“These are delicious,” I say after my first bite.
Drew grins. “Yeah.”
“I didn’t think you ate pastries.”
“I don’t, usually.”
We watch the tennis in silence for a little while. Sarah’s playing a French opponent, so the crowd’s against her, but she still manages to take the first set 6-4.
“They look brutally hot,” I remark as they start the second set. “I’m really glad I’m not playing today.”
“You’re right,” Drew agrees. “They look like they’re melting.”
“Yeah. It’s much better to be here, eating croissants in air conditioned comfort.”
“Absolutely,” he says. “And after the match, they’ll have to talk to the media.”
“Right. Talking to the media would suck.”
“And the winner will have to pay a ton of tax on the prize money.”
“So will the loser,” I point out. “The runner-up still gets a big prize, so she’ll get a tax hit too.”
Drew nods sagely. “So much tax.”
“And they’ll both have to start training for Wimbledon pretty much immediately,” I add. “It’s not like they can spend a week eating pastry in Paris.”
“It sounds awful,” he says, reaching out to take another croissant.
I nod. “I almost feel sorry for them. When it comes down to it, I’m lucky I got out when I did.”
“Not just lucky,” he says. “Smart.”
Sarah wins in three sets. I send her a congratulatory message:
Me: Congrats! You were brilliant, you deserve this, I’m so proud of you! Talk soon, xoxo
Then I set my phone on the coffee table and sink back into the couch. I can’t hold it in anymore, and hot tears start to spill down my cheeks.
“Hey,” Drew says softly. His arms find their way around me, and I bury my face in his chest. His T-shirt is soft and nubbly, and his chest is warm and solid.
And he holds me, stroking my back as I cry myself dry.
“I’m sorry,” I finally mumble into his chest. “I know it’s just a sport, and there are so many people with bigger problems, real problems?—”
“It’s okay.” Drew’s hand strokes up and down my back.
“And she’s my friend, I should be happy for her. I am happy for her, but it’s just . . .”
“I know, Ally.”
“I wanted it so much,” I admit.
“I know.”
“I could beat her when I was seventeen.”
“I know.”
