20. Sophie
CHAPTER 20
SOPHIE
I sat sipping coffee, staring out at the road, playing a car game to stay awake. Every time a car went by that wasn’t white, black, or gray, I’d take a sip. That was the game.
We were two hours into a twelve-hour shift, and nothing was happening. I was crawling out of my skin. The longer we sat, the more jumpy I got. When that radio blipped, would it be for a slip-and-fall? A kitchen mishap? Or would we roll up on a scene straight from hell, screams, burning bodies, buildings on fire? Patients we couldn’t save, couldn’t comfort even?
I glanced over at Miles. He avoided my eye.
“Hey, Miles?”
He just grunted. I shifted to face him.
“Have you been sleeping? Because I can’t sleep. Whenever I close my eyes, all I see?—”
“Did you fill out your damaged equipment form?”
I blinked. My eyes hurt, all dry and gritty. “Form? What form?”
“The ding on your tablet from the other day. Clive said he was missing your damage form.”
I tried to think what ding he meant. Did he mean from weeks ago, our accident? When my tablet went flying and tore through my sleeve? I couldn’t remember if I’d filed a form or not. I didn’t care. People had died .
“I’ll do it,” I said. “But how are you?—”
“Do it now, while it’s fresh in your mind.” He pulled out a form and passed it across. He still hadn’t looked at me, not once all day. Not yesterday, either, that I could recall.
“Miles—”
“Try to focus. We need to focus.”
I opened my mouth to ask him what he meant by that , but our radio blipped. Wonderful timing. We ran calls through our lunch break and all afternoon, and back at the station, Miles was distant, shut down. I tried again, anyway, to ask him to dinner, but he didn’t look up from his shift report.
“Clive wants to talk to me. I need to stay late.”
“Clive? Did he say?—”
“It’s nothing. Don’t worry.”
“I could wait if you want.” I tried to catch his eye. “Hey, Miles? I could wait, and we could get something after.”
He looked up for the first time, but not at my face. Miles frowned straight past me, at the clock on the wall. “I don’t think so,” he said. “See you, uh, Monday.”
I stood scowling down at him, angry, ashamed. Fine, so I’d screwed up. I’d lost his trust. But how could I fix it if he wouldn’t say how? I’d been over and over both our reports, and I couldn’t see what I’d done wrong. Every step we were meant to take?—
“Do you mind?”
“What?”
Miles waved me off. “You’re in my light.”
The air all went out of me like he’d thrown a punch. I wanted to scream at him, but the station was busy, bustling with shift change. If I went off on Miles, I’d be the jerk.
“All right,” I said. “Have a good night.”
Later, at home, I dumped it all out on Mom, sprawled on my couch with the TV on mute. “It’s just, he’s the only one who’d get how this feels. He was there with me through it. He saw what I saw. But he’s pulling away from me. He won’t even talk. Not even about stupid things, like how was his night? It’s like he can’t stand the sight of me, and I can’t… Ugh!”
“You could tell me,” said Mom. “You can always talk to me.”
I closed my eyes and saw flames, and twisted metal. Flames reflected in hubcaps. In dying eyes. I saw the man with the pipe through his gut like a spear, the fear on his face as he fought me off. I thought we’d saved him. We had , for a while.
“Sophie? You can tell me?—”
“It’s all right,” I said. “I’m just frustrated, is all.”
“Are you sure? Because?—”
“No.” I couldn’t tell Mom. She couldn’t even watch things like that on the news. Not since the awful way she’d lost Dad. She’d see a shooting, an accident, any violence at all, and click , she’d blip back to the safety of Netflix.
“He’s probably just processing,” she said. “You and I work through our troubles by talking, but some people need to get their own heads straight first. Your father was like that. It drove me insane.”
“So, how did you draw him out?”
She blew into the phone. Static popped in my ear. “I’d wait,” she said. “Give him a while. Then I’d do something nice for him, and then we’d talk.”
I lay back and wondered, would it always be like this, Miles pulling away when I needed him most? Would it even be worth it, drawing him out? This was our first major bump as a couple, and Miles was pretending it didn’t exist.
“The party,” said Mom. “You could talk after that. He’ll have a few drinks in him, and you’ll be relaxed. You can take him home, talk to him, and I bet he’ll talk back.”
I’d halfway forgotten about my damn party, and part of me wanted to call it off. Celebrating my job felt ill-timed and callous. But Mom had gone to the trouble, and it was too late. She’d have to call all my friends, my uncles and aunts. Gram and Grandpa, as well, and Gram could talk . Mom would be stuck on the phone half the day.
“The party,” I said. “You think that’ll work?”
“It always did with your dad, once he’d had his time.”
I smiled, thinking back on Mom and Dad together. They’d been happy, from what I could tell. Maybe it all evened out over time, little hurts and annoyances balanced by good times. Like when I woke up to the smell of Miles cooking. Or when he cut his shower short to save me hot water. I could stand a few days of Miles shutting down if, when he felt better, we went back to that.
“The party,” I said. “All right. Fingers crossed.”
The day of the party, Miles had to work. He owed Jones, he said. He had to cover. But he’d be off by noon, so no problem, right? He’d take a nap and a shower, then he’d drop by.
I wanted to ask him, had he made his dessert? He’d promised to bring one. Was that still the plan? But I didn’t want to nag, with him talking again. Making eye contact once in a while. He wasn’t back to his old self, but he wasn’t as tense. Our last shift together had felt almost normal. At the party, we’d talk, and we’d get back on track.
I knew we’d be fine, but I picked up a pie. Not because I assumed Miles would forget, but… in case his shift ran long. In case he was late. If not, we’d have two desserts. Double the fun.
I texted him as I got ready — Getting dressed . Miles didn’t answer, but that was fine. He was probably driving, or in the shower. I snapped a pic of myself in my party dress — a cute, short red number Mom said made my curves pop — and tapped out another text: Me in my dress! But then I noticed a mark on my sleeve, a little black smudge from my eyeliner. I deleted the text and peeled off my dress, and put on a blue one with a sparkly layered skirt. By that time, it’d struck me a pic might be weird. Miles hadn’t touched me since before the fire. He hadn’t slept over or come out for a meal. Things would be normal soon, but they weren’t yet. I put my phone away and fixed my makeup, and by the time I had finished, it was time to go.
I walked to Mom’s house at it was so close, half-expecting to find Miles already there. He was early for most things, and I was running late. But his car wasn’t in the driveway, or parked in the street.
“Sophie!” Mom leaned out the door. “Hurry up and get in here! Your Gran needs a drink.”
I laughed, Miles forgotten, and hurried to meet her. “I brought pie.”
“From that place we like?” She opened the box, sniffed deep, and sighed. “Mm. I could live on this. Now, let me?—”
“Soph!” Gran came stomping out, Aunt Carol in tow, knocking flowers off the hall table with the frame of her walker. “We need margaritas. Come do the salt.”
I let them lead me into Mom’s bright little kitchen. Aunt Carol grabbed the blender while Gran sat down.
“Come sit, and tell me about this new man.” She peered over my shoulder like he might pop out. “Your mom says he’s wonderful. He bakes, is that true?”
“He cooks and he bakes. He could be a chef.” I smiled, then my stomach turned at the sight of the clock. I hadn’t realized I was that late, which meant Miles was later. Maybe he’d texted. I fished for my phone.
“ There you are!” Kate bounced in. “Jen, she’s in here!” She scanned the kitchen. “Hold up, where’s Miles?”
“Running late,” I said. “He had to work. I was just going to text him, but?—”
“Hey, Soph, Soph’s Gram.” Jen winked at Gran, who passed her a drink. They toasted to me, then to Miles. To us. I took a drink too, and drained half at a gulp. It gave me brain-freeze, and I rubbed my head.
“Serves you right,” said Aunt Carol. “It’s not ice cream. Here, soak it up with some horse-dovers.”
I took a hors d’oeuvre, some bacon-wrapped fruit, and dug in my purse again till I found my phone. My heart leaped at the sight of a cloud of missed texts, then plunged when I saw they were all ads. Miles had seen my text — two little checkmarks — but he hadn’t responded. I tried him again.
Hey. Stuck at work? Lemme know where you are & ETA.
I watched for the checkmarks, but just one popped up. Maybe that meant he was on his way.
Aunt Carol grabbed me and pulled me back to the table. She sat me down between her and Gram. More of my friends had crowded in, all wanting details on my “new man.” Mom had talked him up, it seemed, his good looks. His talent. Aunt Carol nudged me.
“You’ve got pictures, right?”
I pulled out my phone again. Still one checkmark. He had to be almost here by now, if he was driving. Unless he’d covered a second shift, and he was at work. But he’d have said if he did that, and not left me hanging. Could something have happened?
“Ooooh, he’s cute!” Aunt Carol grabbed my phone and held it up on display. “He’s got a chin-dimple. I love a chin dimple.”
“And his hair .” Gran sighed. “Reminds me of Steve’s.”
“Your husband Steve? He’s bald as a coot.” Aunt Carol laughed. Gran grabbed my phone. She scrolled through more pictures, pausing often to aww .
“Such a beautiful couple.”
“Imagine their kids!”
“Does he take out your trash for you?”
“Is he good with his hands?”
The questions kept coming, an endless torrent. I kept smiling and nodding and peering outside. Watching the driveway for Miles’s headlights. He wasn’t just late now. He was verging on rude. Mom had the roast out, ready to serve. She was tossing the salad. Grinding in pepper. If Miles didn’t hurry, he’d be holding up dinner.
“I wish mine was like that.” Jen sipped her drink. “I mean, he cooks sometimes , but never from scratch. He uses spaghetti sauce straight from the jar.”
Kate made a snorting sound. “He doesn’t even add meat?”
“No. He’s vegan.”
“He could add tofu.”
I felt myself flushing with pre-emotive shame. If Miles didn’t show after all this buildup, if he couldn’t even be bothered to text?—
Headlights flashed down the street. I could’ve cried with relief. Then they swept by, and my stomach went sour. Was he really doing this? Standing me up? Maybe he’d forgotten to set his alarm. And left his phone off, so my texts didn’t wake him. I excused myself and tried calling him: straight to voicemail. But he’d read my second text. Where the hell was he?
I closed my eyes for a moment and the flames surged back in, the cars crushed like pop cans, the smoke and the blood. Then I saw Miles hanging trapped in his seat belt, blood running the wrong way down his upside-down face. I gasped, almost choked, and slapped myself on the arm. No way… but what if? Accidents happened. What if he’d been driving and I’d sent my text, and he’d glanced over and that’d been all it took?
“Hey, Sophie?” Mom peered at my phone. “I know Miles is coming, but the roast’s getting cold.”
I drew a deep breath, held it. Blew out. “All right,” I said. “I think he’s stuck at work.” Would it be weird if I called to check he was there? Probably, yeah, with us not being work-public. And why weren’t we? What was his problem?
“I’ll make up a plate for him.” Mom squeezed my arm. “I’m sure he’ll be here as soon as he can.”
Mom dished up dinner and I watched for Miles. I checked my phone through the soup course, nothing. Nothing. Grandpa wanted to know how many lives I’d saved, but all I could think about was the two we hadn’t. Miles had lost patients before. No way he hadn’t. So why had these two made him shut down so hard? Did he blame me for their loss? Was he right to blame me?
Mom brought out the roast and Aunt Carol carved it. She always carved, so she could hoard the end piece. I asked for one slice and she gave me two, and I cut the fat off and pushed it around my plate. The time on my phone screen read eight, then nine. Mom brought out dessert — two pies, cake, and apple fritters. I ate half a fritter, then pushed back my chair.
“I should actually?—”
“Don’t tell me you’re leaving already!” Mom stood as well. “Stay for coffee, at least.”
I shook my head. “I would, but I’m working first thing.”
“Are you sure? Your friends are all here.”
I was being rude, I knew, and selfish to boot. But if Miles came up one more time, or work, saving lives, I might just scream or burst into tears. I had to get out of here, or I’d fall apart.
“You should take Miles’s plate,” said Mom. “Coming off a double shift, he’s going to be starving.”
I took the plate meekly, in its wrapping of foil, and walked back up the street and stowed it in my fridge. Then I slid down to the kitchen floor and sat with my legs stretched out, watching my phone. I texted Miles again,
Hey. You missed dinner.
Just letting you know so you won’t, like, show up.
You know, if you thought the party went late.
Anyway, text me.
I added, then deleted, a heart emoji. I’d already texted him six times in a row. I stared at my screen till the checkmarks popped up, sent and received. My phone rang in my hand.
“Miles?”
“Yeah, sorry.”
My heart took off racing. My stomach knotted up. He was fine, alive. Talking. I laughed with relief. But where had he been all night? And my texts, why no answers? Why wasn’t he talking now, just breathing thickly?
I swallowed. “You still there?”
“Yeah, about tonight…” Another long pause. I tugged a thread on my skirt. It bunched up my hem, unstitching the seam. Miles cleared his throat. “Look, I’ve asked for a transfer.”
My hands turned cold. I dropped my spoiled hem. “What do you mean?”
“To another unit. We can’t work together, so?—”
“What? Why? ”
He made the same sound my mom made when I was being frustrating, sort of a harsh puff through puckered lips. “You know why,” he said.
“I really don’t.”
“We let things get personal. We… This is wrong.” I heard a door close, then a soft thump. “We can talk if you want, but what would that help? I’d say things, you’d say things, and we’d both just get hurt. Let’s leave it here, with me out of your hair. You won’t have to see me, or?—”
“You’re leaving me! ”
Miles made that sound again. “Because one of us has to.”
“But why? Tell me why. You owe me that much.”
Miles didn’t say anything and breathed down the phone. I held my breath waiting. Preparing to fight. But I wasn’t sure if I wanted to fight for us, or if I wanted to fight against him. Make him feel what I felt, the hurt. The betrayal. The yawning abandonment, hollow in my chest.
“You’ll get it one day,” he said, and hung up. I didn’t get it at first, why the line had gone dead.
“Miles? Miles! ”
My phone beeped, three little pips. I flung it with all my strength at the dishwasher. It bounced off and slid back to me, still flashing CALL ENDED. Ended. He’d ended us. All that we were. Because… because… I’d get it one day!?
I snatched up my phone again and wound up to throw it, but breaking my phone wouldn’t mend me and Miles. I dropped it back in my purse and dropped my head in my hands, and hunched there stunned, too pissed to cry. He must’ve known for days he was going to transfer. Days I’d kept going like we were still on. He’d stood me up at my party, in front of my friends. Stood me up at work too, because because.
Because one of us has to.
Because, screw you .