Chapter 14 #2
He’s traded his tennis kit for a tuxedo this evening, as he’s attending the closing of a Rothko retrospective hosted by the Fondation Louis Vuitton, a contemporary art museum that looks like a glass Sydney Opera House.
A former brand ambassador for the French luxury giant, Leo happily accepted the foundation’s invitation.
He wanted to snap out of his tennis mindset even for a couple hours, but now, staring at this painting, he feels as if he’s staring down at the baseline of a clay court before he serves.
The court’s red dirt shows his own broad strokes throughout the match, mapping each point with the marks of where he had to slide and glide to reach the ball in time.
After each set, the messy court is smoothed over with a gentle raking and hosed down to add moisture.
The lines are then carefully restored, creating a fresh slate for play to begin again, a process that never ceases to soothe him.
A clay court is an art form all its own.
He’s far from soothed, though, sitting on this bench, overthinking how to approach Gabe after weeks of suffering in silence.
With Gabe having lost his round of sixteen match, too, Leo can safely assume he’ll be leaving in Paris in a couple days.
He’s running out of time. What would he say to him?
What would he expect Gabe to say back? What would it mean if they were together?
What would that even look like? Is he prepared for that?
Did he tie his bowtie correctly tonight?
While he would love to be pondering this whole situation in grander terms right now—given the sublime painting in front of him, the sophisticated setting of the exhibition he’s attending—he simply cannot. So, here he is, in a gallery surrounded by a who’s who of Paris, thinking, This sucks balls.
Among the who’s who is Louis Vuitton’s newest brand ambassador, Leo’s successor: a hunky nineteen-year-old Greek tennis player who seems to have been crafted by the gods themselves in the image of Adonis.
He’s being shuffled around the event, shown off to every guest by the foundation’s director.
As if it weren’t already abundantly clear that Leo has been replaced by an actual child, the small patches of acne on both of this kid’s cheeks only serve to prove the point further.
He’s still a teenager! With zits! He probably uses Neutrogena acne wash!
Suddenly, Leo feels like he’s giving AARP, too. Thank God there’s champagne here.
“Got you another glass,” Sheryl says, returning from the restroom and taking a seat beside Leo on the bench. His date for the evening, she’s in a midnight-blue mesh gown.
“I probably shouldn’t,” Leo says.
“Oh, go for it,” she says, handing him the flute. “You had a great week. And Julianne Moore just complimented my dress in the restroom. I need to toast to that.”
“Okay, I’ll toast to that,” Leo says. “You do look beautiful, Mom.”
“Thanks for bringing me tonight, Leonardo.”
“Of course. Thanks for coming to watch me play.”
When Leo turns back toward the painting, still feeling sulky, he can feel his mom’s eyes lingering on him. They sit quietly for a moment.
“Your art looked like this as a kid,” she says, studying the piece now.
“My art looked like Rothko?” he asks, mockingly.
“They’re just big messes of color,” she says.
“Mom, they will throw you out of here if you don’t lower your voice,” Leo says, laughing a little.
“Okay, well you know what I mean, honey. You colored all over the page back then, kind of like these. You didn’t care if you colored outside the lines. You’d hand me your big mess of color, smiling ear to ear, so proud of yourself.”
Leo looks at her warmly, and she considers the painting again.
“I haven’t seen you smile like that in a long time,” she says. “I haven’t seen you that proud of yourself in a long time.”
He looks at her inquisitively.
“But there it was, that smile. Earlier this year. You looked like a kid again, at least from what I could see in photos on Instagram or watching your matches. Your dad would be coaching from the couch, shouting his advice at the screen. But I was so focused on that smile. And seeing it in person in Miami? Especially in your doubles matches? That was him. That was my Leo.”
“Mom, what do you—”
“I haven’t seen you like that much this spring, or here in Paris,” she continues. “And I don’t know everything that goes on in that head of yours anymore. I know that. But I haven’t seen you practicing or playing with Gabe anymore. You haven’t mentioned him when you call me anymore, either.”
Leo is staring at her intently now.
“I was so happy that you two were getting along after what happened at your last match against each other. I’m sure he’s appreciated having you close this year, too.
It made me so proud to know you were stepping up and being there for him when I bet a lot of people have kept their distance,” she says, leaning in closer.
“I could be way off the mark here, but if I’m not, I hope you don’t lose touch with him.
I can tell he’s special to you. Am I way off the mark? ”
He shakes his head no, and she gives him a knowing smile. He’s kept this part of himself locked away so tight for so long, and as his mom allows him to finally open it, the overwhelming relief fills his eyes with tears.
“You don’t have to stay inside the lines all the time, honey,” she says, putting a hand on his knee. “I know that’s your job in this sport. But if he makes you happy, if he brings out that version of you I remember from when you were younger, you should keep him close.”
It’s surreal for Leo, having this conversation with his mom, realizing that maybe she’s known for longer than he thought. But he doesn’t let his surprise keep him from seizing the moment, an opportunity to let her in further, to seek her advice. “Mom, I think I really hurt him.”
“Well,” she says calmly, “if he’s hurting, it’s because he cares about you, too. And if he cares about you, I think he’ll hear what you have to say. You’ll do the right thing. I know you will.”
Leo bites the inside of his lower lip. “You don’t,” he starts, finding the words, “care that he makes me happy?”
“Leo, that’s all I’ve ever wanted for you.
I should have told you that. I should have made sure you knew that,” she says, her eyes filling up, too.
She grabs his hand, squeezing it tight. “I think you’ve probably heard enough motherly wisdom now, but let me just say one more thing before we get back to the party. ”
She takes a sip of her champagne.
“Your dad and I were just engaged when he was diagnosed. A lot of people, my own mother included, weren’t sure I should go through with marrying him.
They weren’t afraid to tell me that, either.
I know they thought they were looking out for me.
They didn’t want me to struggle, caring for him, watching him get worse.
But a lot of people can be wrong, Leonardo.
Whatever happens with you two, or with someone else down the line, don’t give up on a person just because your relationship isn’t what other people think it should be,” she says, then gives him a conspiratorial look. “Fuck ’em.”
Leo’s staring at her, expressionless, in awe. He throws his arms around her.
After a moment, she pulls away, saying, “Now, let’s take a walk around the room and see if any other celebrities compliment my dress.”
She links his arm, pulling him up off the bench.