18. Sophie
SOPHIE
Pacing the kitchen, phone on the counter, I pick at the skin around my thumb with my teeth.
“Of course, Caroline. No, I’d love to stop by, it’s just… Meredith, my sister, invited me to Birdie’s, and it’s our first New Year's together since we got back to Nantucket.”
Caroline hums over the speakerphone. “That’s alright, sweetheart, you can pop by either way. We’ll be pouring champagne until midnight. And I do mean pouring.”
I laugh a little too brightly. “You make it hard to say no.”
“And Pauline is bringing her brother along, you remember, the one I told you about? The younger one.”
I grit my teeth. “Yeah, I remember you saying.”
“Well, I’m just saying now that it might be nice for you to meet a few folk who aren’t on the PTA.”
She laughs, and I laugh a beat later. Protege. The word stubbornly refuses to rid itself from my conscience.
With a few more halfhearted assurances that I will consider, probably, possibly, if I can show up to her New Year's party, I’ll one hundred percent be there, I hang up.
There are already three messages for me to read.
Meredith:
June bailed.
Are you coming?
Roland is threatening to bring out the karaoke.
My fingers drum against the back of my phone.
I’m not surprised by June; she’s been as reclusive as ever in the lead-up to her return trip to New York.
How she can stomach sharing her home with Mark after his performance at Christmas is beyond me, but the lawyer had insisted on sticking around until everything was settled.
I doubt either of them will be up for much celebrating this evening.
Birdies, on the other hand, has its appeal. We always used to go there for New Year’s, back when we were kids. The memory of Dad and Roland on top of the bar, screaming out eighties rock hits, will forever be ingrained in my memory.
But crashing Meredith and Eddie’s night feels a little awkward. No doubt I’d have a great time, but I don’t have any strong desire to see them making out at midnight.
Sophie:
Might swing by later, Caroline invited me over.
The hypocrisy makes me snort. Apparently, I’ve become the kind of person who flakes in both directions.
A thud sounds from next door. Then another.
“Trent!” I shout. “If you break something getting ready, I’m making you pay rent!”
His door flies open, followed by an impressive (oppressive) smell of deodorant, and then Trent appears in the doorway. Hair still damp, shirt half buttoned, phone clutched in his hand. “Can we give Danny a ride to Mia’s?”
The question is casual. My gut reaction is not.
For a second, my stomach forgets how to function. I plaster on a smile anyway. “Sure. Yeah. Of course.”
“Cool.” He bolts back toward his room, and I’m left staring after him, struck by a mild panic.
Danny. Which means Noah.
I grip the edge of the counter. I haven’t seen him since Christmas. Haven’t heard from him, either. No text, no apology. But really, what else could I expect? The guy seems to have an allergic reaction to the words “I’m sorry.”
Which would be fine, if I wasn’t still replaying that stupid argument, that even stupider kiss, on a loop.
It wasn’t romantic. It was… a combustion. Two people who were too angry and too close and reacted poorly in the moment. It didn’t mean anything, it’s not like he’s actually attracted to–
“Ready?” Trent’s voice snaps me back. He’s pulling on his jacket, cheeks flushed with excitement at the prospect of what I’m sure will be a night of foundational teenage experiences.
“Yeah,” I lie, grabbing my keys.
The drive is quiet except for the crunch of tires on frosted asphalt and the low hum of Trent’s ‘pre-party’ playlist. The teen seemingly content to stare out the window, lost in his own head. My pulse, however, refuses to focus on anything except the growing dread.
When we pull up to Noah’s house (after a quick circle around the block as we figured out the address), the porch light flickers on. It shouldn’t be as daunting as it is to make the journey to the door, but each step takes a monumental amount of effort not to bolt in the opposite direction.
The door opens before we even arrive.
Like he was waiting for us.
“Danny,” His voice is a deep, authoritative bark over his shoulder.
He doesn’t acknowledge me, looks somewhere over Trent’s shoulder when he turns back to us. Blocking the door so that there’s little that we can do except stand awkwardly in the middle of the drive.
I’ve just about gathered enough courage to speak when Danny barrels out behind him, greeting Trent with a grin and a careless, “Thanks, Dad!”
Noah nods once, eyes flicking past me as he watches his son throw himself into the back of the car.
“I can pick them up later,” I finally manage. “Does Danny have a curfew?”
There’s no verbal response, just his pitch-black eyes scanning my face with a look that falls nothing short of disgust. The only thing more infuriating is the fact that he steps back inside without a word and slams the door behind him.
And he calls me immature.
It’s with no small amount of outrage that I retreat back to the car. Unable to do anything else with two excitable teenagers in the backseat making the Jeep shake.
“Thanks for the lift, Sophie!” Danny offers good-naturedly, entirely oblivious to the tension in my shoulders
“Anytime,” I force out cheerfully, shoving the car into reverse before I can drive it through Noah’s front porch.
In the rearview mirror, the house shrinks behind us, and I’m suddenly freezing. Gripping the steering wheel like it might break free, despite the salted roads and the single-lane run to Tom Nevers.
Of all the people on this island, why did Trent have to befriend that asshole’s son? I have no idea how Danny turned out as sweet as he did.
“Sooo,” Trent says, stretching the word like taffy as he pokes his head into the front. “You’re not… worried, are you?”
I blink. “About what?”
“The party. Mia’s twenty-one.”
I hear more than see Danny elbowing him in the ribs.
That warms me back up. “Oh, please. You think I grew up here and didn’t go to parties like this? Better question is, should I be worried?”
“No,” Trent adopts an air of petulance. “We’re not stupid.”
“I know you’re not, both of you have better heads on your shoulders than I did,” I offer Danny a wink in the rearview. “That doesn’t mean other kids aren’t stupid.”
“We’ll look after each other,” Danny offers quickly.
Why does he have to be so sweet?
“You’re a good friend.” My eyes stay glued to the road. “But remember to have fun too, alright? Just… pace yourselves. Water between drinks, don’t leave anything unattended, and if anything feels off, you call me. I’ll come get you, no questions asked.”
Trent rolls his eyes affectionately. “Yeah, yeah. Got it.”
“I mean it,” I add. “Even if it’s two a.m. Even if you think I’ll be mad.”
He nods, they both do with such earnestness I can feel the tension leaving me. How is this the same kid who flew across the country after breaking out of summer camp just to give me crap about leaving him behind?
By the time we pull into the Abrams’ long, looping driveway, the house is already thudding with bass. Warm light spills from the tall windows, silhouettes moving inside like a mirage of youth and recklessness.
“Go,” I tell them, waving a hand. “Have fun. Be good. Tell Mia I said hi.”
They’re all smiles now, bounding out of the car with that unstoppable teenage energy.
“And stay away from Marlene’s car!” I shout after them through the window, earning me a vulgar gesture from Trent and a bright laugh from his best friend.
I watch until they disappear through the front door.
Then I exhale. Hard.
The quiet seeps back in. The decision now in front of me is unavoidable. Birdie’s or Caroline’s?
My eyes drift toward the rearview, where his name still lingers like static in the air. Noah.
And before I can talk myself out of it and reason even has a chance to talk me out of it, I’m turning the car around.
The drive back to his house feels both too short and agonizingly long. Every streetlight flashes across the windshield in time with my pulse. I don’t even know what I’m going to say when I get there. Only that I can’t stand being the one left feeling small and ignored.
When I pull up, the house seems to taunt me. I slam the door, my boots crunching against the frozen gravel, and march back up to the porch.
My fist hits the door harder than I mean it to. Once. Twice. Three times.
The door swings open mid-knock.
Noah stands there in the same gray sweater, expression unreadable. I can’t even tell if he’s surprised or just completely incensed by my audacity.
“Are you kidding me?” The words tumble out before I can overthink it. “What is your problem with me, Noah? You can’t even say hello? You can’t even look at me? If you hate me, at least have the decency to say why. Don’t just stand there pretending I don’t exist. You’re the one who kissed?—”
He exhales sharply, a sound between a growl and a sigh, and in a heartbeat, we’re inches apart, hand on the back of my head, pulling me closer.
And we’re kissing again.
Lips push hard against mine, demanding and intense as if to match my onslaught of questions that are very, very quickly abandoning me. Whisked away into the sharp winter’s evening without a second thought.
Because I should cling to them. Should pull away.
But my arms reach up to cling to him, to pull him closer. A light lit within me that I can’t quite explain as an arm slips around my waist to gather me inside, cradle me against the wicked weather, somewhere warm and firm and safe.
It takes me a moment to even realize that the door has closed behind us. That we’re standing in his entrance way, buried in each other.
It’s not that I pull away, more that I simply become still. He gives me barely an inch of breathing room, nose skimming across mine, my cheek, my jaw.
“You came back.”
It’s a whisper, a ghost of romanticism.
“Did you want me to?”
The next kiss is gentle against my forehead, though the way he still holds me tight reveals the desperation beneath the facade.