I imagined her standing before her bathroom mirror, primping and preening down to the last detail—all for me.
She can claim she’s not interested all she wants, but she made an effort to look good tonight …
“Always thought I’d save these for a special occasion,” I continue. “Wedding day. Birth of a child.”
“I thought you never wanted those things?”
“Just because you never wanted something doesn’t mean you’ve never thought about it before.” There was a brief phase in my late twenties, when I thought maybe I could be the kind of man my father was. But every woman I dated tried to morph herself into what she thought I wanted to be or had transparent motives. It was easier to keep things physical, to cycle through them once boredom settled in.
And that’s what marriage is to me … perpetual boredom.
Eventually the sex fizzles into a monotonous hell. The conversations grow stale. The attraction wanes.
Who in their right mind would want that if it weren’t forced upon them?
Apparently Nolan Ames …
“Have you ever smoked one?” she asks, reaching for a cigar. She drags it beneath her nose, inhaling the way I do when I want to remember the way my father used to smell. Like tobacco, leather, and a trace of my mother’s perfume after she hugged him.
“Once. On the tenth anniversary of their death. Thought it would make me feel closer to him.”
“And did it?”
Distorted memories of that day dance through my head. A coldhearted reporter from a major newspaper had just called asking for a quote. I was drunk. Angry. Then numb. I wanted to feel something … else.
Instead it felt as if someone carved a hole in my chest, like a piece of me was missing, never to be replaced.
I decided then and there that I never wanted to feel that way again.
“No,” I say.
“I’m sorry.” Her eyes turn a darker shade of blue, if that’s possible. She places the cigar back. “That must’ve been hard for you.”
I release a terse breath and close the lid on the box. “Certain things are beyond our control. I prefer to focus on what I can control.”
Our gazes hold.
She sinks into the guest chair on the other side of the desk, a stemmed wine glass held lightly between her fingers. An hour ago we shared dinner in the courtyard before I brought her into the study. I wanted to show her photos of my family—the private ones not published in a dozen different biographies, magazines, and newspaper articles.
“My father left before my sister was born. I don’t remember him. I’ve only seen pictures,” she says. “Not that it compares to what you went through, but I know what it’s like to miss a parent. I can’t imagine missing two.”
“Your reluctance toward my offer,” I say, “does it have to do with him?”
Sophie shakes her head. “I made peace with that a long time ago.”
“Can a person ever truly make peace with abandonment?”
“If you try hard enough, anything’s possible,” she responds without pause.
“You speak my language.” I take a sip of my drink before pointing to her near empty chalice. “Another glass?”
When she’s sober, she’s nothing but witty comebacks and deflective questions.
When she’s been drinking, she’s clever with a heaping spoonful of details she’d never share otherwise.
Sophie glances at the time on her cell, her lips bunching at the side. “One more. But only one.”
Too easy.
I use the desk phone to call the kitchen and order a second round. At this rate, it’s safe to say there’ll likely be a third in the near future.
“Do you ever wonder how your life might have turned out differently?” she asks. “If things with your parents …”
“Never,” I say before she finishes her question. “I don’t dwell on the past. You?”
“It’s natural to wonder about things.” Her brows meet. “You’ve never thought about it?”
“What’s the point? I don’t have enough hours in the day to waste time daydreaming.”
A quick rap at the door is followed by a kitchen staffer bearing a serving tray of fresh drinks. She disappears in the midst of Sophie thanking her.
“Ah, right,” she says. “You’re too busy hanging out in the space between two and three …”
I tilt my head, examining her. “I shared that with you in confidence.”
She swats at me, her delicate fingertips brushing my arm. Her cheeks are tinged with pink. If I had to guess, she’s half-past buzzed.
“I’m messing with you,” she says. “I actually love that you shared that with me. I’m going to try that one of these days …”
“What do you do to escape? Surely you don’t sit around daydreaming about how life could’ve turned out better? Maybe your father wasn’t in the picture, but it didn’t stop you from accomplishing a damn thing. Look at you now. You’re clearly the winner in this situation.”
Her gaze drifts to the side as she sips her wine.