"I want to quit this year, whether we win the Open or not." Art says, and you could hear a pin drop in the silence that ensues. His stature is broad; decades of tennis and training and tennis again bulking his frame enough that he takes up half the doorway. Somehow, he still looks small.

He slumps over the side of the hotel bed, forearms straining as he props himself up to peer up at you with those sad, keening eyes. He looks at you the same way he's always looked at you, sparkling blue with all the awe and adulteration in the world—like it's still 2006 and he's a junior singles loser and you have cardboard cut-outs scattered around your college campus. Like he's still just 'some guy' whose okay, maybe even kinda good at tennis and you're soon-to-be one of the greatest in the world.

He looks at you like you're still his fucking God.

"M'just asking that you'll love me no matter what." Art inhales sharply before he says it, like he's scared. This grown man—your husband, who is one US Open title away from a Career Grand Slam is kneeled at your feet, hands bunching into the sheets because he's terrified of making this choice without your permission.

Terrified, because for all he knows your love is conditional—and he's throwing the prerequisite away.