“He doesn’t get San Sebastián. He doesn’t get Lyon. He doesn’t get Paris. He doesn’t get eight weeks of your work because he decided regret was more comfortable once you were out of reach.”
The back of my throat tightens once, quickly enough that I can swallow around it.
“I know,” I say.
“I need you to know it in the part of you that answers hotel-room texts at midnight.”
I huff out a small laugh.
“That part of me has been under supervision.”
“By whom?”
“Me.”
“That is both reassuring and concerning.”
“I’m very strict.”
“You are until you’re tired.”
I do not answer. Sophie catches it anyway. She always does.
“That’s when he’ll try to get in,” Sophie says.
“Not when you’re furious. Not when you’re at some perfect table writing brilliant little sentences. He’ll try when you’re tired, when the room is quiet, when you’ve had enough wine to miss being known but not enough clarity to remember he didn’t know you well enough.”
I stare at her. The sentence is too accurate to fight.
Sophie’s voice lowers.
“I’m not saying this to hurt you.”
“I know.”
“I’m saying it because I remember what you sounded like the night you saw that photo.”
I pick up the pen again, then set it down because there is no reason to be holding it.
“I sounded calm,” I say.
“You sounded like you were standing very still in a burning room.”
The image moves through me before I can stop it. I had finished the review I was writing before I cried. I hate thatSophie knows that–but I alsolovethat Sophie knows that. Both things sit in the same place.
“I’m not in that room anymore,” I say.
“No,” Sophie says. “You’re in Rome.”
“Yes.”
“Eating figs and frightening servers.”
“Only a little.”
“And writing exceptional work.”
“Apparently.”
