The Secret of You and Me - Melissa Lenhardt Page 0,17
hair across her olive skin. She swept it back behind her ear, and I caught a whiff of her perfume, spicy and sharp. A perfect scent for Sophie. I couldn’t help but smile.
“She’s better than I was,” Sophie said.
“Oh, I don’t know. You were a great player.”
“Not as good as you.”
“Nobody’s perfect.”
Sophie shifted her face slightly, and I knew she was side-eyeing me.
“Are you here to pick Logan up?”
“No. Breakfast meeting.”
“Don’t let me keep you.”
“It’s over.”
She looked back toward the clubhouse but didn’t move to leave.
“Do you want to sit down?”
“I can’t stay long.”
I pressed the button on my phone. Zero eight thirty. “Just for a minute.”
She studied me a long moment and sat down.
“Do you still play?” I asked.
“A little in the last year. You?”
“Haven’t picked up a racket since I left.”
“How far did you run?”
“About six miles.”
“Impressive.”
“Do you run?”
“Only when someone is chasing me.”
I laughed, and she smiled. “Same laugh. It’s nice to hear.”
Her eyes were hidden behind her glasses, but her smile faded into something else, and we looked away from each other. We watched in silence for a while, though I barely saw what was in front of me. I noticed Logan glance our way, and turn without acknowledging her mother. Sophie’s mouth tightened, and she uncrossed and crossed her legs.
“Sophie.” I sat forward in my chair and held my empty water glass between my hands. I saw my reflection in her bug-eyed glasses and grimaced.
“Are you going to berate me again? Because you’ll have to stand in line,” she said.
“Berate you? No.” I looked down. “Will you take your glasses off?”
She pushed the glasses back on her head, pulling her hair away from her face.
“Thank you.” I sighed and rubbed my forehead, the hangover headache sneaking back up on me. “I’m sorry for yesterday. For how I acted. I...”
I resent you. I miss you. I hate you. I love you.
She stared at me with those deep brown eyes, and I wondered if she could see into me like she used to, if she knew I was repulsed by her as much as I was drawn to her? Her expression was inscrutable. I cleared my throat. “I don’t know how long I’ll be in town, and I don’t want it to be awkward.”
“Awkward. Is that what you think this is?”
“It’s one word for it. Let’s not fight, okay?”
“You never did like confrontation.”
“And you thrived on it. Seems like that hasn’t changed.”
“Apparently not.”
I lifted my hands in supplication. “Okay, at least I can tell Emmadean I tried.” I put a hand on the table to stand, but Sophie grasped it.
“Wait.” She held my hand until I settled back into my chair, paused for a beat, and released it.
The tightness in my chest loosened. I reached out for Sophie’s right hand and lifted the ring finger encircled by a thin silver band I’d noticed the day before. We’d bought the rings at a local craft fair our senior year and exchanged them in a giggly ceremony where we vowed to be friends for life. Best friend necklaces with two sides of one heart were too trite for us. I’d worn my ring on my right middle finger; we didn’t want to give people the wrong idea. I met Sophie’s eyes again, and she smiled. “I never gave up hope.”
I smiled and released her hand. “I think Ray burned mine.”
“That’s over the top even for Ray.”
“There’s nothing left of me in my old room. Maybe Ray put it in the attic, but that would have been a lot of effort for his disgraceful daughter.”
“Bastard.”
“Yeah. I’m thinking of torching the house.”
“I’ll bring the marshmallows.”
My phone rang. Alima’s photo popped up. My finger instinctively moved to answer but hovered over the screen uncertainly. I glanced at Sophie, who seemed intent on the action on the court, said excuse me, walked off and answered.
“Did you survive?” I could hear the teasing in Alima Koshkam’s voice, and see her sitting in her office, leaned back in her chair, relaxed and confident. We’d had hundreds of conversations in her office, about work, history, politics, religion. The personal chats came years later, over a bottle of red wine, and through many tears. Alima was the first person I’d opened up to since I left Lynchfield, and Sophie, behind.
“Barely.”
“Are you on your way home?” Alima asked.
“No. The bastard left everything to me. Made me executor.”
“Why? Is that his effort at penance?”
“Emmadean says so. Mary seems to think he was getting back at me, one last time.”