This was the first US Open Finals match that I'd missed since the start of my career. I saw the news of Brodie's win just like everyone else. Not from the court or the locker room but on TV. They'd been replaying highlights of the matche's best rallies and the made-for-Hollywood tearjerker of a show Brodie put on for the crowd after winning. Only Brodie Archie could make tearing up look manly and powerful. He was a superstar, a physical phenom, and a conman.

I smooth the black fabric of my dress down over my thighs before slipping into black kitten heels. I keep my long blonde hair down, tying up a small portion to prevent the waves from falling into my face. I want to look good for my brother. Strong, stable, put together. I hadn't cried yet since hearing the news. I let the anger flicker inside of me, the fire growing, the raw heat keeping any tears at bay. I apply a few swipes of mascara, re-reading Erin's last letter in my mind.

B,

I need you to know that I still love you. That I have always loved you. I want you to stop hating yourself. I forgive you for what you did. It wasn't your fault, you never had a choice. You belonged to the world, and I get that now. Let the pain go with me.

Love,

Erin

I grab my phone and keep it in 'Do Not Disturb' mode. Something about all the condolences texts, all the check-ins from people my brother and I didn't really know, just made the cut within me slice deeper. I'd known Erin for years. We'd all grown up on the court together, each of us thinking we'd someday be number one in the world, winning all the Grand Slams, breaking all the records. The only one of us who didn't fantasize about tennis greatness and fame was Brodie, the divisive but decidedly best player of all time. There was something about his relationship with tennis that was as close to resentment as it was to addiction. But Erin had always been a source of light, the airy easygoing one. Coppery shoulder length hair and freckles that perfectly dotted the bridge of her delicate nose, I always admired how pretty she was. And her prettiness was made even more pronounced by the fact that she was Brodie's girl. My brother Callan, Erin, and Brodie were all five or six years older than me, treating me like a little kid. But I was watching, picking up on the way Erin would tilt her head and laugh just a bit more excitedly at Brodie's antics. The way they were drawn to each other, darkness to light, aggression to elegance. I had a crush on Brodie back then, along with every girl and a few boys at the Florida-based tennis training camp where we all met. But Erin caught his eye and they simply belonged to each other. Well, at least until the summer he broke her for good and Callan was left cleaning up the pieces. Because that's who Callan was. The good guy. The one who kept promises, remained stoic, followed the rules.

I pick up my brother and he's someone else entirely. Dirty blonde hair unkempt, his tie hanging crookedly from his neck, I can smell the Whiskey on his breath. Callan never drinks. He is a health freak, near orthorexic when it comes to putting anything harmful in his body. But right now, I can see it in his eyes that he doesn't care. The woman he'd asked to marry him just three months ago, the woman who had said yes with a smile on her face and a ring on her finger, was gone. Right now, Callan would grieve the loss of her. The loss of the most important person in his life. But I knew once this initial grieving phase was over, he'd resent Erin for her letter, for the fact of knowing that he was always second in her eyes to a man that had treated her like trash for reasons no one seemed to understand.

"Callan, come here." I walk over to him, my voice sounding faintly like my mother's. He doesn't move toward me, but he doesn't move away either. I straighten his tie and pull a piece of mint gum from my purse. "Do you know what you're going to say?"

"Yes," Callan brushes past me toward the front door, "I'm going to say the truth. That my fiancé killed herself because the thought of marrying me and never being with him again was worse than death."

"Callan," I move quickly behind him, locking his door on the way out, "you can't say that and that's not the truth. Clearly Erin must have been struggling, maybe she had some sort of mental health issue–"

"Don't." Callan's voice is low and unstable, his red rimmed hazel eyes boring into mine. "Don't try to fix this, Mercy. This isn't something you can check off of one of your goddamn lists. This is my life, and it's fucking ruined." He slips into the passenger side door, slamming it shut and I feel a fresh wave of nausea slam into my gut. Today was going to be impossible.

When I'd attended my parent's funeral ten years ago, I'd simply been in shock. I was sixteen and Callan was twenty-two. Callan had been struggling in the pros, his reputation not quite materializing in matches. He was perfectly built, had great technique, but always seemed to be on the defensive, never quite confident enough to be the aggressor on the court. Callan was careful, reserved. He didn't like to make mistakes and that reticence cost him greatly in the big leagues. The death of my parents became the last paragraph of his professional story, a concrete digestible reason as to why this star college athlete's career hadn't translated into the success that everyone had expected. And now when I think of my two loving parents, the people who had cared for us and given us every opportunity in the world without burdening us with the pressure of our own expectations, I wonder if the death of Erin will be the true end to Callan's story in the tennis media.

The death of his parents kept him from his professional potential, unhinging him at a critical transition time. Despite this, he managed to turn himself into quite the tennis coach, bringing several young stars, like Annikin Tomka and Esther Ramirez, to greatness. But it is the premature death of his fiancé, Erin Rhodes, a top collegiate tennis star in her own right and the ex-girlfriend of tennis superstar Brodie Archer, that may mark the end of his tennis career once and for all...

Needless to say, these aren't the thoughts one should be having when someone dies: concerns for the perception of their brother's tennis career. But I want to protect him. To shield him from the assumptions and the gossip and the stories that Erin's death is already starting to drag up. I want Callan to write his own story, to be the one driving the narrative for a change.

As we file into the church, I see Erin's mother weeping deeply, her hair dyed a pale blonde but her facial features are delicate and pretty like Erin's. I remember her from the courts, picking up Erin after practice, waving kindly at Callan and me. I think Callan had always loved Erin, even then. Even before he really knew what love meant. He wanted her and she was Brodie's so it was settled. Callan was to do nothing but respect that. But that all changed when Brodie turned eighteen, went pro, and left Erin without so much as a goodbye.

I nearly hold my breath as Callan nears the front of the room, the preacher finishing up his opening statement and prayer with a large portrait of Erin on an easel beside him. It's like some sort of twisted nightmare, a dark prank that will all be over soon. When Callan opens his mouth I say a prayer of my own. I pray that he won't repeat what he said on the way over to the church. That he will choose the high road even in the most impossible of circumstances.

"Erin Rhodes was my fiancé...we were engaged to be married," Callan clears his throat and I feel the blood draining from my face, "but before she was my fiancé, and before she was my girlfriend, she was my friend. A beautiful girl I had a crush on, with a fantastic forehand and a kindness that made anyone feel at ease around her. This didn't mean that she wasn't competitive or that she didn't have fire," Callan swallows hard, his eyes tearing up, "but it simply means that she put love and compassion for others first, always. I just wish that she would have given herself that same grace, that same level of compassion and kindness. I will miss her dearly and mourn the loss of the life I'd hoped we'd have together. I love you, Erin." I felt my hand cover my mouth of its own volition, quieted tears of sadness and pride flowing over the back of my hand. Despite the grief and the impossible road of healing ahead, Callan was still Callan. A man of fortitude, consistency, and respect.

A few of Erin's family members speak before we file out of the church toward the burial site, the sky overcast and the air warm but blowing. It smells like rain, something I always loved as a young child but learned to resent in Florida because it meant that only the older kids would get to play tennis on the more limited indoor courts and the rest of us would be stuck at home, doing whatever kids who weren't hellbent on their future careers at ten years old did during a rainy afternoon. I loop my arm through my brother's, trying to provide whatever modicum of strength and support I can as we gather around Erin's casket. Callan's head is bowed, an ominous tick in his jaw that I know means he's angry, as fat silent tears slide down his face and into the fresh dirt. I glance up as another round of prayers begin, mentally running through the remainder of my death to-do list when I see him. Dressed in a sleek black suit, white shirt open at the collar, no tie. He's enough of a distance away that he's not part of the funeral group, but even from afar his presence is powerful. It makes itself known. He leans against a tree, his hands in his slack pockets, his expression too far away to discern. Brodie fucking Archer. 

**More to come!! Thank you for being patient with me as I begin working on this book again, I am so excited and grateful for you all to read it!**