CHAPTER 17
“If one more person asks me about my father, I’ll scream.” I slam my breakfast tray down on the table Fernanda’s sitting at, startling her.
She freezes with her fork halfway to her mouth. “What?”
“Ofelia,” I say through gritted teeth. “She stopped me in the breakfast line to ask how things are with my father. She’s the third person since I’ve arrived at this damn tournament.”
Just as Fernanda opens her mouth to respond, someone’s gentle hand squeezes my shoulder. “Amy.” Anika’s face is already creased with sympathy as she sits in the other free chair at our table. “How are you holding up?”
I throw my hands in the air. “I did just win in Toronto, Anika! Or did you forget that I beat you in the quarterfinals?”
Her eyes widen. “I’m so sorry, it’s just I heard Charles Allard fired his coach and he was seen talking to your father at the practice courts this morning—”
I stiffen. “The number one player in the world fired his coach? What are you talking about?”
Anika leans back from my wrath, hands up in innocence. “It’s all over, I swear. Everyone’s talking about it—”
Before I can bite her head off again, Fernanda smoothly intercedes. “It’s true, Amy. He announced it on social media last night. This is going to be his first tournament without Guillame.”
I’m stunned. “But Guillame and Charles have been together for over a decade. They’ve won four Grand Slams together.” Slowly, the rest of the information hits me. The hair on my arms rises. “And he was seen practicing with my father?”
“Talking,” Fernanda emphasizes. She turns to look at her friend. “Right, Anika?”
“Right, right.” Anika scrambles to her feet. “I’d better get to the practice courts. I play early tomorrow. Good luck, ladies!” She doesn’t look back as she hurries away from our table. I don’t blame her for the hasty exit.
I take a deep breath. Then another. Finally, I look at Fernanda. “Thank you. Especially after...”
She raises a perfectly manicured brow. “Especially after you’ve been dodging my calls for the last two weeks?”
I wince. “Sorry. I knew the sharks wouldn’t stop circling unless I got things back on track. Quickly. I had to win Toronto.”
“And you did. But only because I wasn’t there.” She winks, and I know she’s forgiven me.
I roll my eyes, playing along. “Were you too tired after Wimbledon? Some of us have more stamina.”
“I needed a break,” she says bluntly. “Antonia wanted me to play Toronto, try to build some momentum before the U.S. Open, but I wanted to go home for a few days. My parents threw a huge party with all my cousins, tias, and tios.”
The vision of so many Navarros is enough to send a pang of longing through me.
I can’t even imagine having a family like that.
I hardly have one cousin in my contact list, let alone enough to have a blowout bash.
The envy must show on my face because Fernanda leans across the table, expression softening.
“How has it really been, Amy? What’s going on with you and Beck? ”
I shake my head. “I thought things were better. I sat him down and explained that we needed some boundaries. He agreed to have separate hotel rooms, to let me choose the times we practice, to include a few more breaks in my schedule if I requested it...” I trail off, remembering the way I loomed above my father as he sat on the edge of my hotel bed.
“He was strangely docile,” I admit. “I was surprised. But maybe, if he was talking to Charles Allard...”
They make a lot of sense together. Allard has been prone to fits of temper, just like us Bowmans. But unlike me, he’s a man and a Grand Slam winner. Maybe when Beck heard me say “boundaries,” he really thought “prison.” He hates to be caged.
But now, so do I.
Fernanda shakes her head. “Don’t think like that. They were probably exchanging war stories. Or Allard asked Beck for advice on finding a new coach.”
I try to shake off the mirage of Allard and my father winning Grand Slams together with me watching from the stands. “I’m sure you’re right.” Even to my ears, I don’t sound very convincing.
Fernanda reads between the lines. “Do you even want Beck to be your coach? Maybe this is a blessing in disguise.”
I fiddle with my fork, spinning it on the table.
“I know how he can be, Fernanda. I know better than anyone.” My eyes burn.
“But he’s my family. I don’t have an army of cousins and aunts and uncles who love me.
I’m not even sure how to describe my relationship with my mom.
I don’t have childhood friends or college roommates or neighbors.
I have tennis. I have Beck.” I finally look back up at Fernanda, desperate to hear what she thinks. “Is it stupid to try to keep both?”
Fernanda’s hand finds mine on the fork, stilling me.
“Amy,” she says gently, “It’s never stupid to love your dad.
You just have to make sure you love yourself, too.
These boundaries sound like a great start.
” I’m nodding along with her words, trying to show how much I appreciate her support.
“And,” she scolds me, “You don’t have just tennis and your dad.
Maybe you used to, but now you have Aurelio.
And the girls, even when they ask stupid questions.
” I smile at that, and so does she. “And you have me.”
“Even when I don’t answer your texts for two weeks?” I’m joking, but the question is watery. Fernanda notices. She notices everything.
She nods, a queen giving her approval. “Especially then.” Her dark eyes bore into me. “As long as you promise not to disappear on me again. That’s not what friends do.”
I’m touched she would care enough to threaten me. “I promise.” My smile wavers. There’s a touch of emotion in my voice when I add, “I’m lucky to be your friend, Fernanda.” The fierceness in her gaze softens, replaced with surprise.
A local tennis reporter accidentally bumps my shoulder in passing, heading to another table at the fanciest hotel in Cincinnati.
It’s a reminder that we’re not alone. I blink away the tears and pick up the fork I was spinning.
I clear my throat, spearing a mound of scrambled eggs.
“So,” I ask Fernanda, “Any news on Francisco?”
“Well,” she pauses dramatically, “Let’s just say he has been answering my texts.”
My laughter draws the attention of several tables nearby.
Everything feels lighter when she starts laughing with me. Tears stream down our cheeks, but they’re not the same ones as before.
*
Aurelio walks out of the media room on his phone, eyes glued to the screen.
I relish the opportunity to surprise him, lightly bumping him on the shoulder.
He jumps, wide eyes looking up from the screen.
I grin. “Nice match, Santoro.” After a week of tennis in Cincinnati, Aurelio and I are both into the semifinals.
I expect Aurelio to smile back at me, just like he does when I meet him for our morning walks and bump his shoulder in the same way.
Instead, his face is drawn, his eyes faraway.
He won’t even look at me. I tug Aurelio’s elbow, pulling him to the side.
I lower my voice as the final few media members stream past us.
“What’s wrong? Are you hurt?” I don’t remember Aurelio making a misstep in his match.
He’s been on fire since he won Wimbledon, glowing with purpose and joy.
Let’s just say, it’s hard not to sneak into his room every night.
He shakes his head. He clutches his phone so hard his knuckles are white. “My father texted. He says my nona is sick.”
My heart sinks. “I’m so sorry, Aurelio.” I lead him to a nearby chair, have him sit down. All the beautiful color has fled his face. “Did they say what was wrong with her? Is she at the hospital?”
Aurelio shoves a shaky hand through his hair. “No hospital. My father says not to worry, that it’s just a touch of influenza...”
I double check that we’re completely alone before I sit down next to him, rubbing his back. “I’m sure she’ll be fine, Aurelio. They would tell you if it was really serio—” I cut myself off, but it’s too late.
His head snaps to look at me, eyes wild. “Would they? Would they tell me if it was serious? They didn’t the last time.”
“They wouldn’t do that to you again. They know how hard that was.” I try to reassure him, but I’m not so sure. Is it possible they would shield Aurelio again, wanting him to enjoy life after winning Wimbledon? Knowing that it’s too late for him to do anything more?
Aurelio looks down at his phone again, as if willing his father to call.
“They said she wouldn’t come to Wimbledon because she hates flying, but what if she’s been sick for weeks?
Months?” He squeezes his eyes shut. “I haven’t been home since May.
And even then, I didn’t spend that much time with her. I was playing in the tournament.”
I shush him. “I’m sure she hasn’t been sick that lon—”
“Stop saying that!” He stands up, shrugging off my hand.
“You don’t know what it’s like, Amy.” I flinch at the raw frustration in his words.
He doesn’t notice, pacing agitatedly. “I don’t know if they’re telling me the truth.
I’m always analyzing their texts, their phone calls, their visits, trying to find what’s missing.
I hate the distrust between my father and me.
I hate that he doesn’t trust me.” Aurelio rubs his eyes tiredly.
I cut him a look. “I don’t know what it’s like to be pissed off at my dad?”
It breaks the tension, as I hoped it would.
He shakes his head at me, barking a laugh.
“Touché, Amy.” Angry Aurelio is an unfamiliar sight, but as expected, his frustration doesn’t linger.
Instead, guilt settles in its place. He sits next to me again.
“I’m sorry, mia dolce. I didn’t mean to snap at you.
I hate feeling so disconnected from my family.
If only I was home, I would know the truth. ”