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And not just because of the potential murder.

Let me set the scene:

We’re halfway into the first set. The cast and crew are into it—cheering and waving these little placards on popsicle sticks of Fred and Emma’s faces that got passed out by Shawna. Some friendly wagers are going on, too—a few twenties changing hands over who’s going to come out on top—and you can tell who’s gambling by the groans and cheers depending on who wins a point. The sky is mostly still clear and blue, the sunlight washed out and warm enough to be comfortable but not hot. It’s windy, and the ocean is sparkling but choppier than it was this morning, and with us in our whites, surrounded by the lush greenery, it all looks like a postcard.

Which should make you feel like something bad is about to happen.

You’d be right about that.

We’re tied at three games apiece. Only the score really should be 5–1 for Oliver and me. But Connor, out of some perverse pleasure of his own, which he’s calling “being kind to the newlyweds,” keeps ruling against us. Every ball that touches a line is out. Serves that are clearly in the box are out, too. Oliver and I have to make our winning so obvious he can’t call the game against us. Which is hard while the wind is swirling the ball around every time I toss it up to serve, but not as hard as Connor’s making it.

And while I’m frustrated and upset—which I assume is the point of what Connor’s doing—Fred islosingit. Maybe it’s the residue of whatever happened on the dock this morning with him and Tyler, but it feels like something more than that.

That or he’s just psycho on a tennis court, like some people are behind the wheel. Which happens. And no, I don’t mean me.

Emma keeps asking him what’s wrong, but he shakes her off and tells her to focus. I’m not sure anyone else is picking up on it. They’re too busy cheering for every point like it’s a US Open night match.

All but Simone.

Shelooks like she’d rather be anywhere but here. She’s not even wearing white, just one of her director’s jumpsuits in Barbie pink with her name embroidered over her left breast.

But her attitude is nothing new. I bet she can’t wait till this whole shit show is over.

And me? Well, I just want to win this game.

So I can do my backpack kid dance in my head, of course.

Not in front of this crowd.

I mean, probably not.

“Out!” Connor yells as Oliver’s beautiful serve hits the serviceline and bounces into Fred’s chest. He adds a burst of whistle for emphasis.

“It was in!” I yell.

“Are you challenging the call?”

“Yes!”

“It was out, Eleanor,” Fred says.

I glance at Emma. She looks embarrassed. Emma was and always has been the fairest person on court. I can’t remember the number of times she overruled my line calls if she thought there was any chance the ball was in during our matches.

Oh, wait. Yes, I can.

Every. Single. Time.

ANYWAY.

“What do you think, Emma?”

She struggles, but she can’t bring herself to lie. “It was in, hon.”

“It was out.”

“I was looking right at the line...”

Connor blows his whistle again. “I saw it out.”