Chapter 32
THIRTY-TWO
DREW
When I get home from work, the first thing I notice is that Ally’s shoes are missing. There are usually a few pairs on the shoe rack by the door—running shoes, pink flip flop sandals, the black leather flats she wears to work—but today they’re all gone.
Before I can fully process the significance of the shoes, I spot the note on the kitchen table.
Dear Drew,
Sarah Hayes offered me a job as her personal assistant, and I’ve decided to take it. I quit my job at the hospital, and I’m flying to London tonight. It probably seems very last minute (and it is), but it’s a great opportunity and I’m excited about it.
I know it hasn’t been three months yet, but this seems like a natural place to end things. Since I’m no longer working at the hospital, we don’t need to pretend anymore.
I’ve packed up my stuff and left it in your storage unit, I hope that’s okay. I should be in Toronto later this summer, and I’ll get in touch about picking it up. If it’s a problem, let me know and I’ll arrange to deal with it sooner.
I’ve had a lot of fun with you, Drew. You’ve helped me make peace with tennis, and I’ll always be grateful for that. If you ever decide you want a relationship, I’m sure you’ll make some lucky woman very happy.
Take care of yourself.
Ally.
I have to read the letter three times before it sinks in. Ally’s gone.
When did this happen? Ally was in the shower when I left this morning, but as far as I knew, she was planning to go to work as usual. Either this was a very last minute thing, or she just didn’t want to tell me about it.
And even if it was a last minute thing, why didn’t she call me and tell me about it? Like, hey, Drew, I’ve decided to leave the country, so I’ll be moving out of your condo.
I pull out my phone, but there are no texts from Ally. No missed calls. Was she worried I’d try to talk her out of it? Beg her to stay?
As I read her note for the fourth time, I consider doing just that. She wrote that she’s flying to London tonight, so if I call now, I might catch her before she’s in the air.
On the other hand, she writes that it’s a great opportunity and she’s excited about it. And can I blame her? If I had a choice between working for Heather Larkin or for a tennis star, I know what I’d pick.
And clearly, there’s nothing else keeping her in Somerset.
I’m not going to call her.
I read her note for the fifth time. I have to give her credit: Ally’s got more class than the last woman who broke up with me. If I remember right, Elyse said she was bored, and that she doubted I’d ever love a woman as much as I love my job.
But that situation was different, obviously. Elyse and I had been together for almost two years, and we’d talked about getting married. Whereas Ally and I had a time-limited, no strings arrangement that started out fake.
And the other big difference? When Elyse broke up with me I was relieved, but this hurts like a kick in the nuts.
I pull out my phone to cancel the hotel reservation I made for this weekend. I guess I won’t be taking Ally for a romantic weekend in Toronto.
I go down to the gym and lift weights until my muscles scream in protest, then run on the treadmill until I’m about to collapse. It’s an okay distraction, until I come back to my condo to shower. And I’m reminded of all the things Ally and I did in the shower on Friday night.
I have insomnia again. And since I can’t sleep, I go down to my storage unit and bring Ally’s stuff back up to my condo. All of it, including the boxes of kitchen stuff that we never brought upstairs, because I had enough plates and cutlery already.
It takes me three trips with the moving trolley, but it’s not like I’ve got anything better to do. I make space in my closet for Ally’s blouses and pants, and tuck her winter boots on the shelf next to mine. I’m not sure what I’m hoping to achieve with this, but it gives me something to do.
I don’t get to sleep until after three A.M., and my alarm goes off less than three hours later. Fortunately, I make it through my OR day without any major problems.
On Wednesday, I’ve scheduled an extra day in the clinic to try to clear the backlog of referrals, and I show up in a bitch of a mood.
“Why is the clinic so overbooked?” I ask Celine.
“You told me to fit people in, Drew,” she says, pointing at the computer screen defensively. “You flagged these consults as urgent, and there were a bunch of post-op follow-ups.”
I glance at the screen and see that she’s right. “Okay,” I say sheepishly. “Yeah. Sorry, Celine.”
But she doesn’t look annoyed; instead, she’s looking at me like I’m a fragile creature that needs careful handling. I must really look like shit.
“I heard Ally quit,” she says gently.
News sure spreads fast around here.
“Yeah, she took a job as a personal assistant to a tennis player. She’s at Wimbledon right now.”
“Ah,” Celine says curiously. “So . . . you guys are doing long-distance?”
I wonder what I’ve done to make Celine think I’d like to discuss my love life. “Well, I’m not in England, Celine.”
It doesn’t answer her question, but she has enough sense not to push. “Right, of course,” she murmurs gently. More gently than I deserve, given the way I’ve been snapping at her.
The clinic drags. Not only is it overbooked, but Celine seems to have managed to book all the most irritating patients on the same day. One man wants me to renew his anti-depressant prescription, and another woman tries to set me up with her granddaughter.
I tell her I’m in a relationship.
To put the icing on the cake, Heather Larkin drops by the clinic and corners me in the back room.
“We were all so surprised when Ally quit,” she remarks.
“Uh huh,” I grunt. Heather’s staring at me so intently, it’s unsettling. I wonder if I missed a spot shaving, or if there’s spinach between my teeth.
But there can’t be spinach between my teeth, because my lunch was a protein bar. Because Ally left. I should really reactivate the premade meal subscription, but that would mean admitting she’s not coming back.
I’ll probably end up with scurvy soon.
“But Ally’s doing well?” Heather asks vaguely.
“Uh huh,” I grunt again, brushing past her into the hall. “Sorry, Heather, I’ve got patients waiting.”
That evening, Breanna texts to invite Ally and me to dinner on the weekend, and when I don’t reply, she calls. I consider telling Breanna we’re busy all weekend, but she’ll eventually figure out that Ally’s gone. Better not to lie about it, or Breanna might think I’m in denial or something.
“Ally and I aren’t together anymore,” I tell her casually. As though it’s no big deal.
“What? Drew! What happened? Did you guys have a fight?”
“Of course not. She took a job working as a personal assistant for Sarah Hayes, the tennis player. They’re friends.”
“But why . . .” Breanna pauses as she tries to process this. “You’re not trying long-distance?”
“No, Breanna. We were never really serious.”
I hear cheering on the TV, and I glance up to see that Sarah Hayes just won a long rally. She played earlier today, and I recorded it.
The camera cuts to the box where Sarah’s friends and family are watching, and I get a glimpse of Ally. It’s the third time they’ve shown her. She’s wearing a flowy white dress with a crisp collar, and her hair’s loose around her shoulders. The way I like it best.
She looks happy.
“ . . . don’t believe it,” Breanna says, and I drag my attention back to our phone conversation. “What actually happened?”
“What?”
“Like hell you weren’t serious, Drew,” she repeats. “What happened, really?”
I sigh. I could tell Breanna about Nina Tate, and the agreement that Ally and I would date for three months. I could say it was all fake.
But I don’t really want to lie to my sister.
“I don’t know, Breanna,” I tell her wearily.
“Did you tell her how you felt, at least?”
“What do you mean?”
“Did you tell her you loved her?” Breanna asks.
“We were only dating for a couple months.”
“Come on, Drew,” Breanna says, and I can picture her rolling her eyes. “I saw the way you looked at her.”
There’s more cheering from the TV, and they’re showing Ally again. She’s standing and clapping, and her hair’s wavy and wild. I imagine how it would feel in my fingers.
“Breanna—”
“You didn’t tell her,” Breanna concludes. “And you’re so good at everything else, she wouldn’t have guessed you’re so bad at talking about your feelings.”
“Thanks, Breanna. This is super helpful.”
She sighs. “I’m sorry, Drew.”
“Thanks.”
“Do you want me to drop off some food?” she asks gently.
Hell. Now she’s starting to sound like Celine. Like I’m a wounded animal that needs to be nursed back to health.
“No, I . . . actually, yes.” I have to eat, right? “Thanks Breanna.”
“I’ll be there in an hour,” she says before disconnecting the call.
I pick up the remote and turn off the TV. The match wasn’t done, but I’ve had about as much as I can take tonight.