Page 33 of Love, Amy

“So that’s where you get your love of sprinting,” I say wryly.

He smiles but doesn’t take the bait. “She was sensitive to the heat, so sometimes after her races, she would have hives like you do.” He opens up the paper bag and pulls out a to-go box. “My father always had an oat bath ready for her afterwards to help with them. The hotel didn’t have the finely ground oats that my father used, but I had them put their oats through the food processor, so I think it should still have the same calming effect.”

I can’t speak. I can’t understand what he’s saying. I refuse to understand.

He opens the lid to the to-go box. It almost looks like sand. “It’s soothing,” he promises. “Luckily, my room has a bathtub. I will go run the water for you and fetch a robe and towel. The water will be barely warm. Too much heat or cold makes the hives worse.”

And then he leaves me to go to the attached bathroom. I hear him run the water for the bath and open some cabinet doors, probably grabbing the proffered towel and robe.

I sit on the edge of the bed, feeling strangely lightheaded. I’m too afraid to tell my father about my hives. I’ve hidden them from him for months. Aurelio catches one glimpse and comes up with a whole treatment plan. I’m embarrassed to feel my eyes filling with tears, though I make sure not to let them fall. I always thought the way Beck treated me was the champion’s way. That if it was different from how other people loved, that was because our collective goal was more important than the love was. Now, I wonder if the way he treats me has nothing to do with being a champion. Aurelio is on the path to being a Grand Slam winner, a champion, and he treats me with such kindness. I don’t deserve it because I don’t know how to accept it.

A different girl would be better for him. Any other kind of girl, really.

I sniff a little, trying to gather myself. Aurelio catches my attention. “Amy?” He’s leaning in the doorway of the bathroom, watching me. He’s holding a plush white bath robe. He senses something’s off, rushing over to me. “You don’t have to take the oat bath.” He tosses the robe next to me, reaching for my hands. He leans down to look me in the eye. “If you think it’s....” he struggles to find the word, “Gross or something. I just wanted you to feel better.”

I take a deep breath, letting the air fill my lungs. I try very hard to say the right thing. “No, I’ll take the bath. It’s so thoughtful.” I look into his warm gaze. “You’re the kindest person I know, Aurelio.”

He shakes his head, a relieved smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. “Thank you, mia dolce.” His voice is low, liquid honey. “Come.” He tugs me to my feet, tossing the robe over his shoulder. He starts walking me towards the bathroom.

I can feel my eyes crinkle at the corners, that rare, genuine smile spreading across my face. “Don’t get a big head,” I warn him. “I really don’t know that many people.”

He throws his head back and laughs. He looks just like his mom in the picture. My heart warms at the sight. I wish I could take a picture of him in just his t-shirt, a spot of water at the hem from the bath, freckles popping in the bright lights of the bathroom, dimple marking his right cheek.

He drops my hand, checking the temperature of the bath. It looks fairly innocuous, like he’s put a very organic bath bomb into the water. You can no longer see the bottom of the bathtub, with the oats creating a textured white cream on the surface. “My mother always did twenty minutes,” Aurelio explains to me. “So, I’ll set a timer.” He places his phone on the edge of the sink, cuing up a timer. Then he turns to leave the bathroom.

A wave of insecurity hits me. “You’re leaving?” I ask. “You’re not staying...” I struggle with what I want to ask. “You’re not staying... with me?”

It doesn’t feel like the right time for the fantasy I have of Aurelio peeling off my new dress and throwing it on his bedroom floor, just as Fernanda predicted earlier, but for some reason it hurts that he’s not even tempted. We’re together, aren’t we? But how can we say that if we haven’t even slept together? The few short-lived relationships I’ve had before always started hot and heavy. Is there something wrong with us? Is Aurelio not attracted to me in that way?

He must see the confusion on my face. “The timing isn’t right.”

I cross my arms. “The timing?” I try to hold my body still, but my thoughts race ahead. Does he mean the hives? Does he not want to touch me now? Is this bath only so he can separate himself from the sight of me, red and itchy?

“Sì, the timing.” Aurelio takes a step towards me, the back of his hand brushing mine. We’re breathing the same air. I drop my arms to my sides, looking up at him. “I’ve wanted you in my bed for weeks, Amy. Months, really. Since that night in Melbourne.” My breath feels uneven in my chest. He reaches a careful hand to my cheek, his thumb tracing over my cheekbone. My eyes flutter closed, imagining us together, completely alone and unhurried, worshipful hands and mouths. “But I don’t want that night to be the same one where you were so worried about your father finding out about us that your body went into physical distress.”

The spell breaks. My eyes open. “These hives aren’t just about my father,” I snap. I take a step back from him. “About us.”

Aurelio raises a brow. “They aren’t? You said they were stress-related. A couple of excited twenty-year-olds from America caused them all on their own?”

My initial defensiveness evaporates in the face of his calm. He knows just as well as I do that facing judgement from the tennis world is nothing compared to my fear of being judged by my father. In one corner, there’s Aurelio. Aurelio, the best man I know. In the other, there’s my father. Beck Bowman, the man I know best. Tonight, confronted by the Americans and their eagerness, I wondered if I’d have to sacrifice one man for the other. My body knew before the rest of me—I’m not ready. I’m not ready to kill my relationship with one for the other, not yet.

And Aurelio senses my hesitation. Kind of a mood-killer.

I lift my nose in the air. “Fine,” I say primly. “If you want to wait, we can.”

Aurelio is relieved at my surrender. “Good.” He smiles again, boyish and warm. “I’ll leave you to it.”

He once again backs towards the door. His hand is on the knob when I call to him. “Aurelio.” As he turns around, I throw his sweater at him. He deftly catches it. “Here, I believe this is yours.”

“Amy,” Aurelio grumbles in warning, eyeing me in my dress. His gaze is sharper, hungrier. I feel a bolt of satisfaction go through me. “Play fair.”

With his dark gaze still on me, I reach an efficient hand towards the hem of my dress, pulling it off with ease. I toss it to Aurelio, practically hitting him in the face. “This, too,” I say sweetly. “It needs to be hung up, or it will wrinkle.” Even with the hives, I feel powerful in my black bra and underwear. I put my hands on my hips, eyeing him. “Do you need something?”

“Just get in the bath, Amy,” he says through gritted teeth. His knuckles are white around my dress.

I smile. “Will do.” Before I can take anything else off, Aurelio whirls away from me, shutting the door behind him. I can hear him mumbling curses in Italian.

There’s nothing wrong with us, I reassure myself as I climb into the bath.