Page 50 of Love, Amy

I’m happy I won with my family here. I could feel my mother watching me.

I wish you were here, too. I miss you.

I can see that he tries a new tactic here, trying to move on from my match against Fernanda. He probably assumes that I’m avoiding the topic. He’s not wrong.

Finally, around one in the morning, he sent an audio file.

When I open it, the beautiful music of Vivaldi fills the penthouse. It sounds like a dream, like our first dance under the stars, when we were strangers. My eyes fill with tears, though I try hard to blink them back. Sometimes you know that if you start crying, you’ll never stop.

I put the file on a loop, so it keeps playing, and then lay the phone on my chest, over my heart. I close my eyes, begging the darkness to take me again.

Instead, all I can think about is that I wanted to send Aurelio three words, but I sent three heart emojis instead.

The song feels the same way, but much better.

I drift off to sleep, bittersweet tears clinging to my lashes.

*

I knock on Beck’s hotel room door, wearing the loathed silver dress. He makes me wait a few beats before he answers. When he opens the door, I’m not surprised to see he’s already dressed for the ball. He wears a beautiful black tuxedo and matching shiny shoes. Usually, black tie is a signal that my father will be his best, most charming self. The version of Beck Bowman who complimented me in front of the world at his anniversary ceremony a few weeks ago.

So, I am a little surprised to see dark circles under his eyes as he hovers in the doorway. I wonder if it’s because he feels bad about how he behaved at the match. Or worse, how I behaved.

I try to remain business-like, exactly as I vowed to myself in the mirror this morning. “Are you coming?” I ask, shifting from one silver heel to the other. “Vince is waiting for us in the lobby.”

My father’s brow furrows. “You got Vince a ticket?”

I don’t tell him that I desperately wanted a friendly face, so I begged the Wimbledon organizers to give me an extra ticket. They only gave in when they heard Vince was Barbara Dade’s younger brother. Instead, I lift one shoulder in a casual shrug. “He’ll have fun. He needs a day off.”

Beck doesn’t protest my assessment which causes another alarm bell to ring. He just rubs his chin, staring at me. “What?” I narrow my eyes at him. “Are you ready?”

I stayed in bed for hours this morning, mentally working myself up to the Wimbledon Ball. A tradition that isn’t replicated at any of the other Grand Slams, the winner’s ball is one of the greatest parts of becoming a Wimbledon champion. You get to rub elbows with old tennis legends, millionaires, and the opponent you just beat on the court.

For me, it’s an exercise in torture.

The only plan that got me out of bed was to detach and avoid. I’ll pretend for the evening that I just “lost my cool” at the match. I’ll laugh and shrug if anyone brings it up. I’ll treat my father like a coach and nothing more. It’s the best survival strategy for me after such a public meltdown. I don’t have another big tournament for a few weeks, so Beck and I can deal with the actual fallout then. Plus, Fernanda and Aurelio deserve the Amy that’s happy for them. I’m determined to be that Amy tonight.

They deserve my joy more than Beck deserves my anger.

Beck hesitates. “Will you come inside for a minute?”

The formal, polite tone he uses throws me off. “Sure,” I answer, cautiously stepping into the room with him. “But we don’t want to be late.”

After the door is closed behind me, he cuts to the chase. “I got a call from the WTA today.”

“The WTA?” I echo. “Why?” The WTA manages all of the players in our league. They help with the world ranking system, the tournaments and scheduling, our insurance, and other business ventures. It’s like if the NFL commissioner called Patrick Mahomes. Either spectacularly good or spectacularly bad. Considering the week I’m having, I’m guessing it’s the latter.

Beck cracks his knuckles. A nervous tic. “They’re ‘worried’ about our relationship.”

I cross my arms. “Me, too.”

He huffs. “They wanted to reach out and offer their assistance in repairing our relationship. They offered counseling services.”

It hits me all at once. “Because of what you said? At the match?”

Beck’s eyes glimmer with anger. “And what you did, Amy.”

His impatience sparks my own. “So? We don’t have to accept the help. They won’t take it any further, not when it’s Beck Bowman on the other line.” Even as I say it, I wonder if it’s true. Has his reputation taken too many hits? I think back to my mother’s magazine article, ripping Beck to shreds. I think back to Suzy, quitting in disgust because of my father’s behavior. I think of Vince, who quietly rebels against everything my father believes in. How many people that really know my father would go to bat for him? Would I, if pushed?