CHAPTER 6 #2
I smile at her. It feels different to get attention without Beck beside me.
More genuine, in a way. “Thank you.” She leads me to an intimate table in the restaurant’s back corner.
There’s a gorgeous light fixture hanging over it, as though to mark it as exclusive.
The lightbulbs refract off of bits of colored glass, touching Aurelio’s handsome face with glimmers of the rainbow.
He wears black slacks and a white button-down shirt.
I wish I could have stood there a moment longer, counting Aurelio’s freckles as he stared intently at the menu.
Instead, the hostess gives me a little nudge and pulls out my chair opposite him.
His eyes snap to me. I expect him to trace me up and down, appreciate my smooth tanned skin, my sculpted legs, my collarbones and slim waist. I’ve received those types of looks before. Instead, his warm gaze never moves off my face. “Amy.”
“Aurelio.” I try to stop my smile, but it’s taken over my face. The hostess leaves us with an incline of her head. I gratefully sink into my seat, if only to be closer to him. “I’m surprised.” His brow furrows. I lean in. “No Italian tonight?”
A laugh bursts out of him, clean and clear.
He shakes his head, grinning. “No, no Italian tonight. It makes me miss home when Americans get it wrong.” I hang my purse over the back of the chair, and pick up the menu, scanning the options.
My diet under Beck Bowman, arranged now by Vince, is very boring and spartan. I hope Aurelio wants dessert.
There’s no movement across the table. I look back up at him. “Did you already decide what you want?”
His gaze is soft, affectionate even. “I’m glad you came,” he admits. “I wasn’t sure you would.”
I wonder if beneath the kind words, there’s a criticism of my father.
I take on the compliment but change the subject.
“How was your day? Is Miami one of your favorite stops on the tour?” The question is basically a tennis player’s version of small talk since we’re always traveling.
I’m partial to a tournament with abundant sunshine and a lot of beach in front of my feet.
I wonder if Aurelio’s favorite is the one where the stars shine brightest.
Aurelio launches into an impassioned speech about all the sights he saw in Miami.
His enthusiasm is endearing. It turns even more so when he pulls out a little plastic souvenir bag, carefully showing me what he bought for each of his family members back in Rome.
Big, sparkly sunglasses for his niece Bianca who’s only six years old.
A Miami baseball cap for his dad to add to his international collection.
A Christmas tree ornament for his nona, who’s in her 90s.
A pink Lionel Messi jersey for his older brother, Alessandro.
“Let me see those.” I snatch up the glittery sunglasses. Aurelio smiles as I put them on. I tilt my head to the side, posing for him. “How do they look?”
He laughs at the sight of the children’s sunglasses squeezing my head. “Very bella, Amy. Very bella.”
Our private table has one huge flaw: it’s next to the bathroom.
A few people wander past our intimate corner table towards it, and I do my best to avoid their gazes.
I fail spectacularly when I see a familiar, tall figure walking our way.
“Amy.” Vince slows when he sees me, confusion coloring his face.
I quickly pull the sunglasses off. They clatter too loudly against the table.
My mouth opens and closes twice, unsure what to say.
Will he tell Beck I was here? Will he text him as soon as he gets to the bathroom?
Will he wait until tomorrow morning, ambush me when we’re all together?
Maybe Vince reads the panic on my face because he immediately reaches and puts a reassuring hand on my shoulder.
He turns to face Aurelio, who watches us with a concerned expression.
“Aurelio, right?” He reaches out a hand and they shake.
“I know your coach, Antonio. He played around the same time as my sister did.”
It takes Aurelio a moment to connect the dots. His next few words rush out in excitement. “Your sister was Barbara Dade? I had a poster of her on my wall growing up!”
Vince’s smile grows. “Really? In Italy?”
Aurelio leans back in his seat. The rainbow light falls right over his eyes, but he doesn’t seem to notice. “She was big even there,” he confirms. “I’ve watched her four-hour match at Wimbledon many times. It was very inspiring.”
Vince is moved by Aurelio’s genuine compliments, I can tell. He pats me on the shoulder, not noticing how stiff I’ve become. “Well, I’ll leave you two to it.” Vince turns away, heading towards the bathroom.
The panic surges through my veins again. “Just one second,” I tell Aurelio, getting up from my seat to follow Vince. “Vince!” I trail a few steps behind him in the dim bathroom hallway. I have to step around a few servers. “Vince!”
He turns to look at me, confused. “Amy?”
I’m flustered, which I hate. “Can...” I take a deep breath. “Can you please not tell my father about this?”
Vince tilts his head, considering me. “Tell him about what?”
I huff. “About Aurelio? Please?” It’s hard to tell with Vince whose side he’s on. My father hired him, found him for us. However, he spends much more time with me.
Vince’s expression grows more serious as he catches on to my anxiety.
My wrist itches, a tell-tale sign that I’m minutes away from angry hives climbing up my body.
“I know your father is strict, Amy. But that should only apply to the tennis court. You’re 24 years old.
You should be allowed to make your own choices. ”
I don’t have time to explain my relationship with my father to Vince. Instead, I keep my gaze on him. “Just keep this between us, okay? Aurelio is nothing serious, I promise.” The words feel like a lie when they leave my lips, but I don’t know why.
Vince nods slowly. “Sure, Amy. If that’s what you want.”
I sigh in relief. “Thank you. Seriously.” I give him an awkward wave and then hurry back to Aurelio. Fortunately, no hives erupted. Thank God Vince is efficient on and off the court.
Aurelio packed up the souvenirs, his worried gaze following me back to the table. “Is everything okay?”
“Of course.” I plop back into my seat, trying to remain at ease. “I was just explaining to Vince what this is.”
I know it’s the wrong thing to say as soon as I say it.
Aurelio raises a brow. “What this is?” he repeats.
My hand finds the silverware on the table, aimlessly spinning the knife around on the tablecloth. I don’t look at him. “I explained that we’re too busy for anything serious.” I peek up at him, but he doesn’t give me much. “It’s just a date.”
Aurelio opens his mouth to reply, a furrow between his brows, but our server stops by the table to ask for our drink orders. “Sangria,” I blurt out. “A pitcher, please.”
The server nods competently, turning to Aurelio. “And for you, sir?”
Aurelio is still looking at me coolly. “We’ll share.”
When the server leaves us, I try to steer the conversation back to familiar territory. “Your match yesterday went well,” I offer him. “Matas can be a tricky opponent. His ranking is only so low because of his wrist surgery last year.”
Aurelio nods slowly. “Yes, my coaches and I were pleased. Everything went smoothly.”
He sounds like he’s talking to the media, not a fellow tennis player. I dig deeper, eager to talk strategy with someone of his level. “Was the plan going in to attack his second serve? Or did you decide on the day when you saw he was struggling?”
Beck hates when I switch gears in the middle of a match, but sometimes it’s needed. Aurelio tilts his head, thinking. “It was always the plan. His serving hasn’t been as strong since the surgery.”
Conversation flows easier over the next hour as we sip our sangria and eat our meal.
I love all the tennis talk. It feels familiar and safe.
It’s the only kind of talk I’m used to. Usually, when I went on dates in the past, there was little talk at all, just excuses to leave early and make out in a shared Uber.
Maybe there are pros to dating a tennis player.
Once we’ve finished our dessert, a delicious tres leches cake, Aurelio asks, “Do you want to go for a walk on the beach?” He tugs at the collar of his shirt. I glance outside at the crashing surf. The cool March air outside does look inviting.
I smile. “Let’s do it.” Outside on the terrace, I strip off my socks and sneakers. The sand feels gentle under my feet. This is what Beck doesn’t appreciate about Miami. The nights are perfect.
Aurelio searches the sky again, gaze always skyward.
“Is there a particular star you’re looking for?
” I ask him. We walk along the beach, getting as close as we can to the waves without getting wet.
There aren’t too many people outside. Perhaps townies find the March air too cold. It suits me just fine.
Aurelio glances down at me. His elbow brushes mine. “The first one I learned from my mother was Perseus.” He scans the sky. “It’s easier to see in the winter.”
I know Perseus is a hero from Greek Mythology, but not much else. It’s the first time I’ve heard Aurelio mention his mother. “What did Perseus do?”