On Thursday evening his OR runs late, and he doesn’t get home until I’m heading out for my soccer game.
“Where do you play?” he asks casually.
“Um, Helliwell Park.”
He frowns. “That’s halfway across town.”
“Yeah, but the bus stop’s just a block away.”
But Drew’s still frowning. “Take my car,” he offers, holding out his keys.
“Drew, I can’t drive your car. I take the bus all the time. I’ll be fine.”
“Ally, it’ll be getting dark on your way home,” he persists. “And I’m not going anywhere, so you might as well take the car.”
“No, I really can’t drive your car. I don’t have a driver’s license.”
“Oh.” Understandably, Drew looks surprised by this. Somerset’s not that big a city, and almost every functional adult has a driver’s license. It’s embarrassing to admit that I’ve made it to the age of twenty-six without acquiring this life skill.
But it’s still better than letting him think I lost my license for a DUI or something.
“I just never learned,” I explain. “When I turned sixteen, I was at a tennis academy in Florida, and a couple years later I went on the tour. Learning to drive wasn’t a priority.”
“Makes sense. I’ll drive you to soccer then.”
“You know I’ve been taking the bus by myself for years?”
He grabs his jacket. “I wouldn’t mind watching you play soccer.”
“It’s just a rec league,” I tell him. “We don’t usually get spectators?—”
“Come on, Ally,” he says. “You told me not to work or go to the gym, so what else am I going to do? Sit on the couch by myself?”
“You could eat dinner,” I suggest. “There are leftovers in the fridge. Or watch TV, or read a book. Take a bubble bath, teach yourself to knit?—”
“Let’s go, Ally.” His voice is stern, but the corners of his eyes are crinkling with amusement.
“Okay,” I give in and pick up the duffel bag that holding my soccer cleats and shin pads, and we head down to his car.
Drew is the only spectator at the soccer game, which we lose 2-1. I have a good game, though, and score my team’s only goal.
“You must have played a lot of soccer,” Drew says casually, on the drive home. “You’re really good.”
I feel myself blush at the compliment. “I played in a competitive league as a kid,” I explain. “But I had to give it up when I was eleven because I was so busy with tennis. I picked it back up last year, though. Not competitively, obviously, but I like it.”
“Never too late,” Drew says, glancing at me thoughtfully. “How about driving, any plans to pick that up?”
“I have a learner’s permit, actually,” I tell him. “My mom tried to teach me about a year ago, but it didn’t go that well.”
“Really?”
I shrug. “My mother kept trying to pump the brake, which of course was non-existent in the passenger seat.”
Drew grins. “Right.”
“I don’t think I’m a natural driver. And my mother has a Mercedes, and I was so stressed I was going to wreck it, so . . . it just didn’t go well.”
“Hmmm,” Drew says.
