Page 92 of Trying Sophie

It was like I didn’t even know myself anymore. Sophie had me feeling things I couldn’t name, saying things I never thought possible, contemplating the notion that maybe the way I normally did things wasn’t how I wanted to do them with her. I lost my damn mind when I was with her, felt like she could see all the way down to the depths of my tarnished soul, and suddenly I was okay with that.

I want her to see me, know me … love me.

The thought had my heart kicking against my chest, my adrenaline spiking.

She dropped my gaze for a few heartbeats and then dragged it back. Her jaw twitched and her chest rose and fell.

Studying my face, she eventually asked, “How would that work?”

“I don’t know,” I answered honestly. “I don’t have any experience with relationships, let alone long distance ones.”

“Well, that makes two of us,” she laughed but it came out sounding forced. “It’s not like I’m ever in one place long enough to make anything last.”

She stood and, pulling her hands from mine, sat on the sofa across from me. Leaning her head back, she pitched her arm across her eyes.

“I’m probably as big a failure at it as you are, maybe more so since I’ve actually had relationships. Bad ones.”

She raised her arm a few inches and eyed me speculatively.

I didn’t know a lot about Sophie’s romantic history but I had my suspicions. For awhile, there’d been a man named Stephen she’d referred to as “my friend” on her blog and—instinctively, as if he was competition—I’d known he was special to her. When you made a habit of studying someone the way I’d studied Sophie over the years, you got to know things about them. And I knew she’d been in love with him.

“It sounds like there’s a story there,” I said, giving her a chance to tell me about him. About them. About what had gone wrong. Because I sure as shit wasn’t going to repeat his mistakes.

She gripped the back of the sofa. “You really want to do this?”

I raised my eyebrow.

“Okay,” she said on an exhale. “We’re doing this.”

“We are,” I confirmed, settling more comfortably into my seat as she did the same.

“What do you want to know?” she asked.

“For starters, I want to know how many serious relationships you’ve had, and then I want you to tell me why you think you’re an even bigger failure than I am.”

“Wow,” she huffed. “No starting small with you, is there?” she asked as she climbed into my lap and settled herself against me.

“That’s what she said,” I deadpanned and she burst out laughing.

“I guess I walked right into that one, didn’t I?”

My mouth hitched up and but she threw up her hand to stop me from delivering another zinger. “No, don’t. I did it again.”

“You’re making this way too easy,” I laughed. “But seriously. Talk to me Soph.”

After a couple of seconds where I watched her mind work silently in her pretty little head, she blew out a breath and sat up straight.

“I’ve been in love once,” she admitted. “Maybe twice,” she added, as a look of confusion, then hurt, crossed her face.

I decided to let her keep the secret of that one. If she hadn’t known if she’d loved the guy or not, I figured she hadn’t. Maybe someday she’d tell me that story, but I didn’t need it now. What I wanted to know about was Stephen.

From Alaska to San Diego, they’d traveled together by ferry, car, and train, stopping along the way whenever the mood suited. I’d read with fascination as she described working on a seafood boat in Alaska; how they’d camped on the beach in Canada and ended up staying a week hanging out with local surfers; and then a couple of weeks later, how they’d worked at a vineyard in Napa, learning how to blend wine and run a tasting room.

I loved rugby, it was in my blood, and when I died I knew my name would go down in the annals of Irish greats, but Sophie had lead a much more interesting—and probably fulfilling—life than I ever would.

“Before you say anything else, if I ask you a question, will you be honest with me?”

I was putting her on the spot, but after the way she’d avoided talking about him directly for so long, I was worried she’d try that with me now. That she’d dance around what he’d meant to her and for some strange, powerful reason, I needed her to tell me everything. I needed to know that she trusted me enough with this part of herself.

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