Chapter 17 Sophie
SOPHIE
“Sophie Martin, please,” I say, the rush of nausea hitting me again.
The turbulence on this flight from Colorado to Vermont was something else. I swear, I thought a couple times we were going to burst at the seams. Which, of course, didn’t help the nerves I seem to get before I fly now.
I used to never get sick on planes, but ever since I took this job, the nerves are so much worse. Not to mention I’ve been so queasy lately from the travel and all the restaurants and rich food…
Heat flushes me, and I think I might be coming down with something.
I guess it was inevitable, after flying back and forth between ten cities in the last month and a half.
“Yes, Ms. Martin, we have your room ready,” the attendant says as they tap away on their keyboard.
I thank them once they procure the key card for me and all but rush up to my room because I feel like that last burrito I scarfed down in the Atlanta airport is coming back to haunt me.
I don’t even like burritos, honestly, but it looked appetizing and my mouth was watering for it. Plus, I was in a rush to make my connection.
Bad decision, apparently.
I barely make it into the room before the revenge of the airport burrito hits me. I groan as I empty the contents of my stomach into the polished, shiny toilet.
Maybe I should note that in my article, since I’m doing a piece on this hotel.
The penthouse suite is gorgeous and kind of reminds me of Paradise.
As I think it, I try to repress the thought. I don’t want to think about Paradise. About how perfect everything was and then how I lost it.
My phone chimes with a familiar sound as I lean my head against the toilet. I debate answering it, like I always do.
Because I know who it is.
He’s been texting me for a few weeks now. I never respond, though I know he can see that I’ve read his texts.
I pick up my phone and swipe.
No new texts in The Three Musketeers chat.
But two new messages in the Matthew thread.
One is a selfie of him with a hot dog at an event with Benny in the background.
Talked the boss into throwing a picnic.
Boss. Apparently Benny hired Matthew to work in his tattoo shop recently, or so Matthew says.
I scroll through his text thread, even though I know I shouldn’t.
I re-read all the how are you doing? and update posts he sends. I stare at all the pictures he sends me of him and the guys. Pictures I’m sure they don’t know he’s sending me.
Pictures of Benny perched over customers, focused on his work. His tattooed biceps flexing at me.
And then I remember his voicemails. The ones I can’t bring myself to delete, even though I know I should.
The ones where he’s drunk, telling me he loves me.
The ones where he’s drunk, begging me to come back.
A part of me wants to believe those words are true.
Wants to believe that he still wants me.
And the other part refuses to delete them because even drunk…
I miss his voice. I miss his bitterness.
I miss the way he’d lean into my ear and whisper dirty things.
The way he’d snap and bite at me only to break me and hold me after.
I think about them all the time.
Matty, Benny, and Elijah.
Elijah hasn’t called to leave drunk voicemails, and he certainly hasn’t texted me updates like my phone is a social media page.
But I guess I understand. It’s not our first breakup. It’s just the first one where I feel the cracks and the true omission of his presence.
Before, when I left the first time…I thought I knew what it was like to feel that void, but I didn’t. Because this void is so much more prominent.
I grasp my shell necklace, the one he bought me that I can’t seem to take off. I rub the shell as another wave of nausea hits me and I set the phone down in lieu of throwing up again.
Ugh.
No more airport burritos for sure.
I lie on the cold floor, hoping this will pass soon enough so I can get unpacked. As I wait for my stomach to settle, I scroll through Matthew’s photos.
Benny working on customers.
Elijah looking poignant and polished at some football game.
A selfie of the three of them, Mathew shirtless with colored chalk all over his chest and a marathon number around his neck, smiling brightly while Benny and Elijah look annoyed. I smirk when I see some of the chalk staining Benny’s shirt.
I miss them so much, and I hate that we’re so far apart.
I didn’t expect this job to be so lonely. Chatting with my editor and boss and some other employees is great, but it’s not the same as when I’d go into the office and find Melissa and chat her ear off about corporate gossip. And it’s certainly not the same as hanging out with the guys.
Ever since I left, I’ve felt like shit. Miserable. Physically and emotionally.
I’ve tried pleasuring myself to take off the edge, but I only think about them and it makes me feel worse, so I stopped. It didn’t feel right. I used to think about them often, as they fed my fantasies a lot in my younger years, but now that I’ve had them, tasted them…
Loved them…
It’s not the same.
When I get up to finally unpack, I feel like death.
I pull out my toiletries bag and unload it. I set out my facewash, my toothbrush, my toothpaste and my pills. I open my pills and count them, since I know I’ll need to put in an order soon.
Then I recount them, because the number’s off. I shouldn’t have this many left at this point.
I count them again. And again, and still…the number is off.
Which means I must’ve forgotten to take a pill at some point.
Well, more like five, but…
Panic hits me as I try to remember when I would have forgotten. I’ve always been good about keeping myself on track.
And then a terrible, terrifying thought hits me.
I pull out my calendar on my phone and hurriedly count the days since my last cycle and freeze when I realize I’m over a month late. How could I be so late and not notice?
My stomach roils with anxiety and airport burrito revenge as I shake my head.
No. No, that’s impossible. I took my pills in Paradise. I know I did, I—
I try to recount the days there, but it was over a month ago.
Keaton and I hadn’t had sex in the week leading up to my departure because I was busy getting ready for the wedding…
“There’s no way,” I say. “It’s probably just delayed from stress. I’ve been under a lot of stress.”
But my stomach turns and I try to push off the overwhelming urge to vomit. I don’t think I have anything left in me at this point.
“You probably caught something on the plane. Ate a bad burrito,” I tell myself. Though as I think back to the start of this, I know it’s not coincidental that I’ve felt this way for the last three weeks.
I pace back and forth, trying to calm myself down. Talk myself out of the possibility, because I can’t comprehend it.
I can’t be pregnant. I just…can’t be.
I can’t push down the urge to vomit and run back to the bathroom, each heave like a nail in a coffin.
All weekend long, I’m sick. On edge.
I debate taking a test and finally decide it’s the only thing I can do to know for sure.
I sit there in the bathroom, alone, staring at the stick. Waiting.
And waiting.
My heart is in my throat and my phone chimes. The familiar sound of a text from Matthew. I can’t look at it right now. I can barely breathe. How long has it been?
I check the box and my watch. It’s barely been a minute.
The entire world stops as the lines become clear. Bright pink. Bright like Matthew’s pink shirt.
I’m pregnant.
I let out a heavy sigh as the truth sinks in.
I’m pregnant. And I don’t know who the father is.
My eyes close and tears come without warning.
It could be any one of them.
Matthew. Elijah. Benny…
One of them got me pregnant.
I let out a breath as I set my hand on my stomach, terrified.
I always thought one day I’d meet the right man and we’d get married and have a couple kids.
Keaton and I talked about the marriage part at least, and I was so sure that he was it.
That we were going to get married and have a family of our own, and it would be picture-perfect.
But Keaton is gone.
And so are my boys…
Their images fill my brain.
I should tell them. I know that. But I also know I need to process this information on my own. Decide what it is I want to do.
I can’t raise a baby in hotel rooms on my own.
But would they even want this baby? Or would something like this cause more problems between them too?
Matthew’s photos show them together, looking like the perfect friends. I hate to see it, but I also love to see it, because I know they’re living their lives without me and they are happy.
Can I really destroy that?
I don’t know.
I want them to be happy, but…
I tell myself I won’t make any rash decisions. I’ll wait. After all, this is a big decision. I need to weigh out all the aspects of it.
I need to process it the only way I know how.
I pick up my phone and call Sam.