The implication is there—that I’m not worth anything on my own.
“Is his company,” I say drily. “Not ours. I’ve always wanted to find my own path.”
“So you race cars.”
“I did.”
“Not anymore?”
This is the time for me to open up. To talk about what happened. What it means for me and my career.
This is the time to open up and bevulnerable.
It’s what Abigail would have wanted me to do.
“Maybe,” I hedge.
The fire crackles, and I want to take it back. For once, I want to be open and honest and share what I’m feeling with someone. But I have no idea how to do that.
“You work,” I say instead. “At the fish and chip place.”
“It’s no Carrington Toys.”
“I don’t work there either. What do you do around here when you’re not working?”
“I read. I… paint.”
“What do you paint? Like rooms, and houses?” But I smile so she knows I’m teasing.
“That’s just at Fenella’s place. I paint pictures.”
“You can paint me.” I pose on the couch, adjusting my expression for one of haughty grandeur.
“I’m not one for portraits.”
“No? What would you paint if you could choose anything?”
“The ocean at sunrise,” she says without giving it a thought.
I wince. “I don’t remember the last time I saw a sunrise when it wasn’t because I stayed up all night.”
“I definitely don’t party like you do.”
“What do you do for fun then?”
“I spend time with friends. Family. I like getting coffee and helping Stella at the shelter.”
She lives a quiet life. At first glance, it seems boring, but not for her.
Sophie seems content in a way that I envy.
“I like watching movies,” she adds.
This is something I can get behind. “Favourite movie?”
She winces and folds the edge of the blanket over her legs. “I really like movies from the 80s and 90s. Some of them really aren’t appropriate anymore,” she admits.
“You think?” I laugh. “I haven’t watched them in a while.”
