Sophie blinks. A thousand terror filled images shoot through her brain like supersonic bullets.
“Shit. I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said that. It’s weird. Forgive me. I’ll feel better if you take the cheese.” As if cheese is all it takes to make Sophie feel better.
“Nah, you don’t have to do that,” she says, moving to resume pushing her cart. “I’m aware my life has been one gigantic sad joke. That’s fine. I’m okay now. I’m more than okay. I’m peachy keen.” The woman wears an uninterested expression. “I’ve been good, great, wonderful. Everything is like…wow. Beautiful dress by the way. Aren’t you freezing? Hey, are you from around here? Is it usually this crazy? It’s warm, it’s hot, it’s cold, it’s glacial. I mean, pick a damn season and stick with it, am I right?”
Oliver taught her to ask something requiring an opinion to balance the conversation in the other direction. But Oliver didn’t teach her to keep it simple, because it’s never a good idea to overdo anything.
The woman tries to process the plethora of words that just came out of Sophie’s mouth. She politely nods, looking down, looking away, and nodding some more, all throughout her yakety-yak, becoming scared of the crazy talk.
“Look, I’m sorry. I really am. Best of luck to you.” She scoots back a little and rolls her cart down the aisle like she suddenly remembered she left the oven on back home.
“Hey, lady!” Sophie shouts as the woman vanishes around the corner. “I don’t want the cheese!”
Other customers notice the disturbance—earning her strange looks—and bolt out of view.
“Excuse me?” A male voice calls out. Sophie turns to see a chestnut-haired man, tall and lean like a lamppost, in a green apron with a checkered tie tucked beneath it. She raises an eyebrow as he hastens toward her, his hands waving in the air as if to hold her in place. “I’m sorry, is there a problem? A lady just complained about the woman she was talking to.”
“Well, how do you know it’s me?” she answers with a straight face. “There are lots of women here.”
“She described you…blonde, long white coat.”
“It’s a parka,” she mutters.
“Is everything all right? Can I get you anything? I’m the store manager.”
Sophie doesn’t even try to play it cool. “Well, no. Everything is not all right. You need to check your inventory because you’re out of feta cheese. I mean, I specifically made a trip to get feta cheese. It’s on my list.” She whips it out and holds it up. “See?”
“There’s a block right there, ma’am.” He points to the refrigerator.
“This ‘three’ right here?” Using her index finger, she indicates on her list next to where feta cheese is jotted down with her loopy, slanted handwriting. “That’s how many I need.” Sophie knows she’s being a brat. Knows it and owns it. “And, I’m sorry, but I don’t think I’m old enough to be called ma’am.”
He sighs, not wanting to further a problem he’ll have to solve, and chooses the path of least resistance. “Okay, let me go to the back and check for more,” he says. “Now, I’m going to kindly ask you to clear this area and maybe try out our delicious cranberry-walnut muffins. You’ll find them near the cash registers.”
“But I’m not done with this aisle. Are you asking me to leave?”
“Yes.”
“Why? I’m not doing—”
“Really, Miss, there’s no need to make a scene. Tell you what. We have a big special on all pumpkin spice products and apple pecan cupcakes. If you come with me, I’ll show you—” His big hand moves to her back and touches her just above the waist.
She stiffens, distraught, mostly outraged, feeling as though her skin and blood are on fire. Her mind flashes back to a big hand beating her in the face and stomach, picking her up, and throwing her down on a chair.
Sophie quickly shakes him loose. “Please don’t touch me,” she whispers, bitterly reeling away from him. “Please don’t ever touch me again.”
Both of them stand paralyzed for a second. His mouth sets in a grim line. Once again, he steps forward and puts his hand on her arm.
“Please calm down, Miss, or I’ll have to ask you to leave immediately.”
Sophie does the inconceivable. Without giving it any thought, she grips his wrist in a bone-crunching move and twists it around his back, bringing him to his knees.
The man grimaces in agony and cries out for security. Sophie is more than stunned by her own actions. It takes a moment for her to come back to herself, and when she does, she is already riding down to the station in the sheriff’s car, handcuffed, and coming to terms with the fact that she’s not okay at all.
After two hours of sitting in the interrogation chair, telling the police what happened, refusing to call someone—specifically Oliver—an officer walks in and announces that she can leave.
“What about my groceries?” Sophie asks. She’ll be damned if Oliver finds out about her little breakdown, and thus damned if she shows up empty-handed.
“Yeah, whatever,” comes out of the officer’s mouth.
THE CHAUFFEUR spilled the beans on Sophie being held at the police station for assaulting the store manager, who also happens to be the sheriff’s only son. What are the odds?
Oliver is fetching two wine glasses from the kitchen cabinet when he hears the front door spring open. “Took you long enough,” he says playfully. “How’d it go, homey?”
“The store was crowded,” Sophie answers, shutting the door behind her. “People were fighting each other to buy turkeys.”
She scuttles across the foyer and into the kitchen, drops a large paper bag with groceries on the counter, and spots him at the wine refrigerator, naked. She stares at him incredulously. “You must be mad, Oliver. It’s minus zero outside.”
He snatches a bottle of red Burgundy and turns to reveal a very nice view. He’s not wearing a shirt, or pants. The nerve of him.
“Yeah, thank technology for heaters,” he says, reading the label on the wine bottle. Uncorking the bottle with an electric opener, he looks up into hazel eyes that seem to be on the verge of tears. “Are you okay? You look pale.” He knows exactly what’s wrong, but he doesn’t want to persecute her.
Sophie takes off her parka and beanie, and begins unpacking the groceries. “I don’t look pale. I’m wearing makeup.”
“I noticed that too. That makes no sense, wearing makeup to cover your face. You have beautiful skin.”
“And you’re wearing no clothes in this weather, which makes no sense either.”
He points a finger in the air. “Ah, but that makes perfect sense. Everything is far more comfortable to do unclothed. Come on, give me some credit. Don’t I look good?”
Sophie lets herself smile a little. She opens the refrigerator and puts away the milk and other cold items. “Yes, Oliver. You’re ultra-attractive. You’re so attractive, you make other people seem attractive by canceling out their unattractiveness.”
His face lights up. “You mean like a positive plus a negative gives you a positive if the particular positive has a greater absolute value?”
“Yeah, sure. See, I knew you’d get it.” She empties the paper bag, folds it flat, and puts it away in the recycling bin.
Oliver smiles at her, grateful to hear a bit of humor in her voice. “Looks like I’m rubbing off on you.” He tilts his head to the side with a curious smile.
Her lips purse in thought before replying. “You wish!”
“I think you are.”
“I think I’m not.”
“You are.”
She opens her mouth as if readying to say, “I’m not,” but then she catches a whiff of something that makes her empty stomach rumble with yearning. “Hold it right there. What is that smell?” She takes another sniff at the tantalizing scent.
Oliver’s mouth spreads into a sly grin. “I’ll show you where it’s coming from.”
They turn a corner leading away from the kitchen and into the dining room. Soph
ie drops her gaze to the table and finds everything she bought at the grocery store somehow already prepared and superbly laid out for them. Oliver hands her a glass and pours wine into it.
“I don’t understand,” Sophie says.
“Allow me to explain. This is pink beets, Sonoma greens, and feta cheese, with a citrus-champagne vinaigrette. The main course is beef filet served with tarragon melting sauce, marble potatoes, and baby carrots. As for dessert…well, there’s a reason why I’m not wearing clothes.”
She looks touched. “You did all this?”
“Yes, I did it for you. I wanted to surprise you.”
She sighs for what feels like the hundredth time this day. “This is really nice, Oliver,” she says with a smile while rubbing her forehead. “But I thought you said we were out of cheese, and beef, and all the other things I made a list of to buy at the market.”
“I had to say something to get you out of the house, didn’t I?”
She looks at him suspiciously.
“What?”
“You’re not telling me something,” she says, and watches his reaction closely.
He flashes her his charming grin. “Come on now, do I need a reason to make you dinner?”
“Well, there’s always a reason with you.”
“I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
“You’re always going on about how nothing should be superfluous. Everything needs a reason. You don’t just do things for the sake of doing them.”
“Granted, I don’t. But if there’s one thing in this world I want, it’s to make you happy. That and discussing technological secrets with extraterrestrials, though that doesn’t seem to be happening for me.”
“That’s what you want? To make me happy?”
“That’s what you’re surprised about?”
“Oliver, you make me happy. Incredibly happy. I’m happy just being with you.”
After gorging on dinner, Sophie sits quietly and gives herself time to digest. “I can’t believe we just ate all of this. I’m going to have to walrus my way to the bed.”
“I hope you left room for dessert. And you know what I mean by dessert.”
“You do have a sweet side.”
“I have a very sweet side.”
“Well, let me just say the food was phenomenal. You really outdid yourself.”
“I’m just getting started.” A full five seconds later, “There’s something you should know. I just got word this morning that Bridges turned himself into the police.”
Oliver had been wanting to tell her all day, gone over this conversation a dozen times in his head. But now the words come out in a rush, like word vomit. He’s a numbers man, taught himself trigonometry, algebra, calculus, and geometry when he was a kid. Statistics and analysis are his forte. But humans aren’t like numbers. You cannot predict human behavior, not even your own. Numbers are easy. People are the real challenge.
Her smile fades as his words register. “What?”
“He admitted he was at fault, claims he escaped because he was afraid of being hurt.”
“What?”
“That’s what the press is saying. Most inmates commonly look down upon rapists as the lowest vermin. He’d been threatened and knew something was going to happen. Frankly, it’s all the same to me. What matters is that he’s back behind bars, and now in an even less savory position.”
She rubs her temples and quivers with a chill of impending doom. “Where is he? What will be done about him?”
“They’re keeping him in a safe place, according to prison officials. Whereabouts unknown for security reasons. There’s enough evidence for Bridges to face trial, but that’s the last thing we want. The defense says he’s not prepared to enter a plea. Not much else was said.”
She takes steady breaths. All she knows about pleas and court trials she learned from John Grisham and Law and Order, but can tell, “This…this isn’t good.”
“Did you hear what I just said? He’s in custody, Sophie. He can’t hurt you anymore, or anyone else, for that matter.”
“You don’t get it.”
“What is there to get? It’s all clear. I know this is difficult for you, but believe me when I say it’s over.”
“It’s his plan, Oliver. Don’t you see? He’s been waiting for the time to be right. Why do you think he turned himself in?”
“Because his face is plastered all over the news and he had progressively few places to hide?”
“You don’t get it!” she yells at the top of her voice in fear, in worry.
“What are you talking about?” Oliver looks at her from across the table, his face gray with concern. She chugs her glass of wine and pours another. “Sophie, talk to me. You’re not making sense. What are you not telling me?”
SOPHIE DOESN’T BOTHER to take her clothes off before going inside the spacious shower (it’s big enough to do yoga poses in) and sitting on the marble bench. She holds her knees like her grip is the only thing keeping her from shattering into a million pieces. Even as the warm water pours over her head and down her body, worry consumes her every thought and she starts to shudder uncontrollably.
What is going to happen? What does John want? What is his plan? Sophie cannot stop thinking about it. She says a little prayer. God, please help me.
She watches the glass fog up around her and the water flow to the shower drain. Her face flushed, her eyes dead, she stares off into the distance at nothing. She can feel him—John’s forced weight, his homicidal knuckles. And she can also feel his gentle touch, how he tinkered with her mind. Why had he done that? Why had he been easy on her? For all Sophie knows, he could very well be plotting her demise from inside a jail cell. He could be laughing. He could be lining dominos up one behind the other, getting ready to tip them over, set off a chain reaction. In her heart, she knows…it’s far from over.
Oliver steps into the shower like a light breeze coming through a window just when you need it. Without saying a word, he sits beside her and waits. He wants to hold her in his arms, but he waits. Oliver sees her for what she struggles with; sees her for what she desires. Right now, all of her is yelling, “just let me be.” And he accepts her quietness, just sits there as if saying, “Okay, but I’m here anyway.”
She runs her hands through her wet hair and turns to him. After a long silence, it’s Oliver who speaks first.
“You okay?”
“You really have to stop asking me that.”
“Why?”
“Because I don’t want to lie to you anymore.”
“Then don’t.”
“I know you think I’m overreacting.”
“That’s not what I think.”
“Then why do I see it in your face?”
There’s a pause, then a sigh. “I don’t think you’re overacting. I think you need to talk to me. I want you to realize that you’re not in this alone. Give your damn pride a rest. You can let yourself go with me. I’ve got you.”
She leans her head back against the porcelain tiles. “I assaulted a man today.”
“I know. The driver told me.”
“What’s wrong with me?” she asks, not sure if she wants to know the answer. She looks at him confused. “Tell me what’s wrong with me.”
“Nothing is wrong with you.”
“I’m not so sure. I do bad things.”
“Welcome to life. It only makes you human.”
Her whole face changes.
“You’re a good person, Soph. You were kidnapped. You get to be human right now. It means sometimes hurting, sometimes being angry, and everything in between. It means falling apart and fucking it up. It means being real.”
“You know, I pretend most of the time,” Sophie says quietly. “That I’m someone I’m not, and I feel things I don’t. That I’m happy or satisfied. That I’m not afraid. I’m a pretender. I’ve always been. I amaze myself at how good I am at it. Some people see through it, but not many. I don’t regret it; I’ve had t
o pretend one way or another just to get through life. Con myself, then pretend it’s not a con. The problem with a mask is you wear it for so long that when you want to take it off…you don’t know how. It’s melted into your face.”
Oliver knows all about hiding from people who will judge or condemn you. The man who can’t forget. They write you off as crazy. Label you insane. Throw pills at you. “We all wear masks. The trick is knowing which one to use and when. The key is having a sense of yourself as you go through different masks over and over. It takes a long time to know how to ‘be’ in this world.”
“I’m just tired.”
“You’re an adult, Sophie. Of course you’re tired.”
“Some days I feel too much. I think I feel everything. Some days I feel nothing. Numb and out of place for no reason. Do you ever feel like that?”
“All the time.”
“I’m tired of people. The world. Pleasing everyone. Being angry and feeling stuck. Dreaming of a life that seems so far away.”
“And what life is that?”
“A less screwed up one.”
Sophie feels a part of herself open and connect with him on a deeper level than she’s ever connected with anyone before. She thrusts herself all the way into his arms and nuzzles her head into the crook between his neck and shoulder. This is where she belongs. Safe in his arms. Oliver rests his chin on her wet head. This is real. This is their moment.
Sophie and Oliver would gladly stay there at the lake house forever, just spending time with each other and doing nothing, but they know it’s time to rejoin the real world.
So they go back to New York City, to that place of greatness, thrill, and solitude, by way of the sort of private plane that one wipes their feet before entering. Sophie meditates amongst the clouds. She’s worried about what’s to happen. She stares out the window into an infinite void of black—the eye of the universe—accompanied by the deep, soft breathing of Oliver slumbering on the white leather seat facing her. And there, perched over the earth, she starts to realize that whatever the heck is going on out there—raging comets and colliding asteroids and energy-sucking black holes—she is just a puny speck of matter within the larger vastness of things. There is nothing more humbling and comforting than this.
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