But I have no right to know, not anymore. I need to remember that, no matter how many times the question is on the tip of my tongue, to ask about her. I know—I know—from my therapist, from my mother, that the best thing for Sophie right now is for me to keep at a distance. Mentally and physically.
Still, every Tuesday morning when my mom slips out with her boxes of casserole, or when I hear her speaking softly on the phone, laughing in that warm, motherly tone, my stomach knots.
I ache to know anything about Sophie.
How's her treatment going? Is she okay? Has it been working? Is she tired? Is she scared?
Is she still smiling that gorgeous smile that used to bring me to my knees?
Could she ever forgive me?
Do I even deserve to be forgiven?
Clearing my throat of the emotion clogging it, I gently rap on the door to catch their attention.
"I'm heading to therapy," I say, shoving my hands into my jean pockets before they can see how badly they're shaking.
It's not for another hour and a half, but I don't have anything else to do today, so I figured maybe I'd grab a bite to eat on the way to Boston. I'm sick of sitting in my bedroom, staring at the ceiling or scrolling through social media, seeing my friends' pictures from pumpkin patches, hayrides, and Haunted Houses.
All the things Sophie and I would be doing if I hadn't destroyed everything.
It's been a month since I've been able to come back home, and it's been eye-opening. I've been following all of my mom's rules. Cleaning this house from attic to basement, clearing the gutters, painting the spare bedroom, and being on dish duty every night.
I've been attending church with my mom every Sunday. I've been going grocery shopping with my mom and then wince when the memory of running into Elise pierces my mind. I wasn't lying when I said I was going to reach out, but I had hoped to have a couple more therapy sessions under my belt before I did so.
Thankfully, when I told Dr. Forseti what happened, she looked pleased with me and said I handled it correctly. I set firm boundaries and apologized for my role in putting her in that position of mistress. For using her as an escape. And while Elise turned out not to be who I thought she was, I do feel sorry for her and for what I did to her.
Now, I hope I never see her ever again.
Also, I have been volunteering down atWilkins Stableslike my mom had set up. Mr. Wilkins' horse farm is a staplein our community—his horses and ponies usually make their appearance at the Harvest Festival for rides for the kids.
The old man has me shoveling manure, mending fences, and doing anything else he needs done. As shitty—literally—as the job is, I am finding some purpose in it. Mr. Wilkins is tough as old leather, but fair. He had never met Sophie, but he, like everyone else in this town, had heard of what I'd done to her.
While he didn't outright judge me, he was still a little cold to me in the beginning. Now he seems to be warming up, slightly, since I show up on time and do whatever he barks at me to do.
And I've found a sense of purpose in this hard work.
If this were any other community, I would think this public shaming was overkill. But part of the reason I always loved this town was because of how people took care of each other. When someone in this town falls, the entire community bends to pick them up. They'll rally, they'll feed you, they'll clothe you, and when you mess up and really want to fix it, they'll forgive you.
I guess I've been away for college for so long that I've just forgotten what it means to be part of a community. I forgot what true belonging meant—that you will be taken care of, but you can't forget to care for others.
"There's a box of canned goods by the door. Can you drop it off at the church?" my mom says, with a decidedly less sharp tone this last week. It's making me think that they see the progress I'm making, the regret I feel every second. That I do want to change. "The food pantry's collecting."
"Yes, Ma," I nod. "Anything else you need?"
"No, Paul," she shakes her head, and the right side of her mouth quirks up, just slightly, as she looks at me. Her eyes look at me with something that looks like softness, and it sparks a tiny bit of hope in my chest. "Thank you for asking, though."
"Drive safe," my dad adds, his voice a little warmer, like he wants to let me know he sees the effort. "Ordering pizza andwings for the game tonight."
"Okay," I smile, just a little, grateful for the small olive branch, and the bit of excitement I feel for such a normal night. "I'll be back in a couple of hours."
My mom's gaze lingers on me again for a long moment before she turns back to the computer. Her lips curve upward again, that proud smile pulling at my chest.
Before I walk out the front door, I grab the box of canned goods and head to my car. The drive to the church is quick, and when I park, I see Maureen McDonall standing near the side entrance. Maureen's been a fixture atSt. Mary'ssince my mother was a child. Her husband is a Deacon, all her kids were altar servers, and she taught me in CCD.
Maureen's demeanor has always been kind but firm. She's extremely well-connected, well-informed, and well-respected in the town, and she's been eyeing me a little warily since I started attending church again with my mom. Her salt-and-pepper hair is pulled back into a loose bun, and she's wearing a thick pink cable-knit cardigan over a cream blouse.
When she sees the box in my arms, she waves me over, and I follow her downstairs to the church basement. There are tables stacked with boxes like the one I'm holding, and she directs me to place the box down on one of them.
