Page 31 of Love, Amy

He carefully slides the cup in my direction, happily picking up a strawberry macaron. “Here, try some.”

I take a small sip and then make a face. Aurelio doubles over laughing. I crinkle my nose at him. “You drink that every day?”

Aurelio gestures at my glass of sparkling water. “And what do you drink? Water?”

I put my nose in the air. “Happily.” I take a sip and let out a dramatic sigh.

Aurelio rolls his eyes. He picks up the chocolate croissant and cuts it in half. He puts one half of it on my plate. He also piles a chocolate macaron and several other small cakes onto my plate. I smile. “What are you doing?”

“Clearly, Beck Bowman is trying to starve you of joy. We must fit as much into tonight as we can.” I’m laughing along with his antics, but out of the corner of my eye, I think I see that same couple from earlier whisper when they hear Aurelio say “Beck Bowman.” A cold sweat starts on the back of my neck.

I don’t want to turn around and give them the satisfaction, so I try to stay focused on Aurelio. He’s telling a story about his nona and the homemade tiramisu she always makes for his dad’s birthday, but I can barely hear him. My wrist itches. I look down in my lap and notice a small hive right below my thumb. Suzy said they were related to stress, so I just need to calm down.

I take a deep breath. Aurelio is asking me what my favorite dessert is. To please him, I nibble on the edge of the croissant. “Mint chocolate chip ice cream has always been my favorite,” I tell him. “Ever since I was a kid.”

I try not to itch my wrist. I hope they’re not popping up in noticeable places. I’m regretting my revealing dress.

Aurelio makes a disgusted face. “Mint chip ice cream? Sounds very American.”

I’ve never thought of it that way. “I’ll have to get you some to try. Maybe at the U.S. Open.” I don’t even realize what I’ve promised until it’s out of my mouth. The U.S. Open is months away.

Aurelio’s eyes sparkle at me. “It’s a date.”

Now I’m sure I hear the words “Amy Bowman” out of the couple in the corner. They seem a couple years younger than us. College-aged maybe. Their accents sound American. They’re poring over the boy’s phone, scrolling through something. Pictures of me? An article?

I give in and itch my wrist. There are a few more hives carving a path up my forearm. My chest feels hot. I don’t want this evening to end with Beck screaming at me. I’m not ready. I’m not ready to fight. I feel like I can’t breathe fully.

Aurelio misses nothing. “Amy? Are you feeling well?” His eyes trace over me. Specifically, they focus on my neck, the hollow of my throat.

I lean across the table, lowering my voice. “Can we go? Please?”

He tries to follow my thoughts. “Of course, if you want to. We can ask for a box for our pastries...”

I nod. “Yes, please.”

As we stand up to go, the couple in the corner also scramble to their feet. I curse when I see their sweatshirts. Matching Roland Garros paraphernalia. They must be Americans who traveled here for the tournament. They start walking towards us, starry-eyed.

I put a hand to my chest. The hives are fully formed and red. Aurelio thinks quickly, eyeing the couple’s approach and my angry skin. He whips off his sweater, leaving him in a gray undershirt. He quickly passes it to me. “Here. Put this on.”

I do, breathing in his scent to calm myself. Aurelio steps halfway in front of me, shielding me from the two fans. “Excuse me,” the young man asks, “Are you Aurelio Santoro?” He peeks over Aurelio’s shoulder. “And Amy Bowman?”

I feel faint. They know who we are. Did they take pictures of us while they were in the corner? What if they post them on social media? I shouldn’t have brought us here. This is very different from sitting with Suzy.

“Yes,” Aurelio answers calmly. “It’s very nice to meet you.” He gives them a polite smile.

They grow even more excited. “Can we have a picture, please?” the girl asks, clutching her phone eagerly.

I have no answer, no way out. Thankfully, Aurelio steps in. “I would love to take a picture with you.” He accepts her phone. “But Amy isn’t feeling well. She’ll take the picture, though.”

The two of them can hardly argue, though I sense a little disappointment. Aurelio puts his arms around them, smiling sincerely at the camera. They grin, too. My fingers tremble a little, but I snap a few shots.

“Thank you!” They both gush over Aurelio, deciding to ignore me as he clearly wishes them to. “We’ll be watching at Wimbledon!”

Aurelio chuckles. “We’ll try not to disappoint you.”

They both hurry back to their table, gathering their things and heading downstairs. I don’t relax until they’re gone.

Aurelio walks over, gently wrapping an arm around me. He leans in close. “Do you want to go home, mia dolce?”