CHAPTER 17 #2
“You still seem angry with your father,” I say, noting that same darkness in his eyes that I saw for a moment in the Roland Garros locker room, the Wimbledon ballroom. Aurelio tries very hard to hide it, but it makes its way to the front in these anxious moments.
I catch him off guard. His brow crinkles. “No, Amy, no. I love my father.”
I lower my voice, trying to be gentle, but honest. “Both can be true. You can love him for the father he is and be angry for the moment he changed your life.” Aurelio gazes at me, lips parted. He leans back into the couch, stunned. “Has he ever apologized?”
“Many times,” Aurelio admits. “He says it’s what my mother wanted, and that’s why he did it. But… I wish they had thought about what I wanted, what I needed.”
I reach out and take Aurelio’s hand, threading our fingers together. “Maybe it’s time you forgive him.” There’s an ache in my chest when I think of Aurelio’s family, loving and generous, split apart by one secret, one mistake.
Aurelio exhales. “You think I should let go of my anger?”
I shrug. “You’re lucky that you have parents who would sacrifice everything for your happiness.” It doesn’t have to be said just how different my own situation is, Aurelio already knows.
I let him think it over. I can hear the A/C blasting through the vents, Aurelio’s deep breathing, my own heartbeat in my ears.
When he looks at me again, his eyes are softer, less frenzied.
“The truth is, he was just trying to please my mother. It was her idea to hide the truth from me. But I can’t be angry with her because she’s gone.
I won’t pollute her memory, so I take it out on my father instead.
” He rubs a weary hand over his face. “Which isn’t fair, as you say.
I must do better. I must trust his word on Nona’s condition. ”
“Did you try calling him?” I suggest. “Maybe he can explain everything better on the phone? You two could talk about how you’re feeling.”
He shakes his head. “It’s very late there. I sent a text, but he probably won’t see it until morning.”
I squeeze his hand. “Maybe that’s a good sign.
If it was really serious, he’d be up with your nona or waiting for you to respond.
He’s probably being overly cautious texting you in the first place because he knows you like to be informed after what happened with your mom.
Because he is sorry for how he treated you. ”
A faint smile spreads on Aurelio’s face. “You are much too logical, mia dolce.” He presses a gentle kiss to my cheek. “Thank you. I feel better when I’m with you.”
I lean my head against his shoulder. “I always feel that way.”
I’m sure a maintenance man will eventually come to clean up the media room and turn off the lights, but I cherish the quiet and Aurelio’s warm body next to me.
He leans his head against mine. He breaks the silence, voice low.
“A week until the U.S. Open. I think I will go to Rome after that. Take a break and see my family. Talk to my father and purge the anger between us.”
I close my eyes, imagining a happy Aurelio hugging his nona, shaking his father’s hand.
“I’m going to take a break, too.” I surprise myself by saying.
“Beck usually has me play a few more tournaments after the Open, but I think I need some time to myself. And time...” I take a deep breath, trying to be brave.
“Time to buy my own place. Move out of the Bowman compound.”
I’ve surprised Aurelio enough that he lifts his head, turning to look at me. “Move out of your father’s place?” His forehead crinkles in confusion. “And live with who?”
“By myself.” I smile at him. “It’s about time I find my own style, I think.”
When Aurelio kisses me, I can feel his smile. When he pulls away, my lips tingle. “I’m so proud of you.” He lifts a gentle hand to tuck a wayward strand of hair behind my ear. “Do you know where?”
I shrug. “I like California. Malibu. The beaches. I’ll probably keep that as my home base, but I don’t need a whole compound. And I definitely don’t need to leave my coach behind at a tournament only to find him at home.”
“I think it will help,” Aurelio encourages. “These changes will be good for both of you.”
“I’m going to tell Beck about us, too.” I peek up at Aurelio, gauging his reaction. “I figured I’d throw all the shocking information into one conversation.”
Aurelio’s fighting a grin. “Feel free to... what do you Americans say? Feel free to throw me under the bus, Amy. He’ll think this is all my fault anyway.”
“It is,” I say fondly, blush pinking my cheeks. “It really is your fault. You made me realize I deserved a life of my own.”
“Well...” He hooks an arm around my waist. “If I get to be a part of this life of yours, then I will happily take the blame.”
We’re both sweet and smiling and warm in each other's arms. I realize that Fernanda was right, all those nights ago on her hotel floor. That my feverish brain was right when I almost texted the words after Aurelio won Wimbledon.
I love Aurelio.
When I said it was his fault, all his fault, I meant it. His love has healed the parts of me I didn’t even know were bleeding. And, in rare moments like these, I like to think I do the same thing for him.
I open my mouth to say something, though I don’t know what—that I miss him when he’s gone? That I’m not sure what my love is worth exactly, but I’d give it all to him? That even saying those three words feels like lifting a five-hundred-pound weight with my tongue?
I don’t get the chance.
Aurelio’s phone pings, and he immediately opens the text.
He frowns at what he sees. “My father says not to worry. They think my nona just needs to rest.” Aurelio checks the time, worry sitting heavy in his brow.
“It’s four in the morning there. You said that it was a good sign he wasn’t sitting up with her. ”
“Maybe he rolled over and saw your text,” I suggest. “If he was sitting with her all night, would he say not to worry?”
Aurelio’s expression doesn’t change. “They said not to worry the day before my mother died.”
I lace our fingers together. “How about I go to Rome with you? After the Open? We can both check on Nona.”
His expression eases a touch. “You did promise to meet my family. My father was very disappointed he missed you at Wimbledon. He thought I was making you up.”
“Now I can meet them all at once.” I squeeze his hand. “It’s a date.” I pull him to his feet. “Come on. I think you need some rest, too. We both have a semifinal in two days.”
We walk out into the crisp darkness hand-in-hand. I can tell Aurelio is trying, a facade of cheerfulness settling on his features. He keeps glancing at his phone, even as we head towards the car.
He doesn’t look at the stars once.
*
I win a routine semifinal against Jasmine Moore.
Fernanda won hers against Halle Kendall yesterday in three sets, waving easily to the crowd after an exhausting 10-point tiebreak.
All four of us ate dinner together at Wimbledon a couple of weeks ago.
It’s strange to hug Jasmine at the net rather than the perfunctory handshake I used to do.
Fernanda and I will face off tomorrow.
Aurelio is set to face Charles Allard again in his semifinal, something I’m sure Charles is foaming at the mouth for. Without a coach, he’ll be looking to prove himself against Aurelio and make a statement.
After my match, I watch on the gym TV as Aurelio and Charles take the court.
Charles is projecting confidence, though I have to wonder if it’s fake.
He clearly fired his coach because Aurelio beat him at Wimbledon, a gutsy and reckless move.
Another loss to Aurelio could be fatal to his ego.
Aurelio looks tired, a bit rundown, avoiding the love from the crowd.
He’s been having trouble sleeping since he heard his nona was sick.
Even without Aurelio’s usual enthusiasm, the crowd is energized.
There are dozens of Italian and French flags waving in the crowd, devoted fans fighting their corner.
Tennis fans love the matchup, Allard the number one in the world, Aurelio up to number three.
I watch Aurelio robotically get ready, warming up his serve and missing quite a few into the net.
Hopefully, the crowd’s response will get him into the match.
I’m proven wrong almost immediately.
Aurelio starts by double faulting. When he makes a mistake, Aurelio usually just shakes it off and keeps going. This time, he rubs his eyes like he isn’t seeing clearly. He dribbles the ball off his foot and has to get a new one from the ball kid.
When he finally gets his serve in, it’s slow and heavy. Allard blasts it right past Aurelio on the return. Aurelio usually loves running his opponents ragged, but it’s like he’s wearing ankle weights. His step is heavy, his reactions stunted.
I’m not the only one who’s shocked when the match ends 6-1, 6-0.
Even Allard just claps Aurelio on the shoulder like an older brother would after the match. The Frenchman is no longer peacocking but instead looking at Aurelio with concern. When Aurelio walks off the court, he’s in a daze.
The match was so short Vince and I didn’t even fully finish my cooldown.
Vince voices what everyone is thinking. “What’s wrong with your boy? Do you know anything?”
I have my suspicions, but I wait until Aurelio walks into the gym.
He heads towards the bike right next to mine, on autopilot.
I don’t think he even sees me, eyes trained on the floor.
His head coach, Antonio, trails behind him worriedly.
He meets my gaze and shakes his head, unsure.
Aurelio gets on the bike, pedaling slowly.
I gently tap his shoulder. “Aurelio? Are you okay?”