by MK Schiller
I laughed cynically. “Your dad? You mean the man who’s so drunk he can’t even remember your name? That guy?”
She clenched her fists. Shit, Tanner, you just majorly fucked up this conversation. “You need to leave.” She hated it when I brought up her dad’s drinking. Instead of agreeing with me on any level, she made excuses for the guy. I read about this sort of thing somewhere. I thought they called it co-dependence.
“Sylvie—”
“Leave!” She pointed at the window, my usual exit.
I stood, but instead of leaving, I pulled her close to me and hugged her. I whispered in her ear, “I’m sorry. Don’t get mad at me. Just talk to me, please.”
“I was talking. You weren’t listening.”
“Don’t talk to me like I’m other people. This is me, remember? You know I don’t want to just sleep with you.”
“We sleep together every night.” I could feel her tightly coiled muscles loosening in my arms as she retuned my hug. I was chipping away at her irritation.
“Funny, smartass, you know what I mean. We don’t have to have sex until you’re ready. I’ll never push you. Hell, we’ve only kissed twice. Turtles probably get to second base faster than I do, but I don’t care. I don’t want you to be my girlfriend for that reason.”
“Why then?”
“I want all the guys at school to know you’re off limits. They can’t talk about you, look at you, or worse, fantasize about you.”
She laughed. “Wow, Tex, when did you get so possessive?”
“I’ve always been. You just never noticed.”
“I’m not interested in anyone else, but I can’t be your girlfriend. Will you settle for being my best friend in the whole world? Don’t stop being my friend…please.”
I released her and placed a strand of hair behind her ear. “Sylvie, I would kick all the Nate Mitchells of this world to China before I stopped being your friend.”
* * * *
I snuck into her room that night, later than usual because I had gone to a party with some friends. The sheets were a tangled mess. She tossed back and forth in her sleep. She cried through her nightmares. Heart-wrenching sobs shook her whole body. I hated it when she had one, but I hated it even more when I wasn’t here for her when it started. I gently rubbed her back to wake her.
“Cal?” she asked, feeling around for me.
I took her hand and placed it on my chest. “Shhh, you were having a nightmare.”
“Oh, did I wake you?”
“No, I just got here. I was at the party.” I grabbed the glass of water on her nightstand. “Here. Have a drink.”
She took a few sips. I stroked her hair. She settled back on her side. I snuggled next to her. She often told me my presence kept the nightmares away, but she still had them even when I was here. I worried about it. It didn’t seem natural for someone our age to have so many nightmares. She settled back into the bed. I fixed the sheets as best I could. We were quiet for a long time. I figured she fell asleep.
“Did you have a good time?” she asked.
“It would have been better if you were there. Why don’t you ever come out?”
“I’m shy.”
There was nothing shy about Sylvie…at least not to me. “I wouldn’t leave you without anyone to talk to.”
“You’re a good friend.”
There was that f-word again, “friend.”
“It’s just not for me.”
I sighed, deciding to drop it. We’d had this conversation umpteen times, and it always ended the same. Besides, there was something else I needed to talk to her about tonight. “I have a few overnight games coming up, and football camp this summer.”
“Yeah, I remember.”
“I’m going to be gone a lot. I won’t be able to come at night.”
“I’ll be fine.”
I had no doubt she would. She’d never asked for my help directly. That wasn’t her way. I laid on my back and stared at her tiny hand on my chest. “Why do you have so many nightmares?”
“I don’t know,” she whispered.
“Do you want to talk about them? It might help you if you told me what they are about.”
“I’ve always had them.”
It wasn’t an answer. I’d never felt the need to help someone so much and be completely helpless at the same time. “Sit up for a sec.”
She stretched and sat on the bed. I removed my St Michael’s medallion and placed it over her head.
“What are you doing?” she asked, turning over the shiny piece of silver in her hand.
“It’ll be like I’m here when I’m not.”
“I can’t take this. Your father meant for you to have this. I can’t—” She made a move to take it off, but I grabbed her hand before she could.
“Relax, girl, I’m not giving it to you. I’m lending it to you.” The only way she’d accept it was if I added that contingency. “I want you to wear it all the time, but especially at night. Maybe it’ll help if you get a nightmare. Maybe St. Michael will even keep them away.”
She was quiet for a moment, studying the medallion. “When do you want it back?”
“You keep it until you don’t need it anymore.”
“That could be a long time.”
“Then you’ll have it for a very long time.”
“Thank you, Cal.” She hugged me for several whole minutes.
She gave me the kind of hug where you feel the other person’s heartbeat. I saw all her beauty in that hug and all her pain, too. I wanted to take all her suffering and sorrow right then and shield her from every storm. God, I wanted it so much.
Chapter 11
Present day
She looked so different than she had in my class, but it was definitely Sophie. I sucked in a deep breath, drinking in the sight of her. I’d decided to go an extra mile today, ending my run at the Wicker Cove farmers’ market, affectionately referred to as the WC by the locals. Ironically, I’d thought it would help clear my mind of her, but here she was in front of me, opening up a wound that had never healed properly.
She wore a white billowy top the girls referred to as a peasant blouse and cut-off jeans. Judging from the uneven frayed edges they were true cut-offs, not factory made. Her long cinnamon-colored hair hung down in waves of luxurious curls that looked so inviting my hand actually twitched.
I swallowed as I took in her shoes. Cowboy boots. Most men preferred high heels, and I was no exception, but there was something so incredibly sexy about a woman in cowboy boots. The softened and scuffed leather made it clear they were well-worn and authentic. Sophie Becker was a pretty girl even with the baseball hats and plain clothing, but seeing her like this made me wish I wasn’t wearing sweats. Not the best choice of attire when your dick decides to stand at attention.
She looked so much like Sylvie, but different, too. I was mesmerized. She hadn’t spotted me so I decided to do the most stalkerish thing I could. I followed her.
While I followed her, I made up little plots in my head. Sylvie was suffering from amnesia. That’s what always happened in the soaps, right?
Nah, seemed too coincidental.
Maybe she had a twin sister—an evil twin sister. Yeah, cause that’s plausible.
I was seriously losing my mind. It had been ten freaking years. Sophie looked like Sylvie, but lots of people had doppelgangers. Hell, I’d once seen a photo in a magazine I swore was Mandy.
I kept following her, but tried to take in the sites, convincing myself this was just a leisurely walk. Molly always said such great things about the WC so I had decided the extra mile would be worth it to check it out. The WC farmers’ market was much more than a place to buy fruits and vegetables. It was part produce stand with all the offerings of local farmers, part flea market with numerous vendors selling handmade wares, and part carnival midway with a few groups of musicians strategically lined along the path. Sophie Becker weaved in and out of the crowd effortlessly, often chatting with merchants. Sh
e must come here often. She bought a burlap sack filled with Red Delicious apples. She knelt, handing one to a little boy, before darting back into the hordes of visitors.
I kept pace with her, oblivious to the other sights and sounds surrounding us. I only had eyes for her. When she stopped, I stopped, but kept enough distance between us so it wouldn’t be obvious. When we were toward the end of the street that comprised the WC, she paused to listen to a band with one hand shoved in her pocket while she tapped her boot to the music. They played a mix of modern and folk-type stuff. A large crowd had gathered around them.
After they finished the song, the lead singer, a guy with a Vance Joy vibe and ZZ Top beard that seemed to be all the rage these days, smiled appreciatively at the crowd. He leaned into his microphone. “Sophie Becker, come up here and sing with me,” he said, gesturing to her. She shook her head vehemently. “Folks, I’m going to need your help. My friend Sophie here is a great singer. Would you like to hear her sing?” The crowd hollered their encouragement. “Come on, Sophie, the people have spoken.”
He grabbed her hand and led her into their makeshift stage area. She was reluctant but allowed him to do so. He whispered in her ear, and she nodded. I felt a pang of jealousy at the intimacy, which was ridiculous since I had no right to that emotion. One band member took her bag of apples, while Hipster ZZ Top shoved a tambourine in her hand. She turned over the instrument and frowned.
“You know the rules. Everyone plays an instrument,” the hipster said, adjusting his suspenders. She smiled and threw the damn tambourine back at him like a Frisbee. “I guess I’m a rule-breaker.”
I sucked in a breath. In that little gesture, I saw her so clearly. The girl I had lost. The one I loved. They started playing. I didn’t recognize the tune until they laid into the chorus. Over the years, it seemed every song I heard I could apply to Sylvie. Hell, I once even had a memory while listening to Uptown Funk. But this, Ed Sheeran’s “Photograph,” always had held a special place in my heart.
How could she sing it so casually? Didn’t the lyrics mean anything to her? This wasn’t Sylvie. This girl—woman—had curves. Her lips were fuller and her hair darker. Sylvie was too shy to sing in public like this. And she, for damn sure, couldn’t have sung this song without thinking of us. Right? Her voice, pure innocence with the perfect hint of sexy rasp very few female singers could achieve, didn’t sound like Sylvie. Then again, what the hell did I know? When I watched a singing competition, I thought everyone sounded great.
The suspender-wearing hipster kissed her on the cheek.
“A pleasure as always,” she said with a mock curtsy. I made my way to the front, hoping to hear more of their conversation.
“You should play with us all the time.” There were people between us, and the mic was turned off, so I had to strain to hear her.
“I guess I’ll have to learn the tambourine first,” she said.
“I’ll make an exception for you.” I bet he would.
She took her sack of apples and rushed back into the growing crowd. I scrambled not to lose her. She slipped into a coffee shop at the point where the market ended and businesses began. I followed her inside. I’d just found out Sophie Becker sang, and judging from the light blue splatter of paint at the hem of her shorts, I assumed she painted as well. This was too coincidental.
I allowed myself another minute of gawking at her beautiful backside as I stepped behind her in line. She smelled good, like vanilla and roses and…fresh honey. That shiny brown hair with touches of gold was just calling to be touched, caressed…or pulled.
Fuck—I was hard. I took a deep breath and conjured mental images of Mona Simms in her swimsuit at the community pool. It was enough.
“Hello, Miss Becker,” I greeted finally.
Her shoulders stiffened at the sound of my voice. She turned and gave me a nervous smile. “Mr. Tanner. Strange meeting you here.”
“Please call me Cal.”
She gave her simple order of black coffee. “Please allow me,” I replied, paying for her drink and ordering the same for myself.
“You don’t have to do that,” she objected, but I waved her away.
“You can repay me with your company,” I said.
“I should be getting home.” She looked uncomfortable.
“I promise it won’t take long. I would like to have a word with you, please.”
She looked around, but gave me a slight nod. She walked over to a vacant table flanked by two overstuffed velvet chairs.
I set down our drinks on the table and gestured toward her boots. “Nick kicks.”
“Thanks. They’re comfortable.”
“So, is this place the subject of your unsent letter?”
She gave a slight laugh. “No. I stopped going there. I come here instead.” Her head circled around the room as she avoided my gaze. “Isn’t this against the rules?”
“What rules are those, Miss Becker?”
“You’re a professor and I’m a student. Doesn’t the college frown on personal associations?”
“I’m sure they frown on many things. As I’ve stated, I’m not a professor, and you can relax. I want to discuss your grades. I happened to see you here and thought it was the perfect opportunity. There is nothing inappropriate or underhanded about that.”
Yeah, right.
“Do you give all your students this kind of personal attention?”
“Just the ones who aren’t working to their potential. Your unsent letter wasn’t the emotional response I was looking for. Your essay on The Raven was deplorable. And you missed my exam.”
“I’m sorry. I’ve been busy.” She shifted in her seat and took a small sip of her coffee. It was apparent she wanted to end the conversation.
“I heard you singing.”
She flushed red and twirled a strand of glossy hair around her delicate finger. “Oh, that’s embarrassing.”
“You were good. My sister insists I’m tone deaf so I’m not a qualified expert, but the crowd seemed to enjoy it.”
“I should go.”
She made a move to pick up the stupid bag of apples she’d been toting everywhere, but I grabbed it off the table first. I placed the sack next to me on the chair. Yes, it was probably the most juvenile thing I could do, but desperation made men do stupid things. “Indulge me for a few more minutes.”
“I have somewhere to be.”
I sighed, not wanting to end the conversation. “I was wondering if you wanted to do that as a career—the singing.”
“It’s just for fun.”
“Have you ever had an accident?”
She gulped down her coffee. Her hand went to her throat. “Excuse me?”
“Something that may have caused brain damage?”
She jerked her head toward the exit. “Why are you asking me this?”
“Can you just answer?”
“No.”
“Never had an accident?”
“No, I’m not answering you.”
Ever been shot? I wanted to ask, but managed to keep that question to myself. She was about to leave. I had to keep her talking.
“Where are you from?”
She bit her lower lip. I was making her nervous. Good.
“Are you this curious about all your students?” she asked, an accusation hung in her tone.
“I’m a writer. I’m curious about people in general. Everyone has a story, and I’m interested in yours.”
“Well, it’s very boring.”
“Then bore me, please.”
The corners of her lips quirked. “You’re really strange.”
Maybe I’d try some flirtation. “Wait and see. I grow on people.”
“So do hemorrhoids.”
I laughed loud enough for other customers to turn in our direction. “Except I’m not as annoying and damn sight better looking.”
She looked away, hiding her smile. “What would you like to know?”
“Why are you in my class, Miss Bec
ker? According to your records, you already have a degree in communications, although your answers reflect you didn’t get your money’s worth with that choice of major.”
She narrowed her eyes at me and squeezed the cardboard cup so hard I thought the coffee would spill out. “I didn’t realize taking your class would be an open invitation to violate my privacy or I’d be forced into an inquisition about my choices.”
I drummed my fingers against the wooden arm of my chair. “Not an inquisition, just a conversation. Your degree is a matter of public record anyway.” It was a lie. I didn’t have a right to view it, but Shirley in admissions liked me so she let me view her records. “How old are you?”
“I don’t think that’s an appropriate question, but I’m twenty-five.” Sophie Becker looked about twenty-five. Sylvie would have been twenty-seven like me, but I didn’t trust what this woman said anyway. Shirley had let me see Sophie Becker’s transcripts but not the documents containing her birth date and social security number.
“Why did you take my class?” I asked again. I was throwing questions at her, waiting for her to crack, like a homicide detective interviewing a potential suspect, but I had no experience and I hadn’t prepared for this confrontation. This wasn’t the way I had planned my first real conversation with Sophie Becker.
“You’re right, this isn’t an inquisition. It’s an interrogation. For your information, I’ve always loved books. I thought this course would strengthen some skillset, but you don’t have to worry about me anymore.”
“Why?”
“I’m dropping out of your class. You have some really deep issues. I’m not comfortable with the way you’ve approached me.”
I’d created a precarious tower of stacked bricks built on delusion, layering them one by one. They all tumbled down on top of me. This girl looked like Sylvie, she sang, she loved books, and maybe she even painted, but those were not unique qualities. Brown hair and eyes weren’t rare traits either. If she was Sylvie, she wouldn’t put me through this kind of torture. Sylvie was no sadist. The girl I loved didn’t have a mean bone in her body. Sophie Becker could not be Sylvie Cranston.