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Alex
Sophie was gone when I walked back into the bedroom.
The sheets were ruffled, a pillow was pushed down to the end of the bed, and her clothes, which I had left scattered—consciously avoiding coming off as overly tidy—were now gone from the floor.
Had I expected anything different? Had I expected Sophie sitting up in bed, the sheet pulled up just over her breasts, slipping down slightly when I walked into the room wearing nothing but a towel tied around my waist? Had I secretly hoped for another kiss, one more touch, one more breathy whisper praising my skills?
That was the picture in my head. A pretty, now disillusioned picture.
It was just sex.
Yet, there was a pressure between my ribs, a wave of disappointment pushing outwards, searching for space to grow. The ache held fast when I remembered how things had been those first few months after I’d met my ex. How every morning was an opportunity for sex—in the bed, in the shower, in the kitchen before heading off to work—and then, how things had slowly changed, how months had passed and sex had becomeless frequent, less hot, less interesting. And finally, one day, out of the blue, one of us had woken up early and left before the other even stirred.
I should’ve known that things were done, even then. Even before Vicki changed the way I’d always imagined our future together would look like. Before we realized that our stories were completely different from each other’s. Before we drifted too far apart to find our way back to each other.
I should’ve recognized the signs then like I could recognize the symptoms of an arthritic hip. But I was blind. Refused to see. To acknowledge.
At least Sophie had ripped the band-aid off fast and painlessly—not that it was the same. This was a ripple in the ocean compared to the tidal wave I'd experienced with my ex. Besides, how much worse would it have been if I'd walked into the bedroom while she was gathering her clothes, shame, and guilt written on her face?
Not worse, I decided, because then I could’ve had the chance to ask Sophie what last night had meant. What she meant when she said that she had never been so sober in her life. If it even meant anything at all.
I got dressed and ready for the last round of seminars. All the while, Sophie’s face scraped through my mind like nails, creating a permanent scar that would take a while to fade.
But fade it would.
With enough time and distance, people always faded.
Walking into the breakfast room with its double glass doors looking out onto a view of the Mayacamas mountains, I scanned the round tables for Sophie. I hoped she would be down here, hoped she would wave a hand when she spotted me, and we could talk through what happened, iron out the creases, and leave here without the stain of a bad encounter on our minds.
“You slipped out early last night,” said Erica, sailing over, wearing the same scarf as yesterday around her neck, as if she was trying to cover up a scar, or a hickey perhaps.
“Migraine,” I lied, touching the tips of my fingers to my temple. “I get them all the time. The best remedy is to lie in a dark room for a few minutes.”
The lie came far too easily and was possibly a little overdone, but there wasn’t a hint of suspicion in Erica’s expression. In fact, she looked completely empathetic, as if she wanted nothing more than to place an ice-cold compress over my forehead.
“Oh dear. Migraines are terrible. My sister suffers from them, and she’s always lying in a dark room whenever the family comes together. How are you feeling this morning?”
“Right as rain.”
“Well, thank goodness for that . . .”
Out of the corner of my eye, I suddenly caught sight of a figure with wheat-blonde hair crossing the oaken foyer, a rolling bag trailing noisily behind her.
Sophie. She was clearly ducking out of the seminar early.
Erica was just about to speak, her lips parted, when I stepped past her. “I’m sorry, Erica, I just have to do a quick thing,” I said, already hurrying out of the breakfast room to the large doors leading outside.
“Sophie,” I called when my feet hit the gravel and the morning sun touched the top of my head.
She was already shoving her bag into the trunk of her car, her head down, her blonde hair falling into her face. Dressed in jeans, a loose blouse, and sneakers, she looked as perfect as she had last night.
I ran toward her. “Hey.”
“Hey,” she mumbled without glancing in my direction. She shut the trunk and fetched the car key from her back pocket. Something told me that Sophie wouldn’t have minded if I’ddisappeared, evaporated in the few short seconds it took her to look at me. A hunch perhaps. Or maybe just the way everything about her said,Leave me alone.
“I’m pretty sure there’s another talk happening in thirty minutes,” I added, hoping it would break whatever iceberg floated between us. “And by the looks of things, you’re bailing out early.”
Sophie turned to face me, a faint smile tipping up the edges of her lips. She looked nervous. Her gaze flittered between me and her car as if she debated making a run for it. She wasn’t wearing any makeup, not even a trace of mascara on her lashes. Her face was as bare as the first light of dawn, and she was beautiful. Hell, she was gorgeous. Something told me that it would take far longer than I wanted for her face to fade from my memory.
