CHAPTER 16 #3
Beck acts as though I was talking to him. “I’ll come, too. I’m proud of the kid.” There’s a genuine warmth in his voice that disgusts me. How can he be proud of a man like Aurelio? Aurelio is all that is good and genuine and kind. My father disparages such qualities until they win a championship.
Before I can argue, a cocktail waiter taps my father on the shoulder and asks him what he wants to drink. I take my moment to escape.
I stop in surprise when I see that Aurelio is halfway to my table, somehow disentangling himself from his entourage. We smile sheepishly at each other and meet in the middle.
I resist the urge to throw my arms around his neck. “Aurelio.” I take a moment to compose myself, but I don’t think it works. It’s hard to think straight when Aurelio is grinning at me. “Congratulations.”
“I’m so glad you came, Amy.” His words are warm, but there’s a hint of worry. Maybe he thought I’d ditch the ball, too. A hint of darkness clouds his expression. “Last time I won at Roland Garros, I was alone.”
I reach out between us and grab his hand to squeeze. The darkness leaves his face, appreciation for my gesture filling the space instead.
“I had to see the champion!” I keep it light, dropping his hand.
“Was your family so happy? Did Bianca give the winning speech instead of you?” I feel guilty that I didn’t go out and celebrate with Aurelio and his family, though I’m sure that after seeing my match Aurelio gave me a free pass.
I promised to meet his family and instead I shoved my head under a pillow.
I resolve to introduce myself to his father at some point tonight.
Aurelio tilts his head. “You didn’t watch my speech?”
I’m a little surprised by the question. “I fell asleep,” I confess. “I’m sure you were wonderful.”
Understanding floods his face. “That’s why you didn’t answer my texts.”
“I’m sorry. It was a long day.” I rub my wrist, sure I can feel a tell-tale hive forming. “I did read them later.” A blush burns my cheeks. “And listen to them.”
Aurelio stares at me affectionately. “It’s a beautiful song.” He says song, but I’m sure he means something else. I blush deeper, wishing we were alone. I know I could say things better without everyone watching.
“What song?” Beck comes up behind us, clapping a hand on Aurelio’s shoulder. In his other hand he holds a glass of whisky.
“This one,” I blurt out, gesturing at the DJ. “Right?” Unfortunately, the DJ is currently playing the Spice Girls, but Beck is so far removed from pop culture that he just shrugs after listening for a few beats.
He turns back to Aurelio. “Congrats, kid. You looked like a champion out there.”
I try to hide my wince. It’s hard to know if Beck uses that word purposefully to hurt me because his face doesn’t change, still smarmy and charismatic.
Aurelio shakes off my father’s heavy hand.
“Thank you, signor.” If my father knew Aurelio better, he’d recognize how cold he’s acting towards him. “It was a great match.”
Beck snorts. “I don’t know about that. You decimated the American kid. At least Amy’s loss this time around wasn’t so embarrassing. Nothing like when she lost to that qualifier in Australia.”
Aurelio stiffens, even though what Beck says is true. “Losing isn’t embarrassing.”
Beck laughs. “Really? Because it isn’t Amy and Joaquin all of these people want to talk to. They’re only invited as a courtesy, to show good sportsmanship. The world revolves around winners, and you’re one of them, Aurelio.”
To Beck, there are no truer words in the world because tennis is his world. Aurelio narrows his eyes, looking colder than I’ve ever seen him. “Maybe your world, Signor Bowman. Certainly not mine.”
Our awkward conversation goes up a notch when Fernanda elbows her way over, eyes fixated on me and my dress.
“Amy!” She practically shoves Beck out of the way.
That’s probably how she feels about him after the match anyway.
“I’ve been trying to wave you over. Didn’t I tell you the silver was the right choice?
You look perfect!” She gestures head-to-toe with her empty champagne glass.
I force a smile. “It makes perfect sense,” I agree. “Did you know I was going to lose when you chose it?” I mean it to come out as a joke but hurt flashes across Fernanda’s face.
An awkward silence descends on the group. “Sorry,” I mutter, looking down at my feet.
Fortunately, we’re saved by dinner. An army of waiters enter the room, effectively forcing everyone to their tables.
Despite striking out with Aurelio, my father works his charms more successfully on the royal couple to his right, and I manage to avoid talking to anyone new by instead chatting with Vince the whole evening.
His secondhand gossip about all the older tennis players in the room that played with his sister is enough to keep me entertained until the dessert course.
While I nibble on a strange British dessert that they call pudding, but which seems to be cake with hot cream poured over it, the Wimbledon president gives a speech about this year’s tournament.
He manages to seamlessly thank numerous sponsors, flash his Rolex watch, and compliment the royal family all within the span of five minutes.
Before anyone can fall asleep into their pudding, he gestures over to the DJ.
“And now... the traditional champions’ dance! Fernanda, Aurelio, come on up here!”
I clap in delight as Fernanda and Aurelio come together on the tiny dance floor to entertain the masses.
There are phones everywhere, filming the awkward moment.
Fernanda immediately takes charge, telling a bewildered Aurelio where to put his hands.
I laugh along with everyone else as Aurelio mouths “help me” to the audience.
The DJ cues up a cheesy ballad, as though they’re homecoming king and queen.
They begin swaying to the music, Aurelio focused entirely on not stepping on Fernanda’s sparkly train.
Vince bumps my shoulder, smiling. “He looks terrified of her.”
“Everyone is,” I confirm, smiling back. “That’s the only reason we became friends.”
The song lasts a surprisingly long time, the British singer wailing through the choruses. The longer the song goes on, the more relaxed Fernanda and Aurelio appear. They chat quietly to each other, trying to pass the time. No one can hear what they’re saying.
The more I watch them, the stranger I feel. I notice when Fernanda throws her head back to laugh at something he said. I notice that they begin to dance smoother, Aurelio’s hand more secure on Fernanda’s waist. I notice that Aurelio’s green tie matches Fernanda’s eyeliner and glittery nail polish.
They look like they belong together.
Aurelio and Fernanda are the sun in every room they’re in.
If the story broke that they were dating, no one would be surprised.
Fans would be delighted. Commentators would talk about how they “challenged each other” and “made each other better.” Their coaches would probably toast their future super babies over a drink at the bar.
It would be so easy.
I blink back a few tears as I watch them finish their dance. My mouth trembles stubbornly. They hug at the end to rapturous applause. Fernanda kisses him on the cheek. The organizers hurry to the front with their trophies, asking them to pose together so the photographers can get some good shots.
Fernanda and Aurelio become blurrier and blurrier.
I grab my purse off the table. “Excuse me,” I mumble, hurriedly getting to my feet.
I catch a glimpse of Vince’s confused face as I rush out of the room, skirting the outside wall until I can exit the ballroom.
I almost run into a surprised waiter, but I manage not to upend the tray of drinks he’s carrying.
With another muttered apology, I sidestep him and head for the nearest doors.
They lead to the club’s gardens. It’s blessedly dark and cold after the heat of the ball.
I clench my fists, trying to rein in my emotions. There are a few benches out here, tucked between rosebushes. I sink down onto one of them, goosebumps erupting on my arms and legs at the cool metal. Even sitting down, I feel sick, dizzy with feeling and pain.
I hunch over, putting my head in my hands.
Five minutes. I just need five minutes, and then I can go back inside.
I’ll smile and crack a joke to Fernanda about her being bossy during her dance with Aurelio.
I’ll entertain Aurelio’s father with some bad Italian greetings.
I’ll show Beck that nothing hurts me by offering to get him another whisky.
I blink back another bout of tears. How did I get here? This is the second time this year that I ducked out of celebration to seek solace by myself.