“Ally, I don’t care about that,” I interrupt. I remember the way her family behaved at her sister’s graduation dinner, and the way her father belittled her community college diploma. “And yeah, I guess some people might, but the people who matter won’t. I think a lot of higher education is really overrated.”
“Really?” Ally looks skeptical.
“Sure. A lot of people are just at university for the degree, and they’re not interested in learning anything unless it’ll be on an exam. They’re the same people who never shut up about their degree once they have one, because it’s their biggest achievement. They don’t have ideas or talents that speak for themselves.”
“Hmm,” Ally says thoughtfully.
“University makes sense if you want to do a profession, or there’s something you particularly want to study,” I say. “But if not, it can be a waste of time and money.”
Ally nods, looking a little surprised by this view on things.
“But you don’t have to decide anything now,” I tell her. “Give yourself some time.”
There’s a knock at the door, and I realize it must be our dinner.
“One second,” I call. “You can stay there,” I tell Ally, tucking the sheet around her so she’s covered from her chin to her toes. I grab my boxers and pants off the floor and throw them on before I head to the door.
The rest of our clothes are still all over the floor, so I leave the waiter in the hall and carry everything in myself. Once I’ve closed the door behind him, Ally grabs a robe from the closet and joins me at the table.
“You ordered champagne?” she asks.
“Uh huh.” I take the bottle out of the ice bucket and pull the foil off the top.
Ally grins. “You know, Drew, I think this qualifies as a grand romantic gesture.”
“What?”
“A grand gesture,” she repeats. “You know, like in a romantic comedy. Drew Malone—Mr. I’m not looking for a relationship—just followed me to London and told me he loved me. And now there’s a romantic dinner with champagne?—”
“And burgers,” I point out as I pour champagne into her glass.
“It’s still a strong effort,” she teases. “A proposal at Wimbledon might have been more dramatic?—”
“Wimbledon frowns on that sort of thing.”
Her eyes widen. “You looked into it?”
“Of course not.” Not seriously, anyway. “And it wasn’t really a grand gesture, Ally. It was just that. . . you stole my shirt. It’s my favorite, and I wanted it back.”
“Your shirt?” she echoes.
“Yeah, my green t-shirt. I lent it to you that first night at my condo when you didn’t have pajamas, remember?”
“Oh. Well . . .” she pauses to take a sip of champagne. “I’m not even sure I brought it to England. It might be packed in one of the boxes in your storage unit.”
“I don’t think so.” I know it isn’t, because I unpacked all the stuff she left in the storage unit.
“Huh.” Ally’s blue eyes are gleaming with amusement. “I’m pretty sure you gave me that shirt, Honeybun.”
I shake my head. “It was a loan, Cuddlebug. If you want to keep it, you’ll have to come home with me.”
.
THIRTY-FIVE
ALLY
Two weeks later.
