“Drew Malone!” Ally feigns disbelief. “You lied to your mother?”
“I was twelve, okay? And she saw right through it, and insisted we were going as a family. If I didn’t like Shakespeare,I could pretend to enjoy it, because it was something she loved.” Over twenty years later, I can still picture her saying it.
“And did you pretend to enjoy it?” Ally asks.
“Oh, probably not, but I still went every year. I thinkAll’s Well That Ends Wellwas a couple years after that. I remember thinking the main characters were all crazy.”
“Hmm,” Ally says thoughtfully. “But that must have been ages ago?—”
“Not that long,” I interrupt.
Her brow furrows. “But you’d have been a teenager, so?—”
“Yeah, not that long,” I repeat. Only twenty years ago, give or take. I almost ask how old she thinks I am, but I’m not sure I want to know the answer.
“Okay,” Ally says slowly. “But you’re over eighteen, right? Don’t tell me I’m pretending to date a minor.”
It takes me a minute to realize she’s teasing. “I’m thirty-four.”
“Well, that’s a relief,” she says with a grin. “We could date for real if we wanted to. Legally, I mean.”
“Uh huh,” I reply, fighting to keep my voice even.
“Don’t look so alarmed, I’m not suggesting we should,” she says quickly. “Obviously.”
“Obviously.”
“Just pointing out that if we did, I wouldn’t be corrupting an innocent.”
“Right.”
We’re stopped at a red light, so I have the chance to look at her properly. In the dim light from the streetlights, Ally barely looks legal herself. Those huge eyes, and that cloud of glossy blonde hair spilling around her shoulders. Wide mouth, full lips . . .
And I don’t even think she’s wearing make-up. She doesn’t need any.
“You’re not going to ask how old I am?” she asks.
“Twenty-six,” I say without thinking.
“Yeah.” She looks a little surprised. “How’d you know?”
“I think I saw it online somewhere,” I say with a shrug. She was the runner-up at the Wimbledon Juniors when she was seventeen, and that was nine years ago. The math wasn’t hard.
“Hmm,” she says thoughtfully. “You’ve got a freakishly good memory, huh?”
“Not really.” The light turns green, and I start through the intersection.
“Come on. You can quote lines from a play you saw as a teenager.”
“I saw it again last year,” I admit.
“Your mom still drags you to Shakespeare in the Park, huh?”
“No, I went with Breanna and her daughter. My mom died when I was eighteen.”
Out of the corner of my eye, I Ally’s eyes widen. Her hand shoots out toward me, then stops abruptly over the center console.
I reach over and take her hand, tucking her fingers firmly into mine.
