Carly said into the phone. “I can’t sleep.” Carly was lying in bed, her cellphone tucked by her ear. It was two-thirty in the morning—five-thirty in the afternoon, California time. Wes had been surprised by her call. “I thought you were done with me,” he had said. “I might be,” she told him. “You’re the only one I could think of to call at this hour.” The minute she said it, she regretted it. He always gave her a hard time about not having friends. “You don’t have friends,” she would counter. “I’m a guy,” he’d tell her. “Guys just need buddies for sports. We don’t need to talk to anyone about where to get a manicure.” She knew where to get a manicure. She didn’t have girl problems that needed a call-out to five sorority sisters to meet for cosmos and Kleenex. She had Wes and they talked the same language. She didn’t need to learn girl talk to feel better about herself. She stretched her legs above her. Her muscles tensed and then eased. She had stopped playing tennis when she went to Stanford.
