Page 68 of Cackle

I tell Sophie about it that night while we’re prepping potatoes in my apartment.

“I guess she was just trying to be nice,” I say.

“A lot of people just try,” Sophie says, lacerating a sprout. “Trying doesn’t absolve you.”

“Oof,” I say.

She rubs salt on a clean spud and carefully inserts it into a tinfoil cage. “I didn’t invent the truth, Annie.”

“Didn’t you, though?”

“Don’t flatter me, pet,” she says. “My poor ego can barely fit into this dress.”

She’s in a new dress. It’s a deep purple velvet. From the remaining fabric, she made me a matching ensemble, pants and a top with cap sleeves. When she gave it to me, she told me, “We don’t need to wear them at the same time.” But we do. We are. We look like we’re a late-seventies glam-rock duo.

I haven’t been back to Sophie’s since the ghost-in-the-pool incident. Now she comes over here. We cook and talk, and I’ve introduced her to Netflix. She says she’ll never forgive me, but I know she already has.

“Would you consider it?” she asks me, now slicing some scallions.

“Consider what? Going on a date? With supposedly handsome Pascal from Vermont?”

“Yes.”

“I don’t know. Probably not.”

She doesn’t say anything. A spider gathers up the rogue scraps of blemished potato skin and onion, slowly rolling them toward the trash.

“Do you think I should?”

“I can’t tell you what to do,” she says.

“You can tell me what you think. I want your opinion.”

“I think you’d be setting yourself up for disappointment,” she says, “though I am who I am and live how I live.”

“What do you mean?”

“I’m never going to advocate looking for a romantic partner, especially not a male partner,” she says, and pauses to shudder. “I don’t much care for men. Or romance. I think both are a waste of time. And I’m someone with a lot of time.”

“Tell me how you really feel.”

“That is how I really feel,” she says, not picking up on my sarcasm.

“Yeah, I mean, I guess I get it,” I say. “I understand where you’re coming from.”

A blatant lie.

I used to be convinced that no one was okay with being alone. I thought anyone who claimed happiness with their single status was sad and delusional. I still believe that, but now I know there’s one exception. Sophie.

We put the potatoes in the oven and wait for them to cook. We shred a block of cheese, and when the potatoes are ready, we cut through their crispy, salty skin and stuff the cheese inside, along with the onions and some sautéed mushrooms. We eat them on the couch while watching a documentary about the British royal family, Sophie’s new favorite subject.

“In my day, royals killed one another,” she says. “Now they stand around and get divorced!”

“Is that a good thing or bad thing?”

“I don’t know! It’s all so horrifying. Yet fascinating.”

She’s obsessed.