“Then San Sebastián?”
“Tomorrow morning.”
“Are you taking the train?”
“Yes.”
“Good. You like trains.”
“I like not being searched by airport security before breakfast.”
“That too.”
I reach for my coffee and find it cold. I drink it anyway.
Sophie watches me do it and grimaces.
“That was room-temperature coffee.”
“It was available coffee.”
“You are a food critic.”
“I am off duty.”
“You are never off duty.”
“That is unfortunately true.”
Her expression shifts again, gentler now.
“Text me when you get on the train,” Sophie says.
“I will.”
“Text me if he messages again.”
“I might.”
“Serena.”
“I’ll text you.”
“Thank you.”
I look at her through the phone, this woman who has seen me mean and soft, hungry and heartbroken, right and insufferable. The one person who can call from another continent and still make the room feel less empty by sheer force of will.
“Thank you for checking,” I say.
Sophie’s smile is small and real. “Always.”
“Don’t become weird about it.”
“I would never.”
“You absolutely would.”
“I’m already making a private note not to become weird about it, which I admit is the first sign of becoming weird about it.”
