She's back ~ L. Hamilton

108. | I Know What I Need To Do

I see my own face on the television. Some reporter is standing in front of the screen, reporting "Marco Riccardo, Famed coach and uncle to Delaney Ricciardo has passed away. It's still unknown as to the cause of his death. Marco was not with his niece at Wimbledon over the summer, which was immediately noticed as the pair are well known for always being together, after Wimbledon speculation grew around Marcos health and if it was the reason for his absence. But he was expected to be with Delaney in New York for the US Open, which kicks off in just over a week"

Lewis tells me later that the remote I there lodged itself in the tv.

In the paper, they print a picture of him when he was in his thirties at the French Open. He looks young and handsome in his polo shirt and panama hat. He would have loved it. I try to tear it out of the paper to save it, but I accidentally rip it.

At some point, lewis gets in bed and holds me. He makes me smoothies every morning. He always gives me the wrong type of straw, but I don't know how to tell him without screaming at him and I don't want to scream at him.

Later on, I ask him if I should drop out of the US Open, and he simply tells me I already know the answer, but he's wrong, I don't.

I really fucking don't.

The following day Lewis comes in to tell me I'm scheduled to play Remi Dokavoc in the first round in New York.

I can hear my uncles voice 'Sí, fantastico! You can woop her ass Del"

I turn to see him, but he's not there.

Just an empty chair.

The phone rings as I am lying in bed, and I don't answer it.

But I can tell by the way the ringing stops that Lewis has picked it up.

He comes in a few moments later.

"It's Nicki" he says "Laney"

"I don't want to talk to her" I say.

But then I take the phone from his hand anyway.

"Hi"

"I'm so sorry, Delaney" Nicki says.

"Thank you"

"Listen, I want to tell you something... If you don't play the US Open, I will consider bowing out as well"

I can't quite process the rest of what she's saying until she adds "Just let me know what you're thinking. I want it to be a clean win. I want a fair fight"

"Honestly, Nicki," I say, "it just doesn't matter very much." Nicki laughs, like I am making a joke.

My first moment of clarity is the next day - when I finally work up the guts to go into my uncles house. Regardless of the fact it's only a couple of metres away from my own, I haven't stepped food inside since I found him.

I hesitate at the front door, my fingers tightening around the cold brass knob. The key turned too easily in the lock, like the house hadn't caught up to the fact that he was gone.

I should've come sooner.

The thought gnaws at me as I finally push the door open. The hinges groan, the air is stale, but the scent is still there—leather, a hint of cigar smoke and the lemon cleaner he swore by. I breathe it in, half-expecting to hear his voice calling from the living room, some comment about my backhand or a bad line call in a match he watched last week. But the house is silent.

The familiar combination hits me so fast, so hard, that I have to stop. Just for a second.

I close my eyes and listen.