Chapter 61
CHAPTER SIXTY-ONE
SOPHIE
There should be a badge for surviving a full work week without throttling anyone.
Especially one where your inbox is a dumpster fire, your boss has asked you three times if you’re “okay” in that tone that suggests you look like you’ve been dragged through a hedge, and your ex-boyfriend, who may or may not have cheated on you, has sent you a text every morning like some sort of sad motivational calendar.
Today’s was;
Murphy: Hope you’re doing okay. Still thinking about you.
Every day it’s a variation on a theme. I haven’t listened to any of the voice notes either. I can’t. Because I’m afraid if I do, I might hear something real in his voice. Something raw. Something that’ll mess with the steel cage I’ve carefully built around my ribs.
“Earth to Sophie.” Mia waves a hand in front of my face, smirking over the top of her wine glass. “Are we boring you already, or are you mentally assassinating your coworkers one by one?”
“Both,” I deadpan, taking a sip of my own wine. “It’s called multitasking. You wouldn’t understand.”
We’re at my flat, surrounded by takeaway containers, a mountain of Pringles, and the kind of ambient fairy lights that make it look like I’ve got my life together when really, I haven’t folded laundry in two weeks and my fridge contains nothing but almond milk and three sad grapes.
Girls’ night. My idea. Mostly because I needed the distraction. And Mia’s good at that. She doesn’t try to therapize me, she just shows up with wine and snacks and an endless stream of hockey-related drama that makes me forget, for a second, that my personal life is a bin fire.
“Speaking of murder,” Mia says, sliding her legs up onto the couch, “Jonno nearly killed the entire team in training today. Suicides, battle drills, sleds. Dylan was limping by the end of it.”
I raise an eyebrow. “Is that hockey speak for ‘please feel sorry for us because we had to run around for an hour while being paid stupid amounts of money to play a game’?”
She rolls her eyes. “Trust me, they earned their pints tonight. Ollie nearly threw up. Jacko did throw up.”
“Probably all the baking he’s been stress-eating,” I mutter, picking a Malteser off the table. “Is he still watching that Great British Bake-Off knockoff with the creepy host?”
“Every week. And he’s aggressively invested. Told the ref last game that a bad call was ‘more offensive than an underbaked croissant.’”
I snort. “That man is a walking headline.”
Mia sips her wine, studying me over the rim of her glass. “You know there’s a game tomorrow night, yeah?”
I nod. I’ve seen the flyers. Heard the buzz around the office. Apparently, it’s some big charity match or fan night or something.
“Dylan said I should bring you,” she adds casually. “Got an extra ticket.”
I shoot her a look. “Pass.”
Mia quirks an eyebrow. “Oh, come on. You used to like going.”
“Correction; I tolerated going. For the snacks. And because I was sleeping with one of the players. Which I’m not anymore. So…”
Her expression doesn’t change. “You don’t even want to see him?”
“Nope.”
“Not even a little?”
I grab the remote and point it at her like a weapon. “You ask one more loaded question and I’m putting on that reality show where influencers cry about losing Wi-Fi.”
Mia grins, unbothered. “Touchy.”
“I just don’t see the point,” I say, setting the remote down. “Watching him skate around with his stupid jawline, and the crowd screaming his name while I sit there pretending I’m not dead inside? No thanks.”
“Mm-hmm,” she says. And nothing else. Just sips her drink and lets the silence do the heavy lifting.
I hate how effective she is at that.
“I’m fine,” I say. “Really.”
“I didn’t say you weren’t.”
“But you’re thinking it.”
“I’m thinking you’ve got feelings buried under a mountain of sarcasm and passive-aggression.”
“That’s just called being a woman.”
Mia huffs a laugh, then softens. “Seriously though, do you think you could forgive him?”
The question lands like a boulder to the chest. I shrug, like it doesn’t.
“I don’t know,” I say honestly. “Part of me wants to. The other part wants to superglue his trainers together and post his sad voice notes on TikTok.”
She leans forward, elbows on her knees. “What’s stopping you?”
“From supergluing his shoes?”
She gives me a flat look.
“I’m not saying I haven’t thought about it,” I admit, voice quieter. “But forgiving someone doesn’t mean you forget what they did. It doesn’t make the photos disappear. Or erase the look on his face when he didn’t push her away.”
“You really think he wanted her?” Mia asks gently.
I hesitate. “No. That’s the worst part. I don’t think he did. I think he panicked. Froze. Which somehow feels even more pathetic.”
Mia tilts her head. “Then maybe it’s not about the photos. Maybe it’s about the trust.”
“Exactly,” I say, sharper than I mean to. “He didn’t cheat. But he also didn’t choose me. Not fast enough. And now I’m the one left looking like the fool.”
“You’re not a fool, Soph.”
“Then why do I feel like one?”
That silence again. Mia doesn’t rush to fill it. Instead, she waits, calm and steady, while I unravel one thread at a time.
“I miss him,” I admit finally, voice barely audible. “Not just the coupley stuff. The everyday stuff. The dumb memes he used to send. The way he’d hog the duvet and pretend not to. The way he’d look at me like I was it.”
Mia’s smile is soft now. “You were it. Probably still are.”
“Well, he should’ve thought about that before letting Tabloid Girl hang off his neck.”
She nods. “Fair.”
I lean back against the cushions, dragging a hand down my face. “God, I’m tired. Of being angry. Of pretending I’m not hurt. Of missing him when I don’t want to.”
“Then don’t pretend,” she says gently. “Feel what you feel. Sort through it. And when you’re ready, maybe listen to one of those voice notes.”
I look at her. “You’re way too wise for someone who once asked if penguins have knees.”
She grins. “They do, by the way.”
We fall into a quiet rhythm after that. The wine flows, the snacks dwindle, and the latest dating show unfolds on the screen like a human trainwreck.
Eventually, Mia gathers her things and hugs me goodbye at the door.
“You know where I’ll be tomorrow night,” she says. “If you change your mind.”
I smirk. “I’ll be here. Avoiding emotional whiplash and watching Netflix in peace.”
But even as I say it, something inside me flickers. The part of me that still isn’t sure. That still wonders.
And later, alone in bed, with the TV humming in the background and my phone glowing beside me, I finally scroll to the most recent voice note from Murphy.
I don’t press play.
But I don’t delete it either.