Trillion - Winter Renshaw Page 0,21

can you be basic and simultaneously complex?

SOPHIE: I write poetry. See? That’s not on my resume. And plenty of basic women write poems. Sometimes we sketch too. And listen to music that makes us cry. It’s a whole thing. Also, we have a group that meets on Wednesdays. At Starbucks. We get matching pink drinks.

ME: Send me some of your work.

She sends me three laughing emojis—the ones with tears.

ME: I mean it. I’ll forward it to our publishing division.

SOPHIE: Your publishing division doesn’t publish poetry. Only commercial fiction. The kind that makes insane money … $$$$$$$$$$.

ME: Then I’ll add a poetry imprint.

SOPHIE: You’re too much.

ME: And apparently not enough.

My phone stops buzzing with texts. Either I’ve got her tongue or she passed out from all that “dessert” wine.

I wait a while longer before heading to bed. It’s enough for tonight.

We’re making progress.

It’s only a matter of time.

Twelve

Sophie

Present

Oh my god.

I wake on the couch Saturday morning with a throbbing head and immediately reach for my phone, poring over the drunken text messages I exchanged with Westcott last night.

“No.” I clamp a hand over my mouth when I realize none of it was a dream.

I can’t believe I was so casual with him …

I sent him a selfie …

And used emojis …

Also, I think I flirted with him a little? No—there’s no “think” about it. I definitely flirted.

Two wine bottles rest on my coffee table—one empty, one half full. I don’t always drink like that, but yesterday was the anniversary of a day that changed my life, and I wanted to zone out to silence those painful memories.

I re-read the messages, cringing, and then I tap out a quick text, my thumb hovering over the ‘send’ button until I delete the whole thing.

Half of me wants to apologize and explain that I wasn’t myself last night. The other half of me knows he’s going to see it as an invitation to keep his foot in the door of my life.

And what’s going to happen come Monday when I’m back in the office? I’ve always prided myself on being professional, keeping my workplace persona top notch. He’s officially seen the other side of me. The side I share with friends and family and people whose electronic signatures don’t grace my paycheck every other week.

I’m damned if I say something, damned if I don’t.

I type out a second message and scan it over three times before changing my mind and deleting it all. I’m not going to say anything to him. I’ll wait until Monday and I’ll apologize in person for being so off-the-cuff. I’ll tell him I hope I didn’t give him the wrong idea about … us.

I’ll also ask that he not contact me on the weekends unless it’s work-related.

Popping a Swiss mocha pod into my Keurig, I wait for it to brew and hunt through my medicine cabinet for two Advil. My brain pulsates with regret, wishing I could wave a magic wand and re-do last night. I should’ve ignored his texts. I shouldn’t have engaged.

As soon as I finish my drink, I hit the shower and then throw on a pair of boyfriend jeans and a vintage Prince t-shirt before lacing into some Converse—my weekends are all about comfort. A second later, I grab my phone and car keys and lock my apartment behind me.

Forty minutes later, I’m at my mom’s outside the city. Saturdays are when she gets a break from caring for Emmeline. Usually she’ll use this time to grab groceries. Get an oil change. Sometimes get her hair or nails done. She has a caregiver who comes during the week when she’s working, but during the evenings, it’s just the two of them and it isn’t always easy to run errands on a whim.

“Hello, hello,” I call out, letting myself in.

“In the back,” my mom calls. I follow her voice to Emmeline’s bedroom, where she’s braiding Em’s hair.

“Love that blouse on you,” I say to my sister, bending to kiss her cheek. She smiles and places her hand over mine. “You’ve always looked so pretty in violet.”

“Thanks, chica,” she says with a wink.

Ten years ago, this wouldn’t have been possible. The muscles in her face were so constricted she could hardly sip from a straw. While my sister’s disease is incurable, the progress she’s made because of Nolan Ames’ connections have given her a new lease on life.

Prescription pill bottles, vitamins, and perfumes cover her dresser, and in the corner, a small Bluetooth speaker plays Fleetwood Mac—forever