Page 62 of Love, Amy

CHAPTER 19

Home: July 2026

Home is a new apartment in Malibu, right on my favorite beach. It should feel familiar. It’s the same strip of sand I like to surf in the offseason. It’s only a few miles from my father’s gated compound. There’s a garage spot for my baby blue BMW and a huge hall closet for my tennis gear. I can step out onto the balcony and hear the waves, feel the California sun on my skin.

But that’s just it, isn’t it?

This strip of paradise is a stranger to me. I’m not usually in California at this time of year. I’m usually pounding pavement in New York, taking a few obligatory selfies in Times Square before practicing at Arthur Ashe stadium in the 90-degree heat. I’m usually sitting for hours with Beck, watching film and laughing when he struggles to use the iPad. I’m usually dreaming every night about winning the U.S. Open.

Last night, in my new bed for the first time, I dreamed of Aurelio, beautiful face marred by a black eye. When I asked him where he got it, he shot me a look and said, “You promised you would stop running.”

I stopped at the compound to gather a few necessities, like I told Beck I would. He didn’t follow me or try to stop me. He didn’t change my entry code. When the gates opened and I drove in, it felt like home. Memories of my father and I bombarded me as I walked through the kitchen, where mint chocolate chip still sat in the freezer, through the living room, where tennis used to stay on the TV 24/7, upstairs to my pink bedroom. I hovered in the doorway, taking in the gauzy four-poster bed, the trophies from junior tennis scattered on my dresser, the pair of socks I had thrown in the laundry bin before I left.

I was never coming back. How could I be this version of Amy ever again? Beck Bowman’s mini-me. He was the king of tennis; I was the princess.

Except, usually in fairytales, the king doesn’t punch the princess’ true love in the face and call her a loser.

I packed a few suitcases of memorabilia and clothes as fast as I could. I hesitated at the picture of Beck and me on the nightstand. It was from my first week here, my first week as a true Bowman. I used to feel a sense of pride when I looked at that picture, sure that I was where I belonged. Now, I wonder if I belong anywhere. If tennis won’t save me, what will? I thought I was drowning, and Beck pulled me out of the choppy waters. Instead, I realize he just taught me to tread in them. He never wanted to pull me out.

I ran a gentle finger over the picture frame but ultimately left it. Maybe it would comfort Beck when he saw it. Maybe it would hurt him. I wasn’t sure what I wanted more.

The real estate agent I contacted was thrilled at my top-tier budget and quick timeline. She showed me two beach apartments and I chose this one, in the cheesy complex of New Horizons apartments. The apartment is a blazing white, like all of the new designs. There are two bedrooms, two bathrooms, and an expansive balcony with a hot tub. The kitchen is updated, though I have no idea how to use it. So far, I’ve been subsisting on UberEats and snacks from the flight.

Everything is going according to plan. I left Beck. I posted on my social media accounts about our split, writing, “I appreciate everything my father has taught me, but I need the opportunity to succeed on my own and shed the Bowman legacy. I am taking a break from tennis and hope to join the tour again in the New Year.” Then, I turned my phone off.

Blissful silence.

Maddening silence.

I’m coming back from an early morning surf when I spot a familiar figure lingering outside my apartment building. I pluck my earbud out and shove my sunglasses up on my head. “Vince.” A shiver of guilt goes through me. My wetsuit drips on the sidewalk. “I’m sorry I haven’t called. I heard what my father did.”

I don’t say it’s for the best, but obviously it is. Suzy truly loved Beck, and she still left. Vince is well-liked and an expert in the field. He’ll find a better position.

Vince waves me off. “Don’t worry about that. We knew it was coming.”

I shift on my feet. “I didn’t,” I say simply. “Not until this year.” How can I explain that for years all I knew was Beck? All I saw was his way of life? Now, maybe I know his way is wrong, but I can’t see any other way that would work for me.

Vince opens his mouth but then closes it again when a cyclist zips past us on the sidewalk. “Can I come inside?” he finally asks. “I need to talk to you.”

I nod. “Sure.”

I walk over to the front gate and type in my code. The agent brightly suggested that I pick a date that felt important to me, but nothing too obvious, like a birthday. I chose the Australian Open final. Everything changed for me then.

Aurelio’s face flashes in my mind, his cool hand on mine as we danced to Vivaldi.

I push the memory away and lead Vince up to my apartment on the eighth floor. He whistles appreciatively when I push open my front door, taking in the beautiful view of the ocean. “Very nice,” he compliments.

“Take a look around,” I offer. “I just need a quick second to change.” I hurry to my bedroom and throw on a sweat set, my new uniform of unemployment. My wet hair goes into a bun, and I drape my wetsuit over the balcony railing. I already put my board into the complex’s storage shed on my way up the beach.

I feel strange when I come back into the living room. Vince is pondering my furnishings. “It came this way,” I explain when he touches a finger to the pristine white couch, the beige armchair, the huge, framed photograph of a sea turtle hanging on the back wall. “It made it easier for me to move in right away.”

Vince turns to look at me. “You didn’t add anything,” he notices. “No pictures. No throw blankets or pillows. Nothing.”

I bark a laugh, sinking into the beige armchair. “What pictures? Beck and me smiling on the tennis court? Suzy and I laughing together months before she left? My mother and I on Christmas day, pretending not to be strangers?”

Vince perches on the couch across from me. His expression grows serious. “What happened in Cincinnati, Amy? Once your father found you and Aurelio?”

I don’t want to answer. I don’t want to think about the things Beck said, the things I didn’t say. I don’t want to think about watching Aurelio get onto the elevator without me. Instead, I focus on Vince. “I’m really sorry, Vince.” I take a deep breath. “I shouldn’t have included you in our drama. It got you in trouble with Beck, and for that, I’m sorry. I’d be happy to pay your salary for a few more months.”