CHAPTER 12 #2
He throws his head back and laughs. He looks just like his mom in the picture. My heart warms at the sight. I wish I could take a picture of him in just his t-shirt, a spot of water at the hem from the bath, freckles popping in the bright lights of the bathroom, dimple marking his right cheek.
He drops my hand, checking the temperature of the bath.
It looks fairly innocuous, like he’s put a very organic bath bomb into the water.
You can no longer see the bottom of the bathtub, with the oats creating a textured white cream on the surface.
“My mother always did twenty minutes,” Aurelio explains to me.
“So, I’ll set a timer.” He places his phone on the edge of the sink, cuing up a timer. Then he turns to leave the bathroom.
A wave of insecurity hits me. “You’re leaving?” I ask. “You’re not staying...” I struggle with what I want to ask. “You’re not staying... with me?”
It doesn’t feel like the right time for the fantasy I have of Aurelio peeling off my new dress and throwing it on his bedroom floor, just as Fernanda predicted earlier, but for some reason it hurts that he’s not even tempted.
We’re together, aren’t we? But how can we say that if we haven’t even slept together?
The few short-lived relationships I’ve had before always started hot and heavy.
Is there something wrong with us? Is Aurelio not attracted to me in that way?
He must see the confusion on my face. “The timing isn’t right.”
I cross my arms. “The timing?” I try to hold my body still, but my thoughts race ahead. Does he mean the hives? Does he not want to touch me now? Is this bath only so he can separate himself from the sight of me, red and itchy?
“Sì, the timing.” Aurelio takes a step towards me, the back of his hand brushing mine.
We’re breathing the same air. I drop my arms to my sides, looking up at him.
“I’ve wanted you in my bed for weeks, Amy.
Months, really. Since that night in Melbourne.
” My breath feels uneven in my chest. He reaches a careful hand to my cheek, his thumb tracing over my cheekbone.
My eyes flutter closed, imagining us together, completely alone and unhurried, worshipful hands and mouths.
“But I don’t want that night to be the same one where you were so worried about your father finding out about us that your body went into physical distress. ”
The spell breaks. My eyes open. “These hives aren’t just about my father,” I snap. I take a step back from him. “About us.”
Aurelio raises a brow. “They aren’t? You said they were stress-related. A couple of excited twenty-year-olds from America caused them all on their own?”
My initial defensiveness evaporates in the face of his calm.
He knows just as well as I do that facing judgement from the tennis world is nothing compared to my fear of being judged by my father.
In one corner, there’s Aurelio. Aurelio, the best man I know.
In the other, there’s my father. Beck Bowman, the man I know best. Tonight, confronted by the Americans and their eagerness, I wondered if I’d have to sacrifice one man for the other.
My body knew before the rest of me—I’m not ready.
I’m not ready to kill my relationship with one for the other, not yet.
And Aurelio senses my hesitation. Kind of a mood-killer.
I lift my nose in the air. “Fine,” I say primly. “If you want to wait, we can.”
Aurelio is relieved at my surrender. “Good.” He smiles again, boyish and warm. “I’ll leave you to it.”
He once again backs towards the door. His hand is on the knob when I call to him. “Aurelio.” As he turns around, I throw his sweater at him. He deftly catches it. “Here, I believe this is yours.”
“Amy,” Aurelio grumbles in warning, eyeing me in my dress. His gaze is sharper, hungrier. I feel a bolt of satisfaction go through me. “Play fair.”
With his dark gaze still on me, I reach an efficient hand towards the hem of my dress, pulling it off with ease.
I toss it to Aurelio, practically hitting him in the face.
“This, too,” I say sweetly. “It needs to be hung up, or it will wrinkle.” Even with the hives, I feel powerful in my black bra and underwear.
I put my hands on my hips, eyeing him. “Do you need something?”
“Just get in the bath, Amy,” he says through gritted teeth. His knuckles are white around my dress.
I smile. “Will do.” Before I can take anything else off, Aurelio whirls away from me, shutting the door behind him. I can hear him mumbling curses in Italian.
There’s nothing wrong with us, I reassure myself as I climb into the bath.
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?