“I dunno,” he replies, again sounding like it’s no big deal. “Just figure it’s not worth driving myself nuts over.” Oh. My. God. That is the most ridiculous thing I’ve ever heard in my life. Driving yourself crazy over your relationship is, like, the basis of civilization.

“Well, whatever,” I say, not knowing how to respond. “The point is, Drew knows a lot about photography. So he helped me.”

“Okay.” I hear the sound of keystrokes in the background. Is he typing something while he’s on the phone with me? Is it possible he thinks Drew is a girl’s name?

“What are you doing?” I ask suspiciously.

“Just sending my coach an email about tomorrow’s practice,” he says. Type, type, type.

“Oh, cool. Good to know that you’re paying such close attention,” I say. “Would it kill you to listen to me about this? It’s not always about you, you know.”

“Excuse me?” Corey says. The typing stops.

“Look, I’m sorry, but can you be at least a little bit supportive? I’m always supportive of you and your basketball,” I say.

“I am being supportive, Ally, I’m just saying not to get your hopes up, that’s all. Look, I didn’t call to get in another fight with you. I called to talk about booking my flight to see you.” Another fight? Another fight? We don’t always fight. We don’t talk enough to always be in a fight.

“What about it?” I ask. I cradle the phone between my shoulder and my neck and rub my temples with my fingers. I’m way too young to be getting stress headaches.

“I know I’m supposed to get in on Friday night,” he says. “But if I book a flight on Saturday morning, I can save fifty bucks. Is that cool?”

No, it’s not cool.

“Fine, whatever,” I tell him. The typing noises start back up. How long is this freaking email anyway? Shouldn’t he be done writing it by now? He hates email.

“We wouldn’t be doing much Friday night, anyway, I’m sure,” Corey says. Wouldn’t be doing much? How about sleeping in the same bed, spending time together, having sex?

“That’s fine,” I say again, clearly implying it’s not.

“All right, well, I’m out. I’ll give you a call tonight or tomorrow.”

“You’re what?”

“I’m out. It means, good-bye, I’m hanging up, I’m leaving . . .”

“I know what it means. I’ve just never heard you say it before.”

“Really? I say it all the time. Must be a Miami thang,” he says, laughing.

“Yeah, must be.” Did my boyfriend just say “I’m out” and “thang” within the space of thirty seconds and not while imitating Jay-Z?

“Love you,” Corey says.