She’s been avoiding me. No call last night like she said she would. She didn’t answer my texts. She didn’t answer my calls today, and Trish isn’t giving Brett any details. She isn’t giving me much to go on either. She told me Sophie hasn’t told her anything other than that she cried when she left the restaurant.
Which made me feel even worse than I already did. As if some part of me actually thought she wasn’t crying alone and refusing to let me comfort her.
The only reason I’m not banging on the door to the address Trish gave me is because Sophie sent a message earlier today asking if we could meet here, at my office.
Don’t sweat it.Brett’s text hits my phone and I want to throw it across the room. Everyone knows she’s avoiding me just like she did back then.
She just needs a little time. Trish’s text comes through next and I’m so pissed Brett added her to our chat I nearly throw the phone.Make sure you tell her you love her.
What if it’s a test?Ryan sends in the group text thread.
Like she’s baiting him to see if he’ll go get her?he sends another text.
Trish answers him,She wouldn’t do that. Knock it off, Ryan.
You women do stupid shit, Ryan writes back, making my phone ping again. I put it on silent, but not before I see Trish write him back.Fuck off.
They can all shutthe hell up and stay out of it. They aren’t helping the situation.
Even though the phone’s now on silent, I monitor it and the clock both, waiting for Sophie to either message or simply knock on the door.
And just like that, a timid knock reverberates and I call her in. I see her hair first, the long dirty blonde locks covering her face. She brushes it out of the way and when she does, she looks back at me with a pained expression.
“Hey,” she tells me softly, watching the door as it closes before taking another small step toward me.
I recognize the tone in her voice, the too-afraid-to-voice-what-needs-to-be-said tone. My heart sinks, and I can feel it drop into the pit of my stomach. With my blood running cold she asks if she can sit down, holding her purse with both of her hands.
I can’t speak, I can only focus on not letting what I’m feeling show as I gesture to the plush wingback chair on the opposite side of the desk.
“How are you?” she asks and then swallows, setting her purse down on the floor. I watch her and wait for her eyes to reach mine again before answering honestly. “Not well.”
Her lips tug down and her eyes fall.
Fuck, this hurts. I want it to stop. It’s not supposed to happen like this.
“Madox. I need to say something… It just feels like it’s too much getting back together so quickly, if that’s what we’re doing. I need a little bit of time to get a grip on things.”
I listen carefully. To every word.
“More time,” I say out loud, not looking her in the eyes and instead lifting my gaze to the clock. Every minute—every second—without her is hell. How can she want more of this, when I can’t stand it?
“I’m not over what happened, and I don’t know how to handle this.”
“Over what?” I question her, feeling my anger rise.
“I’m not over that night and how we left things. I can’t pretend like it didn’t happen.”
“Then don’t.” My voice raises slightly and I have to concentrate to keep it even as I add, “Don’t pretend, talk it out with me.”
She clenches her mouth shut and breathes out heavily from her nose, looking past me at the darkened sky.
“What specifically aren’t you over? What did I do that was so bad that you can’t move past it?” The images of that night three years ago come back to me. The way she writhed under me; fuck, she sought me out. Shewantedme. She came back to me, and I gave her everything I had.
“You mean after you fucked me and called me your whore?” she asks, although I can hear the trace of lust on her lips. “Or maybe you mean when you came into my apartment yelling at me, screaming about how you were so worried--”
“Don’t minimize the way I feel,” I cut her off, my voice dangerously low as my lungs seize inside of me. She was supposed to come into the bar after me so everyone wouldn’t know we just fucked after being apart for almost a month. She said she’d straighten up, so I should go in first. But she never came. Fifteen minutes passed before I banged on the door to the women’s bathroom, finding it empty except for some brunette who looked pissed off until she saw me.
“If you’re angry I raised my voice, I’m sorry.” My chest aches with a sadness I know goes back to the way my parents fought. They screamed at each other; that’s how they spoke to one another. And that night, I know I yelled at her when I saw she was just fine and hiding in her parents’ apartment. “You scared me, Soph. I thought something bad had happened to you,” I tell her with sincerity I know she can hear. I know she can feel it.