Page 78 of Love, Amy

Beck:

I know you can win a Grand Slam.

It’s the closest I’ll come to an apology for what happened in Cincinnati. I’m supposed to meet Vince downstairs in five minutes, but I stand frozen in my hotel room, tennis bag digging into my shoulder. I can hear Aurelio in the shower. I decide to respond to Beck with the truth.

Amy:

You only care because Charles lost in the semis. If he was still playing, I wouldn’t exist.

A small part of me, the little Amy that still remembers being left at Beck’s front door, wants to believe her father. That he only said those awful things in Cincinnati because he was angry about my lies. But the larger part, the one that can’t ignore years of Beck’s behavior, knows the truth. He’s addicted to winning tennis matches, and I’m his next fix. If I had lost already, he’d just say that he was right all along. Beck replies quickly, ready for my scathing response.

Beck:

What can I do, Amy, to convince you that I care?

My fingers tighten around my phone, mirroring the rising tide of fury in my chest. What can he do? What can he do? I grit my teeth, fingers flying across the keyboard.

Amy:

You can stop trying to be my coach and just be my dad.

This time, it takes him longer to respond. Maybe because we both know how impossible my request is. He finally texts a simple question.

Beck:

What would a regular dad do?

I roll my shoulders back and release the breath I was holding. The anger in me abates, replaced by a splintering sadness. My chest aches. I throw my drowning father one last lifeline, unsure if the coach in him will let him catch it.

Amy:

Sit in the crowd and cheer for me, no matter what happens. If you can do that, maybe there’s hope.

I’m about to shove my phone in my pocket, ready to ignore him the rest of the day and focus on my match, when I decide to send one more message. One more warning.

Amy:

And stay away from Aurelio.

I snatch my hotel key off the dresser and head towards the door. “Bye, Aurelio!” I call. “I’ll see you at the match!”

I hear the shower turn off and Aurelio’s quick, wet footsteps on the tile. He sticks his head out the bathroom door, a towel around his waist, drops of water clinging to his sculpted chest. “Good luck, mia dolce.” He looks serious for once, fierce. “I believe in you.”

I walk over and press a kiss to his wet cheek. “Thank you.” I smile. “I believe it, too.”

Without giving Beck a second thought, I hurry out the door.

I have a final to win.

*

My father isn’t the only person who texts me the day of the U.S. Open Final. My mom sends a picture with a silver-haired man holding up stemless wine glasses in front of the TV.

Mom:

Paul and I are all prepped and ready for your big night!!

I’ve never heard of Paul before, but I hope it lasts for her. She looks happy in the picture, the smile lines around her eyes more pronounced than the last time I saw her. I remember wincing at the anger, the vitriol in her Wimbledon hit-piece. Maybe she realized that being angry at Beck is like being angry at the sun. He’ll exist, untouched and golden forever. It’s better to protect yourself from being burned than wish he’ll disappear. Maybe she saw his livestream where he said, “We hardly know the woman,” and she realized it was true. She’s been sending more of these random texts, as though feeling me out. I respond with a heart emoji. I’ll call her tomorrow and when I talk to her, I’ll make sure she’s getting Amy the person, not Amy the tennis god’s daughter.