I pull up the text thread with Sarah, and ask if her offer to come to Wimbledon still stands. I don’t tell her the details of my crisis, just that I’ve been given some time off work. The last thing she needs is a distraction in the middle of the tournament; I’ll wait until it’s done to tell her the truth and ask for the PA job.
Sarah replies half an hour later, saying I’m still welcome to come. She sends me the address of her rented house, along with her mother’s number, and tells me to text her mom when I arrive.
I find a flight from Toronto to London that leaves at ten tonight. Since a one-way ticket might raise red flags with British immigration, I pay extra for a round-trip ticket with a flexible return date. It almost maxes out my credit card, and I breathe a sigh of relief when the transaction goes through.
Next, I check the train schedule; I’ll have to catch the five-fifteen to Toronto, so I need to start packing. I strip the sheets off the sofa bed and throw them in the washing machine, then fold up the sofa. I’m determined to leave Drew’s condo in pristine condition.
Once I’ve packed my suitcase with the stuff I’ll need in England, I find the cardboard boxes I used for the move frommy apartment. I’ll have to move the rest of my stuff into Drew’s storage locker for now. It’s not ideal—I’d prefer a clean break—but I can’t think of a better alternative. If I travel with Sarah, I’ll be back in Toronto in August for the Canadian Open, and I can deal with it then.
I send my mother a text to tell her I’m going to England, mostly because I feel like I should. She doesn’t reply right away, but that’s not a surprise, since she hardly ever checks her phone while she’s at work.
The last thing I do is write Drew a note. It’s a cowardly way to communicate, but it seems like my best option. I could call him from the train, but he’d probably guess I wasn’t giving him the whole story, and he’d be right. And I might break down and tell him about Heather.
Text or email aren’t great options either, because he’d probably reply. And then I’d be tempted to reply to him, when what I really need is to get him out of my head.
After all, it’s not like we were in a serious relationship. We always had an end date, I’ve just moved it up a little.
So I find a pad of paper in Drew’s desk drawer, and after three drafts, I’ve got a note I can live with. It’s not perfect, but it’s basically truthful; the only lies are of omission.
I tap my phone to call an Uber, then set Drew’s condo key on his kitchen table next to my note. Then I wrestle my suitcase into the hall and pull the door closed, hearing it click as it locks behind me.
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 averylast 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.
