“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 crispcollar, 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.
THIRTY-THREE
