Had Sophie not fallen pregnant, I’m not sure how much longer we’d have carried on, but at the time, I was taking things day by day. Did I love the girl? No. Not even close. But I loved how I felt when I was with her. Young. Exuberant. Carefree. While Anabelle made me feel loved, Sophie made me feel alive—two completely distinct experiences.
Anabelle was, is, and forever will be my first love.
For a brief period in my life, Sophie Bristol was my weakness.
And now she’s his.
But not for long.
First chance I get tomorrow, I’m putting a stop to their happily ever after.
Forty-Seven
Sophie
Present
I wake as the sun rises Saturday morning and spot the pool out our bedroom window. Trey is sound asleep. Last night’s dinner was exhausting with all its superficial small talk and the subtle and sometimes blatant scrutinizing from the other side of the table.
I’m not sure Nolan is entirely convinced.
Climbing out of bed so as not to wake Trey, I slip into a t-shirt and robe, make a coffee in the guest cottage kitchen, and quietly slip out the door to enjoy the pool solo. I can’t remember the last time I so much as dipped my toes in a pool. Maybe a few years ago on a girls’ trip to Jamaica? But we mostly hung out by the ocean, sipping Mai Tais and burying our feet in the soft sand.
The still water glistens in the sun, reflecting the light above, and I perch on the edge of the pool, sliding my legs in until it stops at my knees. Closing my eyes, I breathe in the salty air and focus on the present moment, forgetting, for a second, where I am.
Today I get to meet my daughter for the first time in eight years. The heaviness of that isn’t lost on me. I promise myself I’ll be happy for her, that I’ll spend time with her, but I’ll try not to get too attached. Years from now, she probably won’t remember this day, but I will.
I’ll cherish it as long as I live.
All this time, I should’ve been ignoring the fact that I have to spend a weekend with Nolan and focusing on the gift I’m getting in return—time with Sasha.
The whoosh of the sliding glass door forces me into the moment. I turn, praying it’s only Anabelle.
It isn’t.
“You’re up early,” Nolan says. He’s dressed in khaki shorts embroidered with palm trees and a white t-shirt that skims his dad-bod, as casual as I’ve ever seen him and hardly recognizable from the man I knew a lifetime ago. He takes a seat on a lounge chair and moves it closer, until we’re separated by an intrusive couple of feet. “Good job yesterday, by the way. Very convincing.”
The warm air arounds me turns unwelcomingly brisk, covering my skin in goosebumps, and the sun hides behind a cloud—as if she knows.
But I push the sensations away. I didn’t cower yesterday. I won’t cower now.
“Convincing?” I scoff. “No idea what you’re talking about.”
“Psh. I know what you’re up to. I don’t appreciate being manipulated.”
“Manipulated in what way?”
“Certainly you’re aware of the clause in Trey’s contract?”
I scrunch my brows. If I tell him I’m aware, it’ll make all of this seem fishy as hell and could cost Trey the deal.
“I know nothing about a clause,” I lie. “The only thing I know is that we’re in love. And it’s the only thing I want to know. His business deals are none of my business.”
“Still letting men take advantage of you, I see.” He sips his coffee. “God, you’re naïve. Always have been.”
I glance toward the cottage. If Trey heard Nolan right now, I don’t know what he’d do, but it wouldn’t be pretty.
“You’re jealous,” I say.
“If you think I’m jealous, you’re delusional.”
“Why else would you say those things? Why else would you try to poison my relationship with doubt? You can’t stand to see I’ve moved on. You hate that another man makes me happier than you ever did.”
“Oh, Soph … you could never make me jealous,” he says. “Sure we had our fun, but it was never anything of substance. And when you got pregnant, I did what I had to do to make the most of it. At the end of the day, I couldn’t bear the thought of my child being raised by anyone else but Anabelle and me. We dated in college, and off and on since, and she’d been pressuring me to get married for a while, but she wanted children. That was a dealbreaker for her.”
“I don’t need to know your relationship history.”
“My point is, things worked out for Sasha,” he says. “She’s happy. Well-adjusted. Smart as a whip. Beautiful. And she’ll have every opportunity she could ever need.”
I can’t argue with those things.
But it doesn’t change what he did to pull that off.