Chapter 22
TWENTY-TWO
ALLY
To his credit, Drew spends less time at the hospital the following week.
On Monday I make beef fajitas for dinner, and we spend another evening watching TV.
He’s on call on Tuesday and doesn’t make it home, but Wednesday afternoon I find him asleep on the couch.
When he wakes up, he sheepishly explains that he was tired from operating all night, and it’s clear he still thinks naps are for the weak.
But it’s definitely progress.
I’ve been tempted to ask if he’s feeling better, now that he’s spending less time at work, but I haven’t. I have a sense that a tremor’s the kind of thing that gets worse if you think about it too much. So the last thing he needs is to be pestered for status updates.
On Thursday evening his OR runs late, and he doesn’t get home until I’m heading out for my soccer game.
“Where do you play?” he asks casually.
“Um, Helliwell Park.”
He frowns. “That’s halfway across town.”
“Yeah, but the bus stop’s just a block away.”
But Drew’s still frowning. “Take my car,” he offers, holding out his keys.
“Drew, I can’t drive your car. I take the bus all the time. I’ll be fine.”
“Ally, it’ll be getting dark on your way home,” he persists. “And I’m not going anywhere, so you might as well take the car.”
“No, I really can’t drive your car. I don’t have a driver’s license.”
“Oh.” Understandably, Drew looks surprised by this. Somerset’s not that big a city, and almost every functional adult has a driver’s license. It’s embarrassing to admit that I’ve made it to the age of twenty-six without acquiring this life skill.
But it’s still better than letting him think I lost my license for a DUI or something.
“I just never learned,” I explain. “When I turned sixteen, I was at a tennis academy in Florida, and a couple years later I went on the tour. Learning to drive wasn’t a priority.”
“Makes sense. I’ll drive you to soccer then.”
“You know I’ve been taking the bus by myself for years?”
He grabs his jacket. “I wouldn’t mind watching you play soccer.”
“It’s just a rec league,” I tell him. “We don’t usually get spectators—”
“Come on, Ally,” he says. “You told me not to work or go to the gym, so what else am I going to do? Sit on the couch by myself?”
“You could eat dinner,” I suggest. “There are leftovers in the fridge. Or watch TV, or read a book. Take a bubble bath, teach yourself to knit—”
“Let’s go, Ally.” His voice is stern, but the corners of his eyes are crinkling with amusement.
“Okay,” I give in and pick up the duffel bag that holding my soccer cleats and shin pads, and we head down to his car.
Drew is the only spectator at the soccer game, which we lose 2-1. I have a good game, though, and score my team’s only goal.
“You must have played a lot of soccer,” Drew says casually, on the drive home. “You’re really good.”
I feel myself blush at the compliment. “I played in a competitive league as a kid,” I explain. “But I had to give it up when I was eleven because I was so busy with tennis. I picked it back up last year, though. Not competitively, obviously, but I like it.”
“Never too late,” Drew says, glancing at me thoughtfully. “How about driving, any plans to pick that up?”
“I have a learner’s permit, actually,” I tell him. “My mom tried to teach me about a year ago, but it didn’t go that well.”
“Really?”
I shrug. “My mother kept trying to pump the brake, which of course was non-existent in the passenger seat.”
Drew grins. “Right.”
“I don’t think I’m a natural driver. And my mother has a Mercedes, and I was so stressed I was going to wreck it, so . . . it just didn’t go well.”
“Hmmm,” Drew says.
“I plan to sign up for driving lessons, eventually,” I explain. It’s what I should have done in the first place. “But I can’t afford a car right now, so it’s hard to be too motivated.”
“Makes sense,” Drew says as he turns into the condo parking lot.
“Thanks for driving me tonight,” I say as we walk to the elevator.
“No problem, Ally.”
On Friday morning, I wake up to a FaceTime call from Sarah Hayes.
“Hey, Sarah,” I say groggily, as I rub sleep out of my eyes.
“Shit, did I wake you up?” she asks. “What time is it there?”
“Six.”
“Sorry, I thought it was seven.”
“It’s okay, I have to get up soon, anyway,” I tell her. “Congrats again on the French.” We’ve texted, but this is the first I’ve spoken to Sarah since her French Open win.
She smiles. “Thanks.”
“What’s up?” I ask.
“Not too much,” she says, but she looks nervous. Clearly, something is up.
“You’re in England now, right?” Wimbledon starts in two weeks, so she’ll have jumped straight into grass court prep.
“Yeah,” she nods. “Since last week.” She hesitates for a beat. “Look, Ally, the reason I called is . . . I’ve been spending time with Piers, and well . . . we’re dating.”
“Piers Montclair?”
The question is unnecessary, because there’s no other Piers in tennis right now.
Piers Montclair is basically the Roger Federer of our generation: tall, Swiss, multilingual, and incredibly talented.
He’s two years older than Sarah and me, and he’s been number one on the men’s tour for most of the past year.
And I used to have a massive crush on him.
I spoke to him once, in the player’s lounge at the Australian Open during my second year on the tour. He told me I was playing really well, which wasn’t true. It was, however, very kind.
On the phone screen, Sarah gives me a guilty nod. “Yeah. We were staying at the same hotel in Rome last month, and we ended up having dinner together. Things just sort of went from there.”
“Sarah, that’s great,” I tell her. “Piers seems like really good guy.”
“Really?” The relief is evident in her voice. “I mean, yeah, he’s a great guy. But I know you kind of liked him at one time, so—”
“Yeah, but that was years ago,” I say quickly. It’s true; I haven’t thought of Piers in a long time. I might envy Sarah’s tennis success, but I don’t envy her this. “I’m happy for you, Sarah.”
“Thanks.” She sighs. “People were taking pictures of us at dinner last night, so it’ll probably hit the tabloids soon. I wanted to tell you before it made the news.”
“Ah.” I guess that’s one downside to dating Piers Montclair; people want to take pictures of you while you’re eating dinner.
“How’s everything with you?” Sarah asks. “Played any more tennis with your boss?”
I realize that even though we’ve been texting, it’s been over three weeks since I spoke to Sarah. She doesn’t know that Drew is no longer my boss, and we’ve done a lot more than play tennis.
“Yeah, we played again, actually,” I tell her. “And it was okay.”
The truth is, the second time we played was better than okay; it was fun. I was hitting well, and most of my serves went in. I’m nowhere near as good as I used to be, but I didn’t embarrass myself either.
“That’s great,” Sarah says. “Was the boss impressed?”
“I think so.” But the truth is, I don’t really know. My performance would have been really impressive if I’d only ever played casual tennis, but for a former pro, I’m not sure.
And I have a feeling Drew would have acted impressed regardless.
“Ally, where are you?” Sarah asks curiously. I glance at my phone and realize I haven’t been paying attention to where I’m pointing the camera. There’s enough light coming through the windows to show the room, and Sarah’s currently getting an image of the arm of the pull-out couch.
“I’m . . . I’m at Drew’s place, actually. He’s letting me stay in his spare bedroom.”
Sarah’s eyes widen. “And Drew is . . .”
“My former boss.”
“Alexandra Parker!” she exclaims. “You’re living with your boss?”
I tap my phone to turn down the volume on the speaker. The door to the room’s closed, so I’m pretty sure Drew can’t hear this, but I lower my voice anyway. “My former boss,” I repeat. “And I’m not really living with him . . .”
I pause, because I am quite definitely living with Drew. Just not in the way Sarah thinks.
I have a decision to make here; I could tell Sarah the same lie we’re telling everyone else, that Drew and I are in a relationship.
But I’ve known Sarah a long time, and lying to her doesn’t sit right.
And she doesn’t know anyone in Somerset, so it’s not like she could accidentally spill our secret.
“It’s a long story, Sarah,” I begin. “But basically, we’re pretending we’re in a relationship.” I explain about Peter and Nina Tate, and how Drew lied and said he was dating me.
“I don’t understand,” Sarah says. “I mean, why did he have to involve you at all? He could have said he was seeing someone long-distance, or just told this girl he didn’t want a relationship right now—”
“Oh, I asked him that,” I interject. “He said when he tells his sister he doesn’t want a relationship, she takes it to mean he just hasn’t met the right woman. And Nina would probably take it the same way. Or something like that.”
Sarah blinks at me for a second. “Seriously?”
I nod. “Yep. He said she’d see it as a challenge.”
Sarah giggles. “Ally, he sounds like an ass.”
“He’s not,” I say defensively, although I can see why that comment might make her think so. “He’s been really nice to me, actually. After what he said to the Tates, I was worried people would think I was sleeping with him, so he suggested we pretend to be in a relationship.”
Sarah looks confused. “How is that better?”
“This way, people can’t say we’ve got anything to hide,” I explain. “We disclosed the relationship to Human Resources and everything, so it’s all aboveboard. We’ll keep it up for three months, so it doesn’t seem like it’s just a fling.”
“And you decided you should move in together, to make sure everyone was convinced?” she asks slyly.
“There was a small flood in my apartment,” I explain. “So Drew suggested I move in here.”
“Ah,” Sarah says, and her expression changes. “You know, Ally, if you need money, I could—”
“No, I’m good,” I interrupt, before Sarah can offer me a loan, or an outright gift. “The apartment wasn’t really that bad, it’s just—since we’re pretending, it made sense to move in with Drew.”
“Hmm,” she says. “Whose idea was it? For you to move in, I mean?”
“His idea,” I tell her. “I could hardly invite myself to live with him.”
“Right,” she says. “And you’re sure this is pretend?”
“Of course.”
“Keep telling yourself that, then,” Sarah says with a grin.
After I say goodbye to Sarah, I jump in the shower. The Spring Fling Gala is tonight, and I want to blow dry my hair this morning so I won’t have to rush after work.
But as I stand in the shower, enjoying the feel of the hot water on my shoulders, I can’t get Sarah’s question out of my head.
For a man who claimed he wasn’t looking for a relationship, Drew’s behaving an awful lot like my boyfriend.
Even when it’s just the two of us in his condo, and there’s no need to put on a show.
He even told me about his tremor, and that’s definitely not the sort of thing you’d share with a casual acquaintance.
And that kiss last weekend, at Luke and Melissa’s barbecue? It took Drew a second to realize what was happening, a second in which I wondered if I’d made a huge mistake. But once he caught on, his response was instinctive, and if Luke hadn’t interrupted us, I’m not sure Drew would have stopped.
And the truth is, I didn’t want him to stop. I felt that kiss straight down to my toes, and it felt damned good.
And I got the feeling Drew was holding himself back. As though I was something very precious, and he had to show restraint. And ever since, I’ve been wondering how he would kiss if he let himself go.
There’s no denying we’ve got physical chemistry.
I’m aware of the irony here. If I’m not careful, I’m going to convince myself that when Drew said he wasn’t looking for a relationship, he really meant he hadn’t found the right woman. And that the right woman is me.
As I rinse the shampoo out of my hair, I resolve to put the kiss out of my head.