he was waiting to console her when they could have a private word at her aunt’s house . . .

But Tyler never showed.

And he never showed when Laverne helped Lulu pack up her bedroom and moved in with her aunt. He wasn’t there when she had to sell her family’s house and fi ll out two years’ worth of university deferral forms. He wasn’t there when she gave up on tennis and turned her back on her future.

And that was when Lulu Gardner decided enough was enough. Tyler Demming only cared about Tyler Demming, and once Lulu recognized that fact, she also understood that going forward, she would be her own backup plan.

Rooster pressed on. “Think of this as an opportunity. Success is about harnessing tomorrow’s potential, and, Lulu, you got potential.”

Potential. Whatever that meant. Potentially, she might lose her job. Potentially, she might spend the rest of her thirties in orange overalls and handcuffs after hunting down Tyler and fl inging a fl ipping fl aming paddle at him.

Determined, Lulu rallied. Nobody knew how to take action better than a woman raising a toddler on her own. With a forceful shake of her head, Lulu stood, physically lifting herself out of her mood. “You’re right. I am going to fi x this,” she said, already planning out a letter to the school board.

Laverne placed a hand on her niece’s elbow.

Lulu caught the look that passed between her aunt and uncle. The pair were known to have entire eye conversations with subtitles only they could read. And it occurred to Lulu that they were in cahoots. Cahoots was never good. The last time Rooster and Laverne teamed up to “help” Lulu, she ended up with a car bought at auction that sported a giant business sticker on the door for Gooey’s Pizza. At stoplights, people would roll down their windows and ask for a thick crust with pepperoni.

“I saw that look,” she said. “And I’m fi ne.”

Rooster cuddled Zoe closer. Yawning, the little girl burrowed into her papu’s shoulder and shut her eyes. Now she naps, Lulu thought. “You know,” Rooster said. “This might be an opportunity. Here’s a chance for you to take a step back.”

Laverne pitched in. “You could recharge. Do something diﬀerent. Remember how you loved tennis?” her aunt asked. “You could get back into that.” And for a second, Lulu felt that tingling possibility. The hope that she could fi nd a kernel of satisfaction on the court again. Work her way up to joy.

“Or go on a date,” Rooster added.

Nope. Tingle oﬃcially shot to hell.

And yet. It was true that parenting and teaching and basi-

cally being an icon of organization had become the focus of Lulu’s existence. All that responsibility and stress was a lot, and maybe that definition of adulting wasn’t working for her anymore. Her aunt’s and uncle’s words had touched a nerve, and already she could feel their influence wriggling into the back of her brain.

She looked at the relaxed face of her sleeping child and a powerful and unexpected sentiment hit her. That. That is what I want. No job hanging by a thread. No more code yellow or cleanup on aisle three. If only grown-ups could have a brief and refreshing life nap. Total abdication of responsibility. Absolute and unequivocal relief from the burden of being the one in charge. All. The. Time.

Or . . . She spotted Rooster’s suitcase near the door.

A reset. Yes, she thought, sensing the approach of a very good idea; what she needed was a body and mind revitalizing jump-start. Something to help her leave the past in the past and move forward. A comfort-zone-shaking, perception-shifting, mood-lifting experience. And she knew exactly what sort of adventure would fi ll that need.

Her brain pitched in, perking up and rallying with optimism. As if cuing a reel, her imagination delivered a snazzy Me-Time montage.

Lulu swinging a paddle. Lulu lounging by the pool. Lulu watching Zoe build sandcastles. Lulu, with the sand and the sun and the satisfaction of playing a sport she knew she could ace. Lulu, without any chance of Tyler Demming popping up on a computer screen, pinging her about the past, and ruining everything with his enormous ego and his enormous . . . no. She would not think about that. Stop. Stop. Hard stop.

Lulu, simply enjoying life. In paradise. Dammit.

She glanced at the glossy resort brochure she hadn’t noticed before on the kitchen table and leaned into the idea full tilt.

“What would you think about bringing me and Zoe on your Costa Rican pickleball vacation?”

Rooster smirked at Laverne. Those two were totally in cahoots.