Page 20 of Love, Amy

A ping from my phone interrupts my swirling thoughts. I step into the cool air of the gym, take a deep breath, and open the text.

Aurelio:

I can’t wait.

Vince calls me over to where he’s waiting beside some yoga mats. He takes in my expression. His brow furrows. “I heard you got into it with your dad. What’s got you smiling so much?”

I hurriedly shove my phone into my pocket. “Nothing.”

But his knowing expression follows me the rest of the afternoon.

*

Fortunately for my tired brain, the rest of the afternoon passes in a blur of activity. After an hour of yoga with Vince, I meet with the Roland Garros marketing team to film a few TikToks where we answer trivia questions about the tournament and Paris. I fail horribly at the Paris-related questions. It’s sad that I’ve been coming to Paris every year for a decade but still haven’t visited most of its famous landmarks.

That evening, I’m supposed to attend a Women’s Tennis Association, or WTA, dinner. It’s a gala event where we raise money for programs that encourage young women to engage in sports. It’s my third year going, and Oscar de la Renta sent over a gorgeous, silky black gown for the occasion. The expensive garment bag is already hanging on my closet door when I come back from doing press. I quickly shower, scrubbing the residue of my anger and sweat away. I haven’t seen or heard from Beck all afternoon. He’s probably doing his own press, one of the few coaches to get just as many interviews as their players. After I get out of the scalding shower, I pin my wet hair up into a sleek topknot and create a brown smoky eye to go with the look.

When I pull the dress out of the bag, I’m shocked by its beauty. It looks like a pool of ink. There’s a high neck in the front, and a low cowl in the back. The only thing holding the dress up is a ribbon around the neck and another one around the small of my back. I tie the ribbons into bows and slide on my heels. I head towards the door and immediately notice a problem—the dress is a little too long. Maybe my measurements were off, or maybe they anticipated I’d wear higher heels, but the dress pools around my feet, dragging on the floor. I need to be careful, or I’ll trip.

I take a deep breath, grab my clutch off the dresser, and brave the hotel hallway. Almost immediately, I have to step around a housekeeper with a cart. She apologizes profusely, hurrying to get out of my way. I stumble to the side, stepping on the dress and tearing it. The sound it makes is tragic. “Shit.” I pull the hem free, lifting it off the floor. There’s a decent rip in the delicate silk. Maybe not noticeable from afar, but certainly up close.

I hear a door open down the hall. “Amy?” Fernanda’s smooth voice calls. “Everything okay?”

She’s also dressed for the gala, wearing a sparkly gold dress with a corset that resembles armor. Her long, dark hair trails over her shoulder. She looks like she’s going to the Oscars. I feel small as she approaches, peering down at the tear in my dress. She must be nearly 6’4” in her heels. “I stepped on it,” I explain. I stare longingly at my hotel door, but I know I don’t have anything appropriate hiding in my suitcase.

Surprisingly, Fernanda’s face brightens once she sees the damage. She digs around in her clutch bag. “Here!” She unearths a tiny sewing kit. “We can use this. Anika gave it to me last year when the same thing happened to me!”

Before I can respond, she kneels down on the hallway floor, needle in her mouth, and fixes my dress. I stand still, at her command, but inside, I’m reeling. Is it possible that Fernanda is an entirely different woman in real life than the one I imagined in my head? I think back to the conversation Aurelio and I had in the locker room. Can Fernanda and I exist as ourselves and not just as the opponents we are on the court?

It only takes her a few minutes to expertly stitch up the tear. She even makes sewing in a sequined gown look easy. “Thank you.” I run my fingers over her work. With the black thread, you can hardly see the damage. “You didn’t have to do that.”

She’s aghast. She puts a hand on her chest. “Of course I did! We girls have to stick together.” I notice she’s changed her nails. The background color is a deep burgundy, but each one has a golden firework exploding across the darkness. They’re so very Fernanda.

She hooks her arm through mine, dragging me towards the elevator. “Do you want to ride with us? I always get a big limo for the event. It’s way more fun to ride together.”

When we get to the lobby, I see a posse of seven or eight women, including the ones I sat with at breakfast. They’re already laughing and talking amongst themselves. They’re excited, I realize. To do something away from tennis, for a good cause, in fancy dresses, together. Last year, Beck said this gala was a waste of time. He pouted the whole time I got ready.

I don’t pull away from Fernanda’s arm. “Sure,” I say, looking up at her. “I’d love a ride.”

She smiles like she knew my answer before I gave it. I’m not even mad. Turns out, Fernanda’s planning and scheming is often for the good of others. I’m just happy to be included this time around. That for once, I said yes.

*

By the time the limo rolls back up to the hotel afterwards, we’re all exhausted from dancing and a little tipsy from champagne. Fernanda squeezes my hand in the lobby as the other girls disperse to their rooms. “I’m glad you came with us, Amy. It wasn’t so bad, was it?”

Her question interrupts my intense focus on pulling the bobby pins out of my hair. “Wasn’t so bad?” I echo. “What do you mean?”

She watches me carefully. “It just seems like you’ve always avoided us in the past. Like maybe you thought you were above having friends.” I should have realized Fernanda picked up on it. She’s smart as a whip. “But having friends is nice, isn’t it?”

I’m too tired to pretend she’s wrong. I just nod. “Yeah, I think it is.”

She holds out her hand. “Give me your phone.” I pass it over wordlessly. She types in her number and snaps a quick selfie for the contact photo. She’s pouting for the camera. I shake my head at her, but she just hands the phone back to me. “In case you need me.”

“Thanks,” I tell her. “Tonight was nice.” The words feel ridiculous coming out of my mouth, but I can tell they please Fernanda. She loves it when a plan falls into place, and finally, I’m cooperating.

She steps back, heading towards the bar. “Until we meet on the court, Amy. Then we can go back to your version of things.” She winks. I have to smile a little at her antics. “I’m meeting Angelina for a nightcap. I’ll see you soon.”

I give her a wave and then make a beeline for the elevators. I hardly ever wear heels, and my feet are killing me. I promised Aurelio I would get up early for our walk, and I don’t want to go back on my word. I need to peel away gala-Amy and replace her with sleep mask-Amy.