The Secret French Recipes of Sophie Valroux - Samantha Verant Page 0,17

myself was that I was a failure. I couldn’t even bring myself to get up. My tears fell like a thunderstorm. It angered me that I was now a crier; I hadn’t used to be one. I used to be strong.

My best friends came home to find me bleeding and crying. Walter lifted me off the floor and ran my finger under cold water while I sniffled and wiped my nose with my free hand. He wrapped my finger in gauze and tried his best to console me, but it was kind of hard to console the inconsolable. “Take a shower. Get out. Stop feeling sorry for yourself. This will all blow over,” Walter said, his eyebrows furrowed. But even he knew the truth. This situation wasn’t going to settle down anytime soon.

“It’s never going to blow over! Look at me. I can’t do anything right.”

Walter slammed his hand on the table. Then he gripped my arms and shook me. “Sophie, I love you, but things have to change. I can’t keep living like this. Robert can’t keep on living like this. And neither can you.”

I’d never seen him angry, not like this. He was always so levelheaded. I bit down on my bottom lip to try to keep from crying. Still, hot tears rolled down my cheeks.

“Are you kicking me out? I wouldn’t blame you,” I said, my voice coming out in a pathetic whimper. “Just get it over and done with.”

“I’d never kick the Sophie I love out, but this new you, this obstinate, self-pitying creature you’ve become, needs to change, and quick.”

“I’m sorry, Walter,” I said. “You know I am. I’m not myself. Eric killed me.”

“Eric didn’t kill you,” said Walter. “You’re standing right in front of me—alive and well and rather obnoxious. Pull yourself together. If you don’t, you’ll end up like her.”

I knew he was talking about my mother. Aside from Eric, he was the only person I’d talked with about her death. “That’s a low blow, Walter,” I said, even though it was exactly what I’d been thinking.

Walter embraced me in a tight hug. “Come on, you’re not acting like the Sophie we know and love.”

“And we do love you,” said Robert, placing his hands on my shoulders. “Do you want to clean yourself up and come to dinner with us? You really should get out of the apartment, breathe in some fresh air.”

“Maybe tomorrow,” I said.

“We don’t like leaving you alone,” said Walter.

“Don’t worry,” I said. “I’m not like her.”

“I left the number of a therapist on the counter,” said Walter. “Maybe call her, and talk through what you’re feeling. You know, an unbiased ear who will listen to you and offer some advice.” He kissed me on the cheek. “We’ll be back in a few hours. If you need anything, just call.”

I nodded.

After the door closed, I clung to my knees. I’d lashed out at my only friends in the worst of ways. To add fuel to my dumpster fire of a life, I couldn’t bring myself to call the one person I needed most, and it wasn’t a therapist: it was my grandmother. She’d just say “I told you so” and make me feel as if I were incapable of making decisions. Perhaps she would comfort me. But I wasn’t ready to be comforted. I wanted to wallow, to be angry with myself and everyone else in the world, including her. It ticked me off she hadn’t called; surely the news had reached every corner in the world, even the remote village of Champvert, France.

Still, I missed her. I needed her.

My summers with Grand-mère Odette in France came to an end when I was thirteen, an age when everything mattered—the pimple on your chin, the awkwardness, and, worse, the loneliness. During those years, when my mother was passed out in her bedroom or zoned out from popping pills, my escape was the kitchen. Embarrassed with my life at home, I became a loner, the quiet girl who kept her head down and didn’t talk to anybody. Cooking meant everything to me.

I was eighteen when I found my mother’s body in the bathtub, blue and bloated, a bottle of pills scattered on the floor. She didn’t leave a note, aside from the word “Sorry” scrawled onto the bathroom mirror with her signature red lipstick—Chanel’s Rouge Allure. There must have been something wrong with me. I hadn’t shed one tear. I just wiped the mirror off with toilet paper, and after I called