Chapter 19
nineteen
SOPHIE
I’m scrubbing a counter that’s already clean enough to perform surgery on.
But there’s a spot—an invisible, microscopic spot that possibly only I can see—that refuses to surrender to my assault with bleach and elbow grease. So I attack it again, the sharp chemical smell burning my nostrils as I put my entire body weight into the motion.
My kitchen hasn’t been this pristine since… well, never. The stainless-steel sink gleams under the overhead light. The stovetop has been scrubbed so thoroughly I’m pretty sure I’ve removed a layer of the actual surface.
And now I’m working on this one stubborn spot on the counter that probably doesn’t even exist, but it gives my hands something to do while my brain churns through its usual rotation.
Mike. Mom. Hazel. Dad. Mike. Mom. Hazel. Dad.
Mike .
My stomach clenches when I remember how I’d practically thrown myself at him at the batting cages, only to slam on the brakes when he asked if I was sure. His face—confused, a little hurt, but still so goddamn respectful—burns behind my eyelids.
He’d asked if I was sure because he didn’t want to be something casual. The dream statement for most girls. And I’d bailed, because I didn’t—couldn’t—want that either, for too many reasons. His hockey, my commitments, and the cold terror of relying on someone again only to have them disappear.
And that’s exactly why I had to push him away.
So why does my chest feel hollow, days later?
Even watching his game online last night (purely research, obviously , since Dad coaches the team) didn’t help. Mike commanded the ice—powerful, skating with this effortless grace that shouldn’t be possible for someone his size—and did it with a grin on his face.
The commentators wouldn’t shut up about NHL scouts, about how he was a lock for the draft. Which means after this year, he’ll vanish. To Pittsburgh or Boston or Canada. Just one more reason why getting involved would be catastrophic.
Mom .
My bicep burns as I attack the counter harder. Mom had texted earlier about taking on another hospital shift this week, calling it “fun.” Fun . But everyone keeps telling me I’m the one pushing too hard and that I need to back off, while she’s treating MS like a minor annoyance.
Hazel .
My little sister with her impossible schedule that I somehow need to manage.
The kid who needs to be in three places at once and considers that completely reasonable.
The child who recently announced she also wants to join the school choir, which practices—surprise! —at the exact same time as soccer.
Dad .
The standoff between us hasn’t thawed since he told me to “back off” about Mom’s health. In true Pearson style, we’re waging our cold war through polite small talk and strategic avoidance, but the tension could be sliced with a butter knife?—
The phone rings, startling me so badly the sponge flies from my hand. Ally’s name and face flash across the screen. I wipe my hands on my sweatpants and answer.
“Whoa, you sound stressed,” Ally says immediately. “I can practically hear you grinding your teeth through the phone.”
I retrieve my sponge from the floor and throw it in the sink. “I’m not stressed. I’m cleaning.”
“Same thing when it comes to you.” Fabric rustles on her end, the surefire sound of Ally settling in for a long conversation. “You only deep-clean when you’re about to snap. Remember finals week sophomore year? You reorganized your sock drawer by color gradient at three in the morning.”
“The sock thing was practical,” I protest, finally dropping the sponge into the sink.
“You were freaking out. Just like you’re avoiding something now.” Her voice softens. “What’s really going on, Soph?”
I lean against my freshly sanitized counter and feel my defenses crumble. This is Ally—the girl who covered a guy’s car with whipped cream spelling “world’s smallest penis” when he spread rumors about me, who held my hair back when I drank too much after bombing my first college midterms…
The girl who knows me better than anyone, who now lives hours away.
“It’s complicated,” I sigh.
“Isn’t it always with you? Come on, spill. I haven’t heard from you since you moved to Jersey and I’m dying to know what’s happening in Sophie Land.”
The bleach fumes must be getting to me, because my eyes suddenly sting so bad I feel like I might cry. I’ve missed her so much. We were inseparable at Michigan for years, and moving away from Ally was the hardest part about dropping everything to come here.
“Well, Mom’s better, at least compared to when she was first diagnosed,” I start, moving to open a window. “But she’s probably pushing herself too hard. And I can’t even suggest she should maybe rest without everyone acting like I’m trying to bubble-wrap her and roll her into storage.”
“Still the family watchdog, huh?”
“Someone has to be,” I mutter. “Dad certainly isn’t concerned enough.”
“And how’s the little squirt?”
A genuine smile breaks through at the mention of Hazel. “Objectively perfect, as always. She’s got one hell of a social calendar—soccer, dance, gymnastics, and now she wants to add choir—because apparently being triple-booked wasn’t challenging enough.”
“And subjectively?”
The perceptiveness catches me off guard. “I worry she’s burying complicated feelings about Mom’s illness. She acts like everything’s normal, like Mom collapsing at her soccer game was just a blip, not something that fundamentally changed our lives.”
“Kids are resilient,” Ally says. “Maybe she’s just processing differently.”
“Maybe.” I don’t sound convinced, even to myself.
“And your dad?”
“Dad is…” I search for the right words. “We had this whole thing where he told me to back off about Mom’s health.”
“So that’s everyone,” Ally says after a moment. “Except you haven’t mentioned the guy.”
I nearly drop the phone. “What guy?”
“Oh, honey.” Ally’s voice drips with knowing amusement. “I’ve known you since freshman year of high school. I know all your tells. And buried in your voice is the unmistakable sound of a woman with a crush. Sophie Elizabeth Pearson, you’re going to tell me everything.”
“That’s not even my middle name,” I scoff, my cheeks heating despite the fact that she can’t see me.
“I know, but it sounded authoritative.” I can practically see her smirking. “Stop deflecting and dish. Who is he?”
I slump onto my couch, defeated. If I don’t confess, she’ll find some more torturous method of extraction—like the time she threatened to read my seventh-grade diary entries aloud at lunch unless I admitted I’d kissed Jason Miller at Emily’s party.
“Fine. Yes, there’s a guy. His name is Mike, and yes, I like him, but things can never go anywhere, so it doesn’t matter.”
“Ah, the famous Sophie Pearson self-denial. Tell me why it’s doomed before it starts this time.”
“I’m not—” But the protest dies because she’s right. I’m already killing possibilities before giving them air to breathe.
“So,” Ally says, adopting her interrogation tone, “is he cute?”
“That’s irrelevant,” I mutter, moving to put away my cleaning supplies.
“That means he’s hot.” Her grin is audible. “Details, Pearson. Height? Build? Does he have that brooding thing? Tattoos?”
“He’s tall,” I admit reluctantly. “Six-three. Dark hair. No current brooding, though evidence suggests past tendencies. No tattoos. And… he’s athletic.”
“Athletic as in CrossFit bro who won’t shut up about macros, or athletic as in actual athlete?”
I hesitate a beat too long.
“Oh my god,” Ally gasps. “Hockey player. One of your dad’s players. Sophie Pearson, you absolute maverick!”
“How do you do that?” I demand, collapsing deeper into my couch. “Are you psychic now?”
“Please. I know you better than you know yourself. You haven’t dated anyone since Jimmy, and suddenly there’s a mystery guy in Jersey who’s got you scrubbing grout at midnight? Had to be someone complicated, and what’s more complicated than Dad’s player?”
“Pretty much nothing,” I sigh, surrendering. “His name’s Mike. He’s… I don’t know, Ally. He’s different.”
“Different how?”
I stare at my ceiling, trying to articulate what makes Mike stand out. “He listens. Like, actually listens. Not the pretending-to-listen thing guys do while they’re mentally undressing you or making monosyllabic affirmations of whatever you’re saying until it’s their turn to talk.”
“Color me intrigued.”
“He took me to batting cages after I had a fight with my dad,” I say, knowing how absurd it sounds.
“Batting cages?” I can hear the gears grinding in her head. “Is a euphemism I’m not familiar with?”
“No,” I laugh despite myself. “Actual batting cages. Metal fencing, pitching machines, the works. He said it was good for working through feelings.”
“And was it?”
“Surprisingly, yes.” My fingernails dig into my palm. “I kissed him there.”
Ally’s excited squeal makes me yank the phone away. “Finally! Some action! How was it? Did your foot pop like in those old movies?”
“It was…” The memory floods back. “Perfect. But then he stopped and asked if I was sure, and suddenly I wasn’t sure at all.”
“Wait. He stopped to check in? Mid-makeout?” Her surprise mirrors what I felt in that moment. “Who is this guy?”
“Yeah. Said he wanted to make sure we weren’t just hooking up because I was upset. That he wanted it to be for the right reasons.”
“Which are?”
“He can’t do casual with me. It would have to be serious.”
A long silence stretches between us. “And that terrified you,” Ally says softly.
“Completely,” I confess. “I told him I couldn’t do serious, and he just…
accepted it. No argument. No trying to change my mind.
Just total respect for my decision, even though I could tell it wasn’t what he wanted.
It’s the third time I’ve pushed him away after he clearly wanted more, and he’s respected it every single time. ”
“You’ve pushed him away three times? Then how did you kiss on attempt number three?”