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 poemIf, 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 sixo’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.
