I miss her already—the escape, the release, the heat of her skin, the taste of her lips. The way nothing else matters when we’re together because my thoughts orbit around her like she’s the fucking sun giving me life.
I’ve never had this before, this total loss of restraint, this shift in priorities, this preoccupation with another person. In all of my years running Westcott Corp, I’ve never cleared my schedule or silenced my phone as much as I have these last few weeks.
I told myself she deserved my undivided attention outside the office as we get to know each other. But the more I get to know her, the more I don’t want to give my attention to anyone—or anything—but her.
We made a pact in Seattle that we’d speak up should this start to veer off and become more than physical.
I don’t know what this is that I’m feeling.
But I have a feeling I’m going to have to say something.
Soon.
Thirty-Nine
Sophie
Past
“Sophie, finish your dinner.” Mom pours Emmeline a glass of milk as she scrutinizes my untouched plate. Two months ago she would have complained about me wasting food, reminding me of our grocery budget. But now that I’ve essentially sold my baby, budgets are no longer a thing.
Maybe “sold” is overstating it.
But that’s how it feels in my soul.
Ever since I signed away my parental rights and left the hospital more alone than I’ve ever felt in my life, Nolan has essentially bankrolled us into a humble yet comfortable lifestyle, a level up from what we knew before. He’s even in the process of purchasing a three-bedroom ranch (in his name) in the next town over for my mom. This fall, he’ll be covering my tuition at Princeton. And he’s agreed to pay for my sister’s ongoing care indefinitely—all of this in exchange for my silence.
Hush money.
I’m never to speak of our relationship—or our baby—to anyone outside my family ever again or he’ll take back the house and terminate the experimental care Emmeline’s been receiving, the care that’s given her back her smile and placed a light in her eyes that wasn’t there before.
I’ve convinced myself that I did the right thing … for the baby, for Mom, for Emmeline. Even if it wasn’t the right choice for me, at least the ones I care about are benefitting. It’s the only thing that helps me sleep at night—if I manage to fall asleep at all.
“I’m not hungry.” My voice is hardly more than a whisper. I don’t talk much these days.
She throws her hands in the air. “You’re never hungry.”
I don’t have the energy to respond.
“Look at you, wasting away.” She points at my withering body beneath the baggy clothes I wear so I don’t have to look at my flat stomach all day long. I’ve been wearing the same Led Zeppelin top for three days. I’ll change later. “You need your strength. You’re leaving for college in a few months … do I need to call your doctor?”
The idea of leaving Illinois and relocating halfway across the country, away from my sister, only compounds the loneliness that colors my life these days, but withdrawing my enrollment would be a stupid move.
Almost as stupid as falling for Nolan.
For the first few weeks, he texted me half a dozen times, asking how I was feeling or if I needed anything. I always told him I was fine. Nothing more, nothing less. I didn’t want anything from him, and I still don’t.
Toward the end of those first weeks, I stopped replying. Eventually he stopped texting. I never told him I saw him in the nursery with the adoptive mother. His so-called “friend” whom he kissed as they admired my baby. The way I saw it, there was no point. Everything he ever told me was a lie, and I was tired of being lied to. Besides, there’s nothing he can say or do to change any of this. It’s best we go our separate ways.
I never want to see him again.
Mom carries Emmeline’s dishes to the sink and plucks her phone from the charger. “I’m calling Dr. Conrad. We’re getting you out of this funk.”
“I’m an adult,” I remind her. An adult who has given birth … “He’s a pediatrician.”
“Then I’ll call your OB,” she says. “I bet your hormones are all out of order. And maybe you need a mood stabilizer. Oh, and something to help you sleep.”
We’re used to medicating things here. Between Emmeline’s muscular dystrophy and Mom’s bouts with cancer, pills are all we know. Anything to numb the discomfort of the cards we’ve been dealt.
She presses the phone to her ear and wanders into her bedroom at the end of the hall, closing the door until her voice becomes an indiscernible mumble. When she returns, she grabs a pen and jots a note on the calendar on the side of our sunflower yellow fridge.
“You’re going in Friday at nine,” Mom says. “Everything’s going to be fine, Sophie.”
She’s said those exact words a hundred times lately. But at least she’s not saying, “I told you so. I told you he’d break your heart.” Though I’m sure she thinks it every time she looks at the shell of me moping around the house.
Emmeline studies me with the saddest blue eyes I’ve ever seen. My chest caves when I realize I haven’t spent any quality time with her since coming home from the hospital. We don’t watch movies anymore. I haven’t painted her nails or braided her hair since I can’t remember when. We haven’t locked ourselves away in our room, listening to vintage music and pretending the world outside no longer exists.
The realization hits me, unapologetically hard and heavy: I’ve neglected my sister—my favorite person in the world—since the moment Nolan came into my life.
Heartbreak is a bitter, jagged pill.
But it just might be the guilt of everything I’ve sacrificed that does me in.
Rising from the table, I dump my untouched food into the trash, rinse my plate, and wheel Emmeline to the bedroom.
“You want to listen to some Fleetwood?” I ask.
Her concerned expression lightens for the first time in forever. “Yeah.”
I read once that Stevie wrote Dreams as a diss track to Lindsey Buckingham after he broke her heart. If she can get through that, I can get through this.
I cue the music, place Emmeline in her favorite corner of the room, and crawl into my messy bed, staring at the ceiling as the familiar snare drum kicks off one of the most famous breakup anthems in existence.
Closing my eyes, I let Stevie’s words saturate every fiber of my being, head to toe, heart to soul.
When the rain washes you clean you’ll know …
Forty
Sophie
Present
“Oh my god. So get this … I heard Westcott is screwing that girl from Payroll.” A nasally voice steals my attention Monday afternoon.
I stab my salad with a plastic fork, nose buried in a book as I take my lunch solo. On the other side of the break room, the gossipiest women on my floor are in the midst of a conversation about me.
I lay my fork down and close my book, giving them my full attentiveness. They’re oblivious to my presence, which means nothing is off the table. This could get interesting.
“You’re kidding,” the other one says. “The blonde one who always dresses like it’s 1950?”
Rolling my eyes, I let the comment roll off my shoulders. I’d take my chambray, gingham, pencil skirts, and tea-length dresses over their off-the-mannequin outfits any day of the week. Outside the office, I’m a jeans and t-shirt kind of girl. At work, I like to have fun with my wardrobe.
“That’s what people are saying. Heard from an extremely reliable source that she’s been going into his office a lot lately,” the first one says, pointing her spoon at her friend. “And someone said he took her to Seattle for a weekend. Why else would he do that?”
When he had me added to his flight manifest, someone must have leaked the info. I’m sure Trey would be livid if he knew, but I’m not trying to get anyone fired. Nobody got hurt. Plus the engagement announcement will be public s
oon enough.
The first one leans in, sweeping her inky black flat-ironed strands off her shoulder. “I don’t get it. I don’t see what’s so special about her. I mean, she’s cute, yeah, but he can have anyone he wants. Literally. Supermodels. Movie stars. Me …What does she have that we don’t?”
Her friend chuckles. “It’s probably the sex.”
The dark-haired one dabs her mouth with a napkin. “Isn’t it always?”
Tucking my book under my arm and depositing my lunch in the trash, I stride to their side of the break room. “I’m sure he’ll get sick of her and move on eventually.”
Doe-eyed and silent, it takes them zero point two seconds to realize who I am.
“Especially if it’s just about the sex.” I lift my left hand to my hip so my trillion-cut diamond can glimmer at their eye levels. It’s a catty move, sure, but apparently that’s the only language these women understand.
The first one swallows, lips pressed flat like she’s about to lose the contents of her stomach. The second averts her gaze to her half-eaten bowl of broccoli cheese soup. I could have them canned if I wanted, but that’s not the person I want to be.
“Oh. Sorry. Didn’t mean to impose on your conversation.” I wave my hand. “But if you have any questions about Mr. Westcott’s personal life, I’d be happy to pass those along for you.”
The raven-haired one begins to say something, but her friend kicks her under the table. I’m not sure there’s anything either of them can say to save face. They’ve said what they’ve said, and I heard every word of it.
With that, I show myself out and return to my office to finish the rest of the day. While I don’t normally let other people’s opinions weigh on me, their words replay on a loop as I run my reports.
This arrangement isn’t about sex. At least not on paper. And neither one of us could have anticipated the animalistic magnetism that washes over us the second we’re alone lately, but those women weren’t wrong when they said he could have anyone he wants.
If he knew about my past, about the baby I gave up in exchange for an education and financial security, would he think less of me? Would he still want me? In a way, I’m repeating history, only I’ll get to keep my child this time.
The lingering slickness of his seed from this morning dampens my panties. I’m on my final week of birth control and, at the rate we’re going, we’ll be pregnant before the wedding.
I need to come clean to Trey.
I need to give him a chance to back out before it’s too late.
Forty-One
Sophie
Past
Music blasts from the other room. A couple on the sofa jam their tongues down each other’s throats like no one’s watching. In the corner, someone’s setting up beer pong.
It’s the first of November, which means my monthly stipend has been deposited into my bank account. Three thousand dollars. It’s more than I need given the fact that my room, board, books, and tuition are all covered.
I don’t bother checking my balance anymore. There’s always enough in there. More than enough. And every time I see that money, I think of him and everything I sacrificed to get here.
“You want another one?” Tennyson, a guy with wavy, sandy blond hair and bold Abercrombie looks lifts an empty bottle of Dos Equis. “Or I can make you something else? I think they have vodka and Sprite?”
“I’m good.” I lift my mango White Claw, which honestly tastes like vomit water but it’s the ‘cool’ thing to drink here. I’ve never been a follower, but since coming to Princeton, I’ve never felt so out of place, and I’ve found myself going with the flow in an attempt to stick out less.
Everyone comes from prominence here. All the girls carry designer backpacks and the guys drive Range Rovers and people talk about their family’s sail boats and vacation homes like they’re discussing the weather.
That, and I’m homesick. I FaceTime with my mom and sister almost every day. It’s not the same, but it’ll tide me over until I fly home for Thanksgiving in a few weeks.
I have a group of girlfriends. Five of us altogether. Two went to the same high school so they’re insanely close and sometimes go on boring tangents about people from their hometown, but they’re not so bad. Plus they know where all the good parties are, where the alcohol flows like water, and if you want a casual hook-up, all you have to do is eye fuck a guy from across the room until he comes over to talk to you.
Tennyson returns with a new beer and sits beside me. Our thighs touch. He takes a swig, watching me, waiting to make a move. I get the impression that I make guys nervous sometimes. One of my friends told me last month that I’m “hard to read,” whatever that means.
“So you’re from Illinois?” he asks.
“Yep …” I take a sip of my lukewarm White Claw.
“And you’re an international business major?”
“Yep …”
We met in Econ 101 at the beginning of the semester, when he chose the desk next to mine and asked to borrow a pen—never mind that he had a razor thin MacBook Air to take his notes. It was something straight out of an 80s movie. The following week, I chose a seat in the back row. He spotted me the instant he walked in and took the spot in front of me. After a while, I got used to it. And it took him months to muster up the courage to invite me to this party at his fraternity.
I don’t normally ‘do’ frat parties, but all my friends have recently landed boyfriends and were embarking on a “quadruple date” tonight. They offered to hook me up with some guy, but I had no interest in being the fifth wheel.
“I’m glad you could come tonight,” Tennyson says. You’d think, with his dashing good looks and family money, everything would come easy to the guy, but he has the confidence of a meek mouse. Shitty parenting, maybe? Hard to know.
“Yeah, thanks for the invite.” I feign excitement, glancing around the room. My attention settles on the couple on the sofa, still going at it. His hand is up her shirt now and she’s grinding on what I’m pretty sure is a massive hard-on.
I catch Tenn staring at my lips. He glances away and takes a drink of his liquid courage. The guy had no qualms stalking me in Econ every week this semester, but the second he has me to himself at a party, he’s a shaking poodle.
I finish the last of my tepid drink and rise from the love seat we’re sharing.
“Getting another?” he asks.
“No.” I take him by his sweaty hand. “Where’s your room?”
His green eyes widen, and in this moment I’m certain he has no idea how hot he is. Maybe his teenage years were sheltered. I’m guessing he went to an all-boys school because he’s got absolutely no game.
He leads me up a wooden staircase and down a drafty hall until we come to a room. The sign on the door says TENNYSON HEARST AND FOSTER BIRCHFIELD.
“My roommate went home for the weekend,” he says, unlocking the knob before leading me inside. He closes the door and flips a switch. Party lights glow from the ceiling. The scent of old things … leather, wooden furniture … mix with new things like expensive clothes and electronics and cologne, creating a dizzying cocktail of sensory overload as he licks his lips and cups my face and presses his lanky body against me.
I slept with a random guy the first week of school, and someone else last month. It helps to fill the void, even if it’s temporary.
Tennyson’s kisses are too wet and he fumbles in his rush to strip down and locate a condom from some wooden box on his dresser, but within minutes we’re tumbling into his extra-long bed, straddling, kissing, tasting, touching, and finally—connected …
But the moment doesn’t last long.
Five minutes is all.
When it’s over, I roll to the spot next to him, our bodies filling the entirety of the narrow twin mattress.
That was … underwhelming.
He turns to me and even in the dim light I spot his proud, satisfied grin.
“We should do this more often,” he says.
“Yeah,” I lie.
“Maybe we could hang out sometime?” He almost stutters. “I could take you to dinner? We could catch a movie?”
Just as I suspected, Tenn’s been crushing on me since the beginning of the school year. It’s sweet. And I’m flattered. But I’m not interested. And not because he’s unpracticed in the sack. If I was into him, if we became a thing, we could explore what we like and what we don’t like and figure out a way to make sex mutually satisfying.
But I don’t have the time or energy.
“I’ve got a full load and I’m in, like, five different clubs,” I say.
He lies back, head on his pillow, quietly wallowing in this rejection. But it’d be cruel to tell him yes when I have no intention of following through.
Only an asshole would lead someone on.
I climb out of his bed and locate my clothes strewn about his room. My bra hangs from the back of his chair. My jeans are crumpled in a heap at the door along with my sneakers. My sweater is somehow under the bed and my panties are MIA.
A minute later, I’m dressed and Tennyson hasn’t moved from the bed, lying there with his limp cock and the look of defeat covering his handsome face.
“See you Monday?” I offer a smile on my way out.
The entire walk back to my dorm, all I can picture is his disappointed expression; all I can hear is his silence. Going forward, I vow to always be upfront about this sort of thing—what I can offer—my body—and what I can’t—my heart.
That way nobody gets hurt.
Forty-Two
Trey
Present
We lock eyes in the bathroom mirror Thursday night with toothbrushes in our mouths. Standing side by side, we actually look like a couple—a real couple.
Minus the emotional aspect and any lovey-dovey words of affirmation, we’re getting good at this. We sleep in the same bed. We fuck like rabbits. We have coffee in the morning and dinner at night. And now we’re getting ready for bed together.
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