Page 34 of Love, Amy

In fact, I think I might enjoy waiting after all.

*

Unsurprisingly, the bath is heaven. The water is perfectly warm and heavy. It settles over my skin, gentle and soothing, just as Aurelio promised. I lean my head back against the lip of the tub, letting my eyes fall closed.

Maybe if I ask Vince, he can get me the proper oats, and I can take them with me when I travel in case I have a flare-up.

The hives fade slowly as I soak in the water. By the time the twenty-minute timer goes off, they’re almost completely gone. There are a few lingering marks on my throat, but the rest are hardly visible. I turn off Aurelio’s phone timer and gently dry off, trying not to irritate my skin. One of the best amenities of these luxury hotels is their plush bathrobes. I sigh contentedly when I wrap myself up in it. It’s huge on me, the sleeve cuffs flopping over my hands and the belt that ties around the waist trailing on the floor. Did they custom make the robe to fit Aurelio’s oversized frame? I use a little of the hotel’s moisturizer on my face and hang up my towel on the rack.

With Aurelio’s phone clutched in my hand, I open the bathroom door. The bright light floods into the now darkened hotel room. Aurelio has one bedside lamp on but turned off the overheads. I hurry to turn off the harsh bathroom light, too, my eyes adjusting to the dim. It takes me a moment to find Aurelio. He’s sprawled on top of the covers, head propped on a few pillows to watch the TV on top of the dresser. There’s an Italian soccer game on.

I pad over to him, mouth open to share my enthusiasm for the bath, when I realize his eyes are closed. I quietly place his phone on his nightstand. His lips are parted a little, his chest falling evenly. He looks the exact same asleep as he does awake. Apparently, his gentleness does not fade. I find my purse and get out my phone. Relief surges through me when I don’t see any new messages. A time check shows it’s nearly 2 a.m. I need to be at the airport for my flight out of Paris at 8 a.m. I glance at the door, wondering if I should make my escape. I should call for a car. If I go back now, I can pack my suitcase, get a few hours of sleep, and wake up exactly where Beck expects me to be.

Instead, I crawl into bed with Aurelio. It’s a little cold on top of the covers, but his body is warm. I press my cold feet against his calf. He shifts a little but doesn’t wake. I lean my cheek against his shoulder. I put my phone into the pocket of the robe, setting the alarm for 5 a.m. When I’m on my way back to the hotel, I’ll ask Vince to distract my father, so he doesn’t see me coming back wearing the dress. I’ll put on my pajamas and be right I’m supposed to be.

I close my eyes, lured to sleep by Aurelio’s even breathing. I drift off in minutes.

*

I’m quick to shut off my alarm when it goes off at 5 a.m. Aurelio turns over but doesn’t wake fully.

I pull back the covers, confused. Not only am I under the covers now, but I’m wearing a pair of socks. I look down at them. They must be Aurelio’s. They’re huge on my feet, a blinding pair of white Nike athletic socks. He must have woken at some point in the night, maybe cold like I was, and put them on me. He also tucked us both under the covers.

I stare down at him, sleeping peacefully. Wouldn’t it be wonderful if we could stay together? Practice together? Travel together? Prepare for Wimbledon together? Instead, the men and women are separated into various lead-up tournaments and Beck has no idea that there even is a together version of me and Aurelio.

We won’t see each other for a few weeks.

I quietly gather my things, changing back into the dress and kitten heels. It’s the least shameful walk of shame of all time.

I hesitate at the door, purse in hand. At the last second, I cross the room to his side of the bed. I lean down and press a light kiss to his cheek. “Goodbye, Aurelio,” I whisper. “I’ll never forget Paris.”

His eyelids flutter, as though he hears me, so I hurry to leave, clicking the hotel door shut behind me.

During the short drive back to my hotel, I press my face up to the window. I wish this tournament could last forever. Instead, I’m hurtling closer to a conversation with Beck about Aurelio and my third chance to win a Grand Slam this year.

I like to win. I want to be a champion. I need to be the best.

But of what, exactly?

CHAPTER 13

Wimbledon: June-July 2026

I stand next to the very human version of my father and watch the mythical version of him on the big screen. He looms high above us on the Wimbledon Center Court jumbotron, amplified on either end for the crowd to see. In the video package, he wins Wimbledon again and again. He falls to his knees on the grass for the first time, pounding his fists in joy on the court that blessed him with eight of his 18 Grand Slam titles. I’ve seen the footage before, of course. One of Beck’s favorite coaching techniques is showing me his triumphs and hoping, praying, beseeching me to repeat them. Thousands of eager fans watch the tribute to my father, who is now celebrating 25 years since his last Grand Slam win here at the Wimbledon Championships, arguably the most famous tennis tournament in the world.

I turn 25 later this year. I try not to itch my wrist in front of all the photographers and ESPN’s cameras.

I search some of the exclusive player boxes up front for Aurelio. I spot Fernanda first, looking gorgeous in an emerald green dress that dips scandalously low in the front. She winks at me, and my plastic smile creases into a more genuine one. Ever since our time together in Paris, we’ve become a lot friendlier at our tournaments. I beat her at the lead-in grass tournament in Queens last week, but she didn’t seem to mind since she soundly beat Genesis to win her second Grand Slam at Roland Garros. I feel a strange relief to see her face. There are dozens of elite tennis players, current and retired, here to show their gratitude to my father’s greatness. Strangely, I feel like Fernanda is here for me. Aurelio, too.

I find Aurelio in the next box over, tall and gorgeous in a cream jacket and slacks. His hair ruffles wildly in the wind. Unlike Fernanda, his face is neutral, watching me rather than my father or the video screen. Sometimes I wonder if everyone knows about Aurelio and me. If you look for the signs, I think they’re there. Fortunately, my father shows little interest in anyone’s personal life, especially the daughter he assumes has no friends, let alone an Italian boyfriend with a mean drop shot.

I glance back up at the video package. We’ve finally reached Beck’s eighth Grand Slam win here, a come-from-behind win when he was 35 years old. He hits his signature pose, falling to his knees and slamming his fists into the ground. He looks almost angry until he sits back up, looking at the crowd, the court, his racket, and you see there are tears in his eyes. They don’t fall, but they’re there. He smiles devastatingly at the crowd, both the one here today and the Wimbledon crowd of 2001.

My hands start trembling, so I clutch the edge of my Dior dress’ full, navy blue skirt. It hits me, slowly and then all at once, how unhappy my father is with me. Seeing him on the screen, glassy-eyed and grinning, I only see a stranger. A few years later, my mother would drop me off on his doorstep and he would retire from tennis. From his passion. From his purpose. He would never cry again. He would never grin in that way, blinding and uninhibited. Father Time and me, we crushed the joy out of my father.

I try to take a few deep breaths, my chest tight. I’m supposed to be at this ceremony to support Beck, to show love for the tennis world’s giant. I can’t be on TV sweating and spotted with hives.

The video package ends, and the roar from the crowd is deafening. They get to their feet, all my heroes, all my contemporaries. His story is their dream.