Page 63 of Love, Amy

He shakes his head. “Stop. You didn’t pull me into any drama. As far as I know, you and Aurelio didn’t have any drama. Your father overreacted.”

I look down at my feet. My socks are a little wet from how quickly I put them on after surfing. I can feel sand between my toes. “He was hurt,” I say quietly. “That I didn’t tell him about Aurelio. I can understand that.”

“But you didn’t tell him for a reason,” Vince says gently. “You knew he wouldn’t be happy.”

A lump rises in my throat. “He said the only reason I started dating Aurelio was as a distraction. That deep down I knew I didn’t have what it took to be a champion.” I finally look up at Vince. “Do you think that’s true?”

Vince hesitates, watching my face. “What do you think?”

“I don’t know,” I admit. My eyes burn with the effort not to cry. “I think he’s right that ever since Australia, I worry that I’ll never be a champion. That I’ll never be great. But I don’t think Aurelio had anything to do with that.” My voice wobbles a little. “He thought I could do it. He believed that I would win a Slam this year.”

“Do you know why Aurelio believed that? Why he still believes it?” Vince leans closer, face intent. I shake my head. “He thought that because you were the reason he won a Slam this year.”

I laugh again. “Stop, Vince. I’m the reason he has a black eye, not the reason he won Wimbledon.”

He doesn’t push, switching tactics. “Have you heard from him?”

“No.” I fold my hands together, squeezing tightly. “He went home. And I turned my phone off after the press release about Beck.”

“He released a statement yesterday,” Vince reveals. My eyes widen. “That his grandmother had pneumonia and was in the hospital for several days. She’s home safely now, with him and his family.”

“Oh, thank God.” I let out a sigh of relief. “Aurelio will be so happy.” I imagine him and his nona embracing in his childhood home. The lovely vision pops when I imagine her asking him about his black eye. I was supposed to meet her and the rest of his family. I was supposed to fly to Rome right after Cincinnati. A Bowman like me would be a black mark on such a lovely family, just as the bruise my father left on Aurelio’s face is.

“He also said,” Vince continues, “That he’s hoping to make it back for the U.S. Open next week.”

I don’t say anything. I know what he wants, but I don’t know how to give it to him.

Vince throws his hands up in the face of my silence. “Amy! Are you giving up? I’ve seen the toxic love between you and your father. But I’ve never seen that between you and tennis. Why are you ending your season early?”

I stand up, clenching and unclenching my fists. “I don’t want to stop playing!” I say, frustration boiling through me. “But I don’t know tennis on my own! I don’t know tennis without Beck in my corner. I don’t know if I can do it!”

Vince smiles for the first time since he arrived. He pulls out his phone, tapping a few times. “You don’t have to do it on your own, Amy. Here’s proof of that.” He puts the phone in my hand, which I hear faintly ringing. “I’m going for a walk. I’ll be back in twenty.”

I put the phone up to my ear.

“Did you find her?” A voice asks frantically on the other end.

I smile. “Fernanda.”

A pause, and then, “Amy?” Another pause. “Where the hell have you been?”

“Sorry.” I swipe at a cold droplet of water trickling down my neck. “It’s been a crazy few days.”

“I’d say,” she says darkly. “I saw your Instagram post. What happened in Cincinnati? The hotel was buzzing with crazy rumors.”

I wander out onto the balcony of my apartment. I sit in one of the rocking chairs and watch the waves below. It takes me a moment to find the courage to share all the worst parts of me and my father. But strangely, once I start talking, it all spills out easily.

I tell her everything.

*

Fernanda responds to the news just as I expected. She curses at my father in Spanish, she makes sympathetic noises when I tell her about Aurelio’s eye and his nona, she compliments my quick thinking when I tell her about my new apartment.

And then, she gets organized. “Why are you pretending you don’t have a phone?” she demands. “The people who love you want to hear from you. I had no idea where you were. It’s the first time I won a trophy without even playing a final match.”

I feel warmer to be lumped into Fernanda’s loved ones. “I should have reached out. I’m sorry,” I apologize again. “I didn’t want to field calls from the press about my coaching change.” I think about the pictures of me and Aurelio online holding hands. “Or about Aurelio and me.”

“Definitely go with ‘no comment,’” Fernanda agrees. “But me and Aurelio and the girls, you can’t disappear on us. You promised.”