34. Phantom Mouth
34
Phantom Mouth
Sophie
The first week back from the Christmas holiday, feeling a bit fragile and melancholy after returning from England, I agree to Sol and Elle setting me up for a date.
It’s been ten months since the gala.
Ten months since the break-up, ten months since I last spoke to Evan.
We’ve both been good: he’s not contacted me, and I’ve not contacted him.
No calls, no texts.
Ten months, no contact.
Shouldn’t I be over it by now?
Shouldn’t the pain have started to dull by now?
Evan said he was the knife in the wound that meant I couldn’t heal, but the knife’s been out for ten months, so why do I still feel like I have a gash the size of a fist in the middle of my chest, pouring blood endlessly?
I try not to think about it, but it’s all I think about on the way to the date.
Sol drops me off in her car on her way to spend the night at her boyfriend’s apartment.
“Andrew’s British, just like you,” she’s explaining, “so you two can bond over your disgust of Americans microwaving tea water or the pronunciation of the word scone or whatev— ”
“It’s pronounced scone.”
“Ugh, exactly.” Sol rolls her eyes, and I brace myself as her car swerves slightly.
“He’s a couple of years older than you, but that should work out perfectly since you’re basically a grumpy old man in the body of a sexy girl.”
“I don’t feel sexy,” I mutter.
“No shit, you must feel like goddamn Nosferatu since you barely see daylight and spend all your time stooped over your desk. Luckily for you, you don’t look it.” She glances at me through the car mirror.
“This shade of lipstick really suits you.”
“Elle recommended it.”
“She’s got good taste. Are you gonna kiss Andrew?”
I look away, eyes drifting out the window without really seeing anything.
“Probably not.”
“Why not?”
Because I want to kiss Evan.
I want Evan’s mouth and his skin and his hands and his smell and his touch and his heart pressed against mine.
“I’ll kiss him if I fancy him.”
“Alright—fair compromise. You really are a good lawyer, huh.”
I laugh weakly.
Sol pulls up in a parking bay in front of a busy street.
I can already see a tall figure standing by the glass doorway of a restaurant, hands in his coat pockets.
I turn to whisper at Sol.
“Would it be rude to cancel at this point? I don’t know if I can do this.”
“Get out of my car,” she says flatly.
“Before I kick you out on your ass.”
Andrew, to his credit, is a gentleman, self-possessed yet slightly self-deprecating in that uniquely British way.
He orders a good bottle of wine without checking the price, and it doesn’t feel like he’s doing it to impress me but rather because that’s what he enjoys—which I like.
He’s more good-looking than I expected, too, with green eyes and dark blond hair, smooth skin and glasses in a gold and tortoiseshell frame.
And he’s a good date: polite, interested, attentive.
He asks thoughtful questions about my course, my work, my career plans; he listens to me without interrupting, laughs at the right moments, holds eye contact, and when it’s my turn to ask him questions, he answers with enthusiasm.
“My family’s had horses forever, and I used to ride competitively back home. Show jumping, mostly,” he explains with a modest shrug.
“Kept it up for a while when I moved here, but I doubt I’ll have time once firms start fighting over me.”
I arch a brow.
“So, a sport that requires discipline, control, and the ability to stay in the saddle no matter how hard you’re thrown?”
He laughs, leaning in slightly.
“It’s all about reading your horse, anticipating its next move, keeping it in line without letting it realise.”
“Sounds like law school.”
“And dating,” he adds, throwing me a look over the rim of his glasses.
His style of flirting is understated, obvious without being enough to make me uncomfortable.
I smile, I respond, I let my voice mould itself into a warmer, sweeter version of itself.
I force myself to flirt back more out of duty than anything else, leaning in when he speaks, playing with the stem of my wine glass, holding his gaze while I take slow sips.
This is good for me, I keep trying to remind myself.
It’s been ten months.
I should be enjoying this, shouldn’t I?
A normal person would.
But I don’t feel normal.
I feel hot and angry and restless, like I’m impatiently scratching a match to no avail, waiting for a spark that refuses to catch.
The restaurant is lovely, the food delicious, Andrew is pleasant company, smart and accomplished and courteous.
This should be perfect.
But there’s something missing, a smooth nothing where there should be friction.
I try to push the thought away.
The evening winds down the way it’s supposed to, no missteps, no awkward pauses.
Afterwards, Andrew is considerate enough not to suggest an after-dinner drink, not to push for anything more than I’m willing to give.
He helps me into my coat and holds the door open like the perfect gentleman he is.
Outside, the city is cold and glittering under a thin sheen of frost. Andrew hesitates just slightly, standing close but not too close, watching me with a quiet, waiting confidence.
His hand brushes my waist, the lightest touch, more question than assumption.
Inevitably, he leans in.
I close my eyes, selling the moment to myself, the gold lamplight and cold air and wine-drowsy softness like a movie scene.
I brace myself for the kiss, ready to accept it, to force myself to enjoy it.
I tilt my chin up, let him close the distance —
Something inside me snaps.
My body, unthinking and nervous with need, still attuned to someone else.
My stomach drops.
I jerk back so fast I almost slip on ice, reaching out to catch myself against a lamp post, cheeks burning, eyes wide, breath coming out in short puffs.
A ghost hand on my waist, warm and strong, skin drenched in sun, veins running up a powerful forearm, a phantom mouth near my ear, and, unbidden, the echo of a voice, words bitten off between white teeth, a cocky, commanding American drawl.
You will always be mine .
Andrew moves back, startled, searching my face with a confused gaze.
“Sophie? Are you alright?”
I force a brittle smile, speak too quickly, too lightly, my discomfort and panic painfully obvious.
“Yes, um, I’m so sorry, I just—I don’t feel—I’d better go.”
All I want is to turn and run away, as far from him and this excruciating moment as I can get, but that would be cowardly, and impolite, and completely unfair, so I force myself to stay despite my hot cheeks and burning eyes and clenched stomach.
“I’m so sorry, Andrew,” I tell him in a low, tight voice.
“I had a lovely night. I don’t know what’s wrong with me.”
He sighs.
“It’s alright. You need more time, that’s all.”
He waits with me, hailing a cab.
His politeness despite everything somehow makes me feel a hundred times more pathetic.
When the cab pulls up, he opens the door for me, and I stop before I get in, turning to look him in the eyes.
“I’m sorry. I really am.”
Andrew studies me for a moment, then gives me a small, wry smile, something knowing and just a little sad .
“Well,” he says, voice quiet, resigned.
“It wouldn’t be the first time I’ve liked a girl who’s already in love with someone else.”