Page 49 of Love, Amy

Instead, I wince as the memory of my double fault in the tiebreaker takes over. My father’s voice whispers in my ear, “I do everything I can to help. To make her better. But some players just aren’t champions.”

I try to scrub off my shame in the shower, but I’m not sure it works. I feel raw, like if one person looks at me wrong, I’ll shatter to pieces. Everyone calls me Amy Bowman, ice princess. But maybe I’m more like an ice sculpture, carved by my father. Today, he took a mallet to his creation, frustrated at its imperfections. There’s no way to fight back against what made you.

I know I need to turn on Aurelio’s match, but I’m worried about what I’ll see. If he’s losing, this day will become even darker. If he’s winning, I don’t know if I can be the supportive partner he deserves. I don’t know if I’ll be able to hide my jealousy, my hunger for the trophy he holds. I want desperately for him to win it, to hug Bianca in the stands, to dedicate the win to his mother’s memory. Amy the person knows that nobody deserves it more than Aurelio.

Amy the tennis player has always been a bitch.

I throw on the Italian Tennis t-shirt Aurelio gave me and pad over to the giant bed in the middle of the room. I turn back the covers and sink into the mattress. I desperately want to close the curtains and go to bed, even though it’s barely 8 p.m.

Instead, I take a deep breath and turn on the TV. It’s mounted on the wall across the bed, huge and bright in the relative darkness.

I knew there was a good chance Aurelio would be winning. He’s ranked higher than Joaquin and has significantly more experience. What I didn’t expect was to see Aurelio absolutely dismantling the American. I sit up straight in bed, wide eyes scanning the scorebox.

They’ve only been playing for about an hour and a half, but Aurelio is already up two sets, 6-2, 6-1. Not exactly a close scoreline. He only needs to win one more set to win the Wimbledon trophy. I watch Aurelio closely, looking for nerves, frustration, unease. Instead, he looks perfectly calm and in control. I wonder if he’s even having any fun, beating his opponent so badly.

The third set continues the trends from the first two. Aurelio is serving beautifully, hitting his spots and pushing the pace. Joaquin has a lot of passion, but his frustration leads to numerous errors out wide. He even hits one wild ball straight up into the balcony and starts laughing in disbelief. Aurelio’s play is soothing in its consistency. I lean back into the pillows to watch. He really is mesmerizing. I can tell the crowd wants it for him. He beat Charles Allard in the semis; he deserves to reap the rewards.

The set ends up being a little closer than the first two as Joaquin does everything he can to stay in the fight. My eyes begin to droop as they hit a 20-ball rally. The repetitive smack of the rackets is almost lulling me to sleep. It’s fully dark outside now, the clock hitting 9:30 p.m. I closed the curtains, but not very well, as the stadium lights spill through the small gap I left. The light doesn’t interrupt my bone-deep exhaustion.

Just stay awake long enough to see him win, I promise myself.

It’s an agonizing final fifteen minutes, but Aurelio wins the third set, 6-4. He stands there, frozen for a moment, looking in disbelief at the crowd. They get to their feet, whistling and stomping. The commentators heap compliments on Aurelio. Even Joaquin just shakes his head and grins when he meets Aurelio at the net.

After congratulating his opponent, Aurelio takes a quick lap around the court to wave at everyone. He has tears in his eyes and a lovely smile on his face.

Blearily, I reach for my phone. I know I need to say something, but I don’t know what. Anything too cheerful will feel fake; Aurelio will see right through it. But he doesn’t deserve the suffocating presence of my sadness, either.

Finally, I send him:

Amy:

I knew you could do it. Congratulations, Aurelio.

I wonder if he’ll read the impersonal text and be able to tell through the phone that I almost sent three words instead. Three words that would outshine any of my complicated feelings.

But I’m not brave enough. I’m not awake enough.

Instead, I hit the green heart emoji three times and put my phone face down on the nightstand. Suzy always said that a bad loss disappears after a good night of sleep. I lost more than a tennis match tonight.

Just as I’m drifting off to sleep, I hear my phone buzz a few times. I’m sure it’s Aurelio.

I turn away from the phone.

*

I wake up at 5 a.m., as though I need to get up for my usual walk with Aurelio. It’s even darker outside my window now than it was before, the stadium lights finally dim. The quiet that felt so comforting hours ago now feels a little like emptiness, like loneliness. How embarrassing is it that I miss Beck’s snoring next door? How embarrassing is it that I asked for this change, but at the same time, I don’t feel ready for it?

I try to resist the urge, but I eventually grab my phone off the nightstand. I squint at the blinding screen, seeing that I have a plethora of notifications. Fernanda texted me four times. I ignore those. Vince texted me twice, asking me if I’m okay. I just tell him that I have a new room and that I’ll see him at the Wimbledon Ball later today. Beck hasn’t said a word, but what did I expect? For him to bang on my penthouse door and apologize? Not his style.

Aurelio called me twice, which shows how deeply I was sleeping. Usually, with our travel schedules, I’m sensitive to the phone ringing at strange hours. When I didn’t call him back, he texted.

Aurelio:

Amy, how are you? Where are you?

That message is timestamped first. I hate that he was worrying about me instead of celebrating his win. About 15 minutes later, he texts again.

Aurelio: