“My sister thinks we’re spending too much time together.” I don’t know why I say it then, or like that. I want it take it back as soon as the words are out of my mouth.
But Sophie laughs. “So does mine.”
“Fen thinks I’m going to hurt you.” From the expression on Sophie’s face, I’d say that was Stella’s argument as well. And I can’t blame her. I’m actually grateful that Sophie has someone watching out for her.
“Are you? Going to hurt me?” Sophie asks in a low voice.
“I never intend to hurt anyone,” I say. “But sometimes I do.”
“You haven’t hurt me,” she points out.
“Not yet.”
“I don’t think you will.”
Her words light a spark in my chest, and I feel the warmth of the glow. My sister loves me, and my friends support me, but I’ve never had anyone believe in me like Sophie does.
It’s an odd sensation.
“Well, I’ll try not to hurt you,” I tell her. Before she can respond, I lean forward and pull her legs toward me, settling her feet in my lap. Her shoes are off, and she’s wearing unmatched socks as usual—one of her usual colourful woollen socks, and on her foot with the broken toes, a thick baggy sock she took from Spencer. Carefully, I peel off the baggy sock.
Her foot isn’t as swollen, and the bruises have faded somewhat, but there’s still too much purple and blue for me to feel good about it. Her two toes are still taped together.
“It looks better,” Sophie says as if she can tell my guilt has surged.
“It looks broken,” I say gruffly.
“What are you doing?” she asks as I take her heel in my lap and press my thumbs along the arch of her foot.
“How much did you walk today?”
“To the fitness centre.”
“And back down to the dining room?” I guess. “Using the stairs instead of the elevator.” Sophie shifts her gaze away. “You get this furrow between your eyes when it hurts.”
She laughs softly. “You shouldn’t know that.”
“But I do.” I do my best to ignore the soft moan as Sophie drops her head to the side. “This should help.” I work my thumbs along her arch to relax the band of tissue that I know causes her pain when she overdoes it.
“It does,” she says, with her eyes closed.
“We should paint your toenails.”
Sophie’s eyes pop open. We both look at her toes—the unbroken ones—and the chipped pink polish. “They look horrible.”
“I don’t think the polish job is the worst of your foot worries.”
“I do them myself,” she protests.
“I’m sure they looked fine three weeks ago.”
“They really didn’t. I messed up the baby toe.”
“I can fix it. Fenella used to make me paint hers when were kids.”
“Maybe,” she says.
“Don’t trust me?”
