Chapter 33
THIRTY-THREE
ALLY
There’s a quote written above the players’ entrance to Wimbledon’s Center Court, that reads:
If you can meet with triumph and disaster
And treat those two impostors just the same
It’s from the poem If, by Rudyard Kipling, and it does put things in perspective. I found it comforting when I was on the tour, this idea that nothing is ever as good or as bad as it seems.
And you can take it further, and convince yourself that love is an impostor, too. A placebo that makes it easier to get out of bed in the morning.
So on Friday, as I watch Sarah play her third round match, I tell myself I wasn’t in love with Drew Malone. The act of pretending simply tricked my brain into believing I was. Because if I wasn’t in love, I must not be heartbroken.
And I tell myself I’ll get over it, the way I got over the loss of my tennis dream. I only met Drew a couple of months ago, so it should be a hell of a lot easier to get over him.
Except . . . I miss Drew so much I ache with it, in a way I never ached for tennis.
And if triumph and disaster are both impostors—if love is an impostor—what’s the point of any of it? Why does anyone bother to get out of bed in the morning?
I haven’t heard from Drew, which shouldn’t be a surprise. It’s what I was hoping for when I wrote him the note. A clean break.
Next to me, Sarah’s parents stand to cheer, and I realize Sarah’s just won a tough point. I jump to my feet and cheer with them.
I resolve to put Drew Malone out of my head. And to remember that the reason I got out of bed today was to watch my best friend play in one of the biggest tournaments of her career.
Right now, the focus needs to be on Sarah’s tennis.
I still haven’t told her that I quit my job, or that I’d like the job as her PA.
It would raise too many questions, and I’d end up telling her about Heather.
And about Drew. I’ll tell her all of it eventually—she’s my best friend—but until this tournament is over, I’m going to pretend.
Sarah wins the next point, too, and goes on to win the match in straight sets. I leap to my feet again, and cheer with my whole heart.
The text message comes late Friday afternoon, when we’re back at Sarah’s rental house discussing what to order for dinner.
Drew: I’m in London for the weekend. Have dinner with me tonight?
I stare at my phone, feeling disoriented. Drew never mentioned he was coming to London this weekend. It’s only six o’clock here, which means it’s noon in Somerset, and he should be running a clinic right now.
Me: What are you doing in London?
Maybe he’s here for a conference or something. Because surely he didn’t fly to London for me?
Before I can ask Google if there are any neurosurgery conferences in London this weekend, Drew’s reply pings back.
Drew: Asking you out to dinner.
My heart soars; he came to London for me.
Then my head warns me not to be crazy. Drew didn’t exactly say he followed me here. Maybe some rich Brit flew him out here to give a second opinion on a neurosurgical issue, and he decided to look me up because we were in the same city.
My phone pings again:
Drew: I’m at The Percival in Mayfair. I can book a table here, or I can come to you.
“What’s your vote for dinner, Ally?” Sarah’s mother asks. “Thai or Italian?” I glance up from my phone to find Sarah and her parents looking at me expectantly.
“Oh, sorry. Actually, a friend just messaged to ask if I can meet for dinner. Would you mind if I went out?”
“Of course not,” Sarah says. “Anyone I know?”
“Just a friend from back home,” I say, hoping my cheeks aren’t as red as they feel.
Mercifully, no one seems to notice I’m blushing, or if they do, no one comments. I reply to tell Drew I’ll meet him at the Percival.
But fifteen minutes later, when I’m rummaging through my suitcase for something to wear, Sarah knocks on my bedroom door.
“You have a date, huh?” she asks when she’s closed the door behind her.
“I think so,” I admit, and I feel my cheeks heating again. “Maybe.”
“Anyone I know?”
“It’s Drew, actually. From back home.”
Her eyebrows go up. “The neurosurgeon? What’s he doing in London?”
“I’m not sure, actually. He might be here for a conference or something.”
“Or he followed you here,” she teases.
“Right,” I say, with a roll of my eyes to show her what I think of that suggestion.
I think I’m afraid to believe it’s possible.
“Where’s he taking you?” Sarah asks.
“The Percival. He’s staying there.”
Her eyebrows go up again. “Let me know if you decide to sleep over.”
I take the Tube to The Percival, an upscale hotel in the middle of Mayfair. I’m fifteen minutes early to meet Drew, so I head to the bar off the lobby. It’s full of well-dressed people, and I wish I was wearing something fancier than my navy linen wrap dress and wedge sandals.
And then I spot Drew, sitting at the bar in a charcoal gray suit, and I forget about what I’m wearing.
Because Drew’s staring at me like he’s been stranded in the desert for a week, and I’m a drink of water.
He stands and walks toward me, and there’s no longer any doubt.
He came to London for me.
“Of course he did,” Drew says, and I realize I spoke the words aloud. “You left him with a note.” His tone is light, but there’s a storm of emotion in his dark eyes.
“I’m sorry, Drew. I shouldn’t have left like that.”
His expression softens. “No, Ally, I . . .” he trails off and reaches for my hand. “Let’s sit down.”
“You didn’t have to work today?” I ask, as he leads me to a table in the back corner of the bar.
“I called in a favor and asked someone to cover,” he says, pulling out my chair for me.
“Ah.”
When we’re sitting across from each other, Drew takes my hand again. His touch soothes me in a way nothing else could, and I realize I can’t keep pretending there’s nothing serious between us. He’s always been a safe place for me, and I need to trust him with the truth.
I open my mouth to tell him how I feel, but he speaks before I can.
“I was angry as hell when I got your note,” he says quietly. “But then I realized it was my fault, because I didn’t tell you.” He hesitates, and I see his throat move as he swallows. “The thing is, Ally, it was always real for me.”
I stare at him, not understanding. “What?”
“Our relationship. I said it was fake, but I wanted it to be real. Ever since I told the Tates you were my girlfriend. Hell, probably even before that.”
I can hardly believe I’m hearing him right. “You wanted it to be real,” I say slowly.
“Yeah,” he confesses. “Probably from the day we met, even if I wouldn’t admit it to myself. And sure, it was mostly lust at first, but within about a week it was a lot more. You were smart and funny, and so determined to get me to Heather’s stupid meeting.”
“I had no idea,” I say faintly.
The corner of his mouth hitches. “I know. At first I didn’t understand it myself, because I’d never felt anything like it.
I was at a point where everything in my life was work, but you .
. . you were joy. It was like an addiction.
I’d bring that stupid lunch bag back to the office in the middle of the day, just so I could talk to you. ”
It’s almost too much to absorb, and there’s a beat of silence while it sinks in. My mind spools crazily back over some of the things he said, seeing them through fresh eyes.
I remember him quoting Shakespeare at the Tates’, talking about a bright particular star. Because Alexandra’s luminous, and when we first met, I thought she was out of my reach.
He wanted it to be real.
A waiter appears next to our table, but melts away again after a look from Drew.
“So when I told Nina and Peter Tate I was dating you, it was because I’d been imagining it,” Drew says.
“But . . . why didn’t you tell me then?”
“I should’ve told you,” he admits wryly.
“Actually, I was kind of surprised you didn’t guess.
But you didn’t, and I’d put you in an awkward situation with the lie to the Tates.
So it seemed like the best thing was to tell people we were in a relationship, for a few months at least. And if I’d told you how I felt and you weren’t interested in a real relationship, it would have been hard to pretend. ”
“Oh. But . . . the night of the Spring Fling, you said you didn’t want to sleep with me—”
“I lied,” he says simply. “But I wanted it to mean something. And you’d been talking about arranged marriages, and some sort of placebo effect, and I wanted it to be more than that.”
“But you only agreed when I said I wasn’t looking for a relationship either.”
“No, Ally,” he says. “I agreed because I ran out of willpower. And I should have told you then, but . . .” He hesitates, and a faint blush creeps across his cheeks. “You remember what I said about going all in on a dream? When we had dinner with your family?”
“Of course.” I’m pretty sure I’ll remember that speech for the rest of my life.
He nods. “You were the dream, Ally. And I wanted you so badly that I decided to hedge my bets.”
“What?”
“If I told you the truth and you didn’t feel the same way, we couldn’t have kept on with a fake relationship,” he explains.
“Or even a casual one. So I decided to wait until the end of the summer to tell you how I felt. That way, even if you didn’t want a real relationship, I’d have you for three months. But then you left, and—”
“I fell in love with you, Drew,” I blurt. “But I didn’t think you felt the same, so I decided to leave before I fell any deeper.”
Something sparks in his eyes and he stands, knocking over his chair as he steps around the table to pull me into his arms.
“I love you, you know,” he says roughly, squeezing me tight against his chest. I breathe him in, inhaling the familiar woodsy smell of his soap.
And I know that while triumph and disaster may be impostors, joy is real, and right now it’s filling me up.
“Will you come home with me?” he asks. “To Somerset? If you’re really set on working for Sarah Hayes we could try doing long-distance, but—”
“I’ll come home,” I interrupt, and I feel his chest heave as he sighs with relief.
“Let’s go upstairs.” Drew’s breath is hot against my ear. “We’ll get room service.”