Page 29 of Love, Amy

“You can even see Virgo. Your Zodiac sign,” he says enthusiastically. “She’s not always visible, but she’s the largest zodiac constellation.”

I frown. “You know my birthday?”

“You mentioned it was in September,” he shrugs. “I looked it up. September 2nd.”

I turn my head, watching his face. He doesn’t look at me. “When’s your birthday?”

“December 1st.” His gaze stays on the stars, but it grows more distant. “It’s our only month off of tennis all year. I get to celebrate with my family in Rome. Last year, Bianca made me a crown to wear all day.”

I smile at the image. “And did you? Wear the crown?”

He glances at me, offended. “Of course.”

I grab his hand, twining our fingers together. I know I’ll miss holding his hand when the night is over. “What’s the story behind Virgo?” I ask. “Doesn’t it mean virgin?”

Aurelio must sense my skepticism because he laughs. “Yes, technically, that’s what the word means in English. But a lot of astronomers associate the constellation with the story of the goddess Persephone.”

I trace my memory and come up empty. “What was she the goddess of?”

“Spring,” he answers. “Her mother, Demeter, was the goddess of the harvest.”

The names start to ring a bell. “Wasn’t Persephone kidnapped by Hades, god of the Underworld? Didn’t he force her to become his wife?”

Aurelio hums in agreement. “In some versions of the myth. In other versions, Persephone and Hades fall in love but cannot truly be together because Demeter disapproves. Demeter wants Persephone to stay with her.”

My brow furrows. “So, what do they do?”

Aurelio’s dark gaze slides to me. “They find a balance. Persephone will spend half of the year above with her mother and the other half down below with Hades. She chooses them both.”

It feels like Aurelio is asking me a question. I turn to look at him, my dress pooling around me like liquid sky. Aurelio shifts to his side, too. We’re only inches away from each other. “Yes,” I finally tell him. “I will choose you. Even if he forbids it, I will choose you, Aurelio. I think I’ve already chosen.”

Doesn’t he realize that all those walks as the sun rises, the voice memos I save to my phone, that moment where his thumb grazed my tattoo, our noses brushing in the locker room, the phone call I made to Monfils begging for this tour, our dance under the stars with my tears drying on my face—doesn’t he realize that I chose him again and again?

Aurelio’s face asks another question now, hungry and desperate for me. I nod a little, trembling. We reach for each other at the same time. His left hand clamps on my hip, gathering some of the navy silk in his fist. I’m pulled even closer into the circle of his arms, sliding across the marble. Our noses bump, our lips line up. I sink a hand into his curls.

It feels like such relief when we finally kiss. His mouth is warm and gentle on mine. He pulls me so close I can feel his heart racing. We explore each other easily, curiously. I’d let Aurelio examine every inch of me in this manner. I enjoy the touch of his hands, his mouth, his tongue. Time stretches, gooey and syrupy. It could be seconds, minutes, hours, that we lay twined together.

Finally, we come up for air. My breath is shallow. Aurelio’s hair is wild, his curls untamed by my roving hands. “Aurelio,” I ask breathlessly. “Would you like some dessert?”

He laughs, and I can feel it buzz pleasantly in my chest since we’re still pressed together. “What kind, Amy? Is kissing on the menu?”

I start to disentangle myself from him. I shiver a little at the sudden cold but make my way to my feet. I offer Aurelio a hand up. “No one could accuse me of being sweet, Aurelio. I meant real dessert. Chocolate. One of my favorite patisseries is a few blocks away.”

Aurelio accepts the hand up, lips still swollen from my kisses. I’m already blushing at the idea of Monfils seeing us this way. He promised he wouldn’t leak a detail of this date to the press, but I wish we were a bit more discreet. He just needs to tell one or two people and soon the gossip spreads like wildfire. Aurelio interrupts my anxious spiral. “You’re just selective,” he explains. “You’re sweet to me. And to...” He trails off, trying to think of another example.

I start heading out of the observatory to where Monfils is waiting. “See?” I poke Aurelio in the arm. He doesn’t flinch. “I’m not sweet.”

Aurelio shakes his head. “Amy the person is very sweet. Everyone else has just met Amy the tennis player.”

I scoff but let him take my hand as we walk back towards the entrance. “Do you always see the best in people, Aurelio?”

His face creases as though I’ve given him a riddle. “What else is there to see?” His words ring with sincerity.

I wonder if he’s right the entire ride to the patisserie.

*

My favorite patisserie is the one Suzy took me to the first time we went to Roland Garros. We would make sure to stop here once, just the two of us, every time we visited Paris. We wouldn’t talk about tennis or my father or the tournament. I couldn’t imagine going this year by myself with Suzy’s empty chair sitting across from me. But Aurelio is worthy of it, I think.