Chapter 11
CHAPTER 11
SOPHIE
T he warm aroma of coffee and baked goods fills the air as I sit across from Will at a small corner table at Pages I just thanked him dryly and sat down.
So why is he staring at me like this? Is he still basking in the fact that I begged him to be here?
“What? Is there something on my face, or …” I trail off as I notice his eyebrows perk up.
“No,” he says assuredly. “I’m just watching you enjoy your coffee.” I notice how much of a death grip I have on the mug and loosen up. “Seems like you needed it.”
“Look,” I begin, a hint of bite in my tone, “I agreed to ask for your help, and I’m here now. So I would appreciate it if you abstained from mocking me.”
His expression shifts. But I can’t read whatever is happening in his eyes. “I wasn’t mocking you,” he replies, still keeping his voice calm and steady. He softens his tone and continues. “I was just making an observation.”
The velvety sound of his voice when he softens his tone sends a spark through my spine; I shift in my overstuffed leather chair to shake off the feeling. “Hmm.” No use lingering on this any longer. I’m not going to play these mental games of wondering if he actually means it, or if he’s still toying with me.
I’m not one of his little girlfriends he can just string along and play with. I know this is second nature to him …
But he doesn’t know who he’s dealing with.
Except …
Unease coils in my gut as I remember that he does, in fact, know exactly who he’s dealing with. We’ve known each other for ten years. Maybe he doesn’t know me as intimately as Matt once did, but I’d say it’s pretty close.
And I wouldn’t be surprised if Matt even went as far as to divulge personal details about our sex life to him. To brag about all the new things we’d try.
A shudder passes through me. I swallow the lump in my throat. Thinking of how much I dared to trust Matt—how much of myself I allowed him to see—only for him to so casually plow in other fields gives me vertigo.
“Sophie?” Will asks, his forehead creased. “You okay?”
I snap out of my depressing reverie and focus back on the here and now. Right. Let’s get this over with. “Of course I’m okay,” I snap back. I straighten my back and glance down at Will’s phone, which is set between our mugs on the oak table. He didn’t bring his laptop or even any notes for today’s session. He’s only interested in recording our conversation. There’s a pit in my stomach at the thought of Will owning a recording of my voice. This seems so much more intimate than it really is. “So, let’s get on with it, unless there’s a reason you’re being eerily quiet?”
One corner of his lips curls into a crooked smile, and he chuckles softly. “It’s part of my process,” he explains. “I pride myself on being more than just a consultant. I like to fully understand what I’m diving into. That involves gauging how my clients are feeling in the moment. It helps me ask the right questions and get the information I need.”
I frown, and I can’t help but doubt that this is actually how he works. He’s not a spiritual coach, for crying out loud; he’s a business consultant. What sort of hogwash is this?
“Okay …” I squint, taking another sip of my latte while I wait for him to start, oh, I don’t know, asking some damn questions. “Just to remind you, I don’t have all day. I have a baby waiting for me in daycare.”
His gaze softens. “I know. And I promise you, Sophie, I won’t forget that. I respect your time.”
Huh. I wasn’t expecting a response like that from him, of all people. I huff and take a moment to centre myself, inhaling the sweet scent of coffee and old books surrounding us. No use getting myself worked up while he’s going through his ‘process.’
“So,” he finally begins, “we’re in the unique situation where I do know a few things about Party C?té already.” Yes, I know that. I know we know each other, despite me wishing so hard it wasn’t the case.
But that’s not quite true. If I’d never met Matt and Will, I wouldn’t have my babies. That’s something I wouldn’t trade for the world. Even if I multiplied the pain Matt inflicted on me tenfold, I’d do it all again for my kids.
Will continues: “But why don’t you catch me up on what’s been going on over the past year. You can start with hard numbers or talk more about operations. Whatever feels best for you to start with.”
Baring myself and the inner workings of my business, which might as well be my fourth child, in front of Will feels like teetering on the edge of a cliff. The vertigo makes me nearly dizzy. So I grit my teeth and try to erase his face from the frame I see in front of me.
I can pretend he’s just a random consultant I don’t know. Yeah. That’ll work.
I tell him what’s been going on for the last year or so; how the numbers are good, clients are happy, marketing is going pretty well, and leads come in steadily as long as I’m actively marketing myself. Even though it makes me nauseous to revisit it out loud, I also let him know about my two failures of the week: losing an employee and a potential client.
To his credit, there are no snide remarks or even any teasing expressions when I tell him about these failures. From time to time, he’ll interrupt with a follow-up question to dig deeper into what exactly is happening. The conversation flows well; I’m deeply immersed in Super Sophie, the unshakeable woman who lets nothing stand in her way.
Until he does shake me with a question that’s completely out of left field.
“Can you tell me a bit more about what your workday looks like with Julian?” he asks without a hint of mocking energy in his eyes.
My head jerks back at this question. “Uh,” I stammer, not in the habit of being caught off-balance like this. “What does Julian have to do with this?” I lean on my elbows and carefully inspect his expression. If he so much as gives me a sliver of a signal that he’s teasing me about my unique work situation, I’ll put him back in his place.
Will leans back in his seat; his foot bumps into mine under the table, and I flinch. A tingling sensation runs up my leg all the way to my core. What the hell?
“I need to understand the logistics of what we’re working with,” he explains. I try to see if he felt what I just felt, but he lets nothing show. The man is a brick wall.
I hate it. I hate how vulnerable it makes me feel to be completely unable to read him.
I strongly believe that my uncanny ability to read people and understand power dynamics at play has given me an unfair advantage in growing my business to what it is today. When meeting with vendors, potential clients, or anyone else who may have their part to play in my world, I always know how to adjust how I’m coming across to tilt the power balance in my favour.
Anxious client is scared to invest in me? I’m the gentle, caring, patient cheerleader who will help them work through their objections until they trust me completely. Stubborn manchild of a vendor tries to upcharge me for bullshit reasons? I’m the hardass boss bitch who won’t budge.
But Will is throwing me off my game.
I resist the urge to roll my eyes and say, “On days like today, I can get a few hours of childcare for Julian. But most days I have him with me.” I explain what a typical day looks like with Julian, which involves several breaks. I don’t specify that many of these breaks are for breastfeeding him because I don’t see a reason to bring my breasts into the conversation.
He nods along, his gaze never wavering. “And you breastfeed him, correct?”
Heat flushes to my cheeks as indignation swells in my chest. “That’s none of your business.”
Will’s eyes soften. He places both hands on the table as if showing me a gesture of goodwill. “Don’t be silly,” he says, his deep voice softer now. “Babies need to eat. It’s not a big deal. I assume you do, since you breastfed the girls?”
I curl my toes in my leather booties underneath my chair. A stray thought pops into my head: Will’s strong hand on my breast, his thumb flicking gently at my nipple ? —
My lower belly clenches. What the hell is wrong with me today?
This is Will. Womanizer Will. Matt’s best friend Will. I don’t care how much his angular face looks like it was carved by Greek gods, and I don’t care if I haven’t gotten laid in over a year. This man is dangerous. Completely off-limits.
Even in my imagination.
I straighten up, my shoulders back, showing him that his question didn’t get to me at all. He’s right, after all; I shouldn’t feel any different about breastfeeding Julian than I would if I bottle-fed him. Fed is fed. Only a creep would sexualize my breasts in this scenario.
A creep like Will?
Focus, Sophie.
“I do,” I say in a deadpan tone. “And I intend to until he’s at least a year old.” If I can. But I don’t say that last part out loud, because the last thing Will needs is a reason to think I have confidence issues.
“Right.” He frowns slightly, as if he’s thinking. “So you probably feed him every, what, three to four hours?”
I raise my eyebrows. “That’s correct.” I can’t hide my surprise that he would know how often a five-month-old needs to breastfeed.
“Okay, great.” He takes a sip of his coffee. “And when you have the girls, how is your day different than without?” I notice he doesn’t bring his best friend into the conversation. And while I’m happy he doesn’t, I can’t help but wonder why. If he wanted to shift the power into his field even more, there would be nothing better than making me uncomfortable by mentioning Matt.
“I have to cut my day short to grab Gwen from school. I’ll pick up Heather from daycare at the same time, since I can’t work when I have Gwen anyway.”
Will nods again. For the first time, I dare to ask myself if it’s possible he isn’t playing a game at all. Is it possible that he simply wants to do his job, and do it well? That he genuinely wants to help?
I don’t dare to hope so. Plus, if I’m wrong, I can’t afford to put myself in a vulnerable position. Too much is at stake for me.
I take a long drink from my mug, emptying it before setting it back on the table. Realizing I could use a breather, I gesture to grab the cup and bring it back to the counter just as Will reaches for it. His hand lands on mine, and just for a fraction of a moment, the heat at the contact sends a rush of electricity up my arm and down my shoulder.
We lock eyes. My heart flutters.
The fraction of a moment passes, and I jerk my fingers back. Will, on the other hand— hah —grabs the mug firmly and smiles. “Stay. I’ll grab you another,” he says as he starts getting up.
“You don’t need to do that.”
He stops mid-motion and raises an eyebrow. “I know I don’t need to do anything, Sophie.” Without further explanation, he leaves the table and heads to the service counter.
I take this opportunity to give myself an internal pep talk. Get a grip, woman. Pretend he’s just another consultant. Just a run-of-the-mill business bro. You’ve dealt with enough of them before. Why should this be any different?
From the corner of my eye, I spot the door of the bookstore opening, and a young woman walks in with slow, uncertain steps. Her oversized sweater swallows up what seems to be a tiny frame, and her eyes are focused straight towards me.
No, wait. Towards Will.
But I’m interrupted in my staring contest by the thump of a steaming mug being placed on the table.
I turn back to Will, who’s looking at me with an amused look. “What’s got your attention like—” He stops mid-sentence when his eyes latch on to the girl.
His entire demeanour changes in an instant. He stays there, frozen like a deer in headlights, and I see a ghost of something pass through his black eyes. My first instinct is to believe he’s found yet another victim of his womanizing ways, but upon further inspection, that’s not it at all.
Ladies and gentlemen … Will Béchard is uncomfortable.
I can’t resist smiling at Will’s disposition. Now that I’m looking at him more carefully, I know my second guess is correct; he’s very clearly rattled. I turn to look back at the girl, who has made eye contact with him by now.
Oh, this is going to be good.
As she makes her way towards us, a shy smile on her pink lips, I let myself imagine all the possible scenarios that this could be. Maybe she’s one of his many one-night stands whom he promised to call back, only to immediately wipe from his mind and move on to his next conquest. Perhaps she was one of the girls who was unfortunate enough to date him for a week or two, only to be unceremoniously dumped without good reason, and now she’s caught him like a fly and wants an explanation.
Or, even better, maybe she was last night’s conquest, and now she’s pleased as punch to run into him when she probably thought she’d never see him again after he escaped her bed this morning.
In all of these cases … yikes. That innocent face, those round cheeks … she can’t be anywhere close to Will’s age.
“William!” the girl exclaims when she reaches our table, a huge grin on her face. But she doesn’t stop; she walks straight to him and goes for a hug.
I watch the embrace unfold. Will returns the hug with clear reluctance. He’s stiff, his eyes wide and panicked. I wish I could record this.
“I tried calling you half an hour ago, but you didn’t pick up,” she says, pulling away from the awkward hug. She cocks her head sideways.
Will’s eyes dart to me, and then back to the girl. “I’m really sorry. I’m in the middle of a work meeting.” His voice is stilted, all of his usual confidence is drained from him. His gaze darts to me again, and it looks like …
Is he pleading for me to corroborate his story?
As much as I’m enjoying this, I’m nothing if not professional. “That’s correct,” I say, and for the first time, the young woman registers my presence.
“Oh.” Her smile fades. “I’m …” Her green eyes dart around uncomfortably. “I’m really sorry. I … Maybe I should go.”
I still can’t wrap my head around what this is. Will pinches his lips together nervously. “I’ll call you back, okay?”
The girl gives Will a shaky smile before turning to leave. He watches her walk away, then sits back down. Once she’s out the door and far enough away to be out of sight through the large window at the front of the bookstore, Will lets out a deep sigh.
“Are you really going call her back?” I chuckle, crossing my arms and leaning back in my chair. Knowing Will, he won’t. She’s just another broken heart waiting to happen. And so young, too.
Will’s worried face twists into a scowl. For an instant, a flash of terror thunders through me. But as quickly as it appeared, the scowl is gone. A wave of calm settles over him. Yet, a hint of his previous scowl remains.
The situation obviously shook him.
“Right, where were we?” he asks, glancing at his phone at the centre of the table, which is still recording our conversation.
I can’t help myself. “You’re just going to ignore my question?”
Will’s frown deepens. “Let’s stay on topic.” His voice is snippy. I touched a nerve. But then his expression softens. “You were telling me about the girls.”
A pinch of guilt sneaks into my chest. He’s right. I’m surprised by how quickly he can whiz past the whole thing, but being the professional I am, I don’t insist. Instead, I stay on topic and keep answering his questions. I can’t help but notice he doesn’t smile for the remainder of our meeting.
It’s much easier to keep my mind out of the gutter like this.
By the time I’ve emptied my second mug, we’re finally wrapping up the meeting. Will grabs his phone and stops the recording, his face completely blank. “I’ll get working on your plan today,” he says dryly before getting up. “I’ll be in touch. Take care of yourself.” He only gives me one short look before he makes his way out.
I watch him leave, and there’s suddenly nothing to distract me from the guilt, even though I can’t understand why. I’m probably one of the last people who should feel bad about revelling in Will’s discomfort.
But there’s something about seeing this proud, self-assured man with such a dead look in his eyes that makes the whole thing feel … wrong.
“It might not be what it looks like,” Mom lectures while she stirs the pan of risotto. “You can never know.” The satisfying smell of garlic and white wine wafts from the stove as she turns to me, placing a hand on her small hip. Her long white hair is gathered up in her signature messy bun, except for one stray strand curled in front of her face.
Mom called earlier today, and after I gave her a brief rundown of my situation with Rosalie, she offered to come watch Julian after she finished work at 4 p.m. as well as make dinner for the two of us. I gladly took her up on her offer, but now that I’m venting to her about Will, she’s not reacting the way I’d expected her to.
“Oh, believe me, Mom, I know,” I retort from the floor. I’m holding Julian underneath his armpits and letting him flex his little legs against the hardwood. “Unless you forgot who we’re talking about here?”
“I haven’t forgotten.” She tucks the curly strand of hair behind her ear and keeps stirring. “I’ll remind you that I have met this young man myself several times, you know.”
Matt and I were together for ten years. The odds of my mom and his best friend being in the house at the same time were high, so of course they bumped into each other a few times.
“Right,” I continue, “but that’s nothing compared to how well I know him.”
“You know, I think you’re too close to the situation to judge him fairly.” Mom pauses her lecture when Julian glances her way and she gives him a silly smile. “Every time I’ve met Will, I’ve only gotten good vibes from him. And vibes don’t lie.”
“Mom, no offense,” I start, “but you have terrible judgement with men.” I’m referring, of course, not only to my cheating father, but to the two following boyfriends who did the same to her afterwards.
“Bah.” She waves it off with her free hand. “You’re not reading it right, sweetie. It’s because I’ve dealt with so many assholes that I know one when I see one. And Will isn’t one.”
I roll my eyes. But there’s no use arguing about it any further with her. Suffice to say, I didn’t inherit my stubbornness from my dad.
We don’t speak of it more until after dinner when I’m breastfeeding Julian in the living room while Mom tidies the place. “I keep thinking about it,” she begins, stopping mid-motion as she’s picking up Julian’s tummy time mat. “And hear me out … is it at all possible that you’re choosing to believe Will is an asshole because there’s a chance he could actually help?”
“Ugh, Mom,” I grumble out. “I don’t doubt he can help. I just doubt that he doesn’t have ulterior motives … that he doesn’t want to fuck with me while he’s at it.”
“Why would he do that, though?”
I raise my eyebrows, confused as to how she can’t see the obvious answer. To me, at least, nothing is clearer. “Because he’s Matt’s best friend? Because he’d probably find it hilarious to make my life even more miserable than Matt did, out of solidarity for his friend?”
Mom suddenly stops and crosses her arms. Despite her tiny frame, her presence is taking up all the space in my small living room. “Sweetie, I want you to think for a moment—is there any way he behaved with you when you were with Matt that makes you believe he’d want to make your life miserable on purpose?”
I think back to the last ten years. And I’ve got to admit that, no, Will never showed any malicious intent toward me. At least, nothing that I could see. Quite the contrary, actually. He always went out of his way to be friendly and kind towards me. To include me in their inside jokes.
But I once believed Matt was kind, that he loved and respected me. And look where that got me.
It was all a facade.
So how am I supposed to believe it’s not a facade for Will, too?
A jolt of pain pierces my chest. It’s rare for the hurt to echo through me as it did when the wound was fresh. Mom saw it all firsthand. She witnessed me barely able to eat or get out of bed. If it hadn’t been for her and Avery, who came back to help care for me and the girls despite her own pregnancy, I don’t know how I would have managed.
And this is why I can hardly believe Mom can’t see what I see.
“You know,” she continues, “if you’re so worried about this, why didn’t you just ask me for help?”
Because you would have said yes.
“Mom. You’re retiring in ten years.” I leave out what’s obvious to both of us; how Dad has more retirement savings from three decades of working while Mom ran the household for him, and how she gets to reap none of it. She can’t afford not to work full-time if she wants to retire. And I’d be a terrible daughter if I let her take a bunch of time off to babysit.
“Nothing’s more important to me than my kids. And grandkids,” she adds, her face now stern. “I’m the one who’s supposed to worry about you, Sophie. Not the other way around.”
I sigh, knowing I won’t win an argument against my mom. But in my mind, the truth is clear: Mom has already done her duty, and done it well. Now it’s my turn to push through.