6. Sophie
SIX
SOPHIE
“Messy cabbage rolls.” Foster swings the lunch bag back and forth as he enters my office three weeks to the day he shared lunch with me the first time.
“I love cabbage rolls,” I exclaim as I start shoving things to the side of my desk so we have room to eat. One day I’ll figure out a system where I’m not constantly having to do this. But clearing off my desk feels as ritualistic as Foster bringing me lunch at this point.
He never says anything about the mess or my perceived lack of organization, but I do know where everything is on my desk. No one else ever would, but I do, and that’s what’s important. My new pair of glasses on the other hand—well, those are lost somewhere between my house and this desk.
After a week of hiding in my office at lunch, I ventured into the staff room. It’s nice to socialize a bit, but I find that I can’t concentrate there if my life depended on it. So many conversations happening at once is a tad overstimulating, and my misophonia gets a bit out of hand in large groups between the smacking, slurping, and crunching. By the end of lunch, I find myself longing to be shut away in my broom closet. If Foster is closed in here with me, even better. He’s also a quiet eater, which is a bonus.
“Did you watch Top Chef last night?” I ask, collecting cabbage and mince on my fork.
Foster nods but waits until he has swallowed to answer. “The blindfold challenge is one of my favorite ones.”
“Would you want to do a challenge like that? Be blindfolded?” His hand stops in mid-air, his food forgotten in front of his lips, and the words finally make their way to my brain. You’re asking for taste purposes. He’s not going to think you mean in bed . Right? Not that I’m thinking of him in bed, except I definitely am now. Is that something he’d like? Is that something I’d like? You can do taste tests in bed. Lots of tasting can happen between the sheets, or on the couch, or in the backseat of a car, or the shower—oh my god, I’m off in sexy Foster land and can’t seem to locate the exit.
“Truthfully, I’d like to do a lot of the challenges you see on cooking shows. Like…” He tips his head back, thinking and I zero in on his throat and the way it connects with a jaw sharp enough to cut glass. That’s new. His jaw wasn’t always that sharp. I wonder if he uses one of those jaw trainer things I’ve seen on infomercials at three a.m. “Boxes with ingredients. You know?”
Nope, I don’t because I zoned out of the conversation and directly into that jawline. I don’t need multiple conversations to distract me.
“I mean, they all sound fun to watch rather than to do,” I admit, assuming I’m even close to answering what he asked.
“I’m sure a lot are way more fun to watch than do, but I have this weird desire to try them all.” The grin he flashes isn’t hiding anything other than an admission that he wants to try cooking challenges. He is talking about cooking, Sophie, nothing more .
“Hana Pearson”—Foster points at a little girl with her hair in long braided pigtails sticking out of her toque—“goes for tutoring three days a week before school. When she started the year she really struggled with reading, like three grades below where she should be.”
“That’s hard at this age,” I say as I watch Hana throw a handful of fresh snow into the air and run under it as it falls.
“She’s now doing better than just about every other kid in her fourth-grade class.”
“Just from tutoring?” I ask in shock.
“Her tutor is a retired teacher, and she just uses a different style of teaching. It’s been amazing to watch her grow.” The pride in his voice is undeniable and annoyingly attractive.
The bell rings, and we stand at the side door as kids filter back into the school. I’ve been joining Foster on his yard duties when I have some time.
“Anything exciting planned for tonight?” he asks as we do a final sweep of the yard to make sure there aren’t any rogue kids.
“I’ve got a Pilates class, and then I may visit with some friends. It depends if I can convince them to come with me or not.”
“You like Pilates?”
“I do. I tried yoga for a bit, but I think my mind is a bit too active for an activity that isn’t. Every time the instructor would tell us to quiet our minds or something, it was like a challenge to make mine even louder. I’d get stuck going down rabbit holes of lists and creating wild scenarios for things that will never happen.”
“Like what?”
“What scenarios?”
He grins, his eyes flicking to the top of my head as if he’ll be able to see something currently playing. “Yeah? What wild scenarios does that brain create, Sophie Hore?”
Why does he have to say my name like that? Why does my name sound like a luxury good coming out of his mouth?
“Oh, anything unrealistic, really. Like, it’s supposed to snow tonight, and what if it snows to the point where I can’t open my front door to leave? Do I have enough food to survive for days on end? Maybe I should go to the store and buy a bunch of random things and then I’ll have all my cravings covered. What fruits or vegetables last the longest because I wouldn’t want to get scurvy from eating only junk. But if I do get stuck in the house, that would be a great opportunity to sort through stuff. I could do a full cleanout of all the things I accumulate. Or I could finally sit down and watch Game of Thrones because I’ve been meaning to for a decade.”
Foster is staring at me, mouth slightly agape. “And you’re thinking all this while in downward dog?”
“I’m thinking all this transitioning into downward dog. Those thoughts are just the beginning.”
“No wonder yoga didn’t work for you. I can go on ten-mile runs and only think about the song that’s currently playing, and even then it’s like, ‘this is a good song.’”
“Wow, you must get a lot done in a timely manner,” I say in awe.
He shrugs. “I don’t want to brag, but I can procrastinate pretty well.”
“Oh yeah?”
“Oh yeah.” He opens the door and gestures for me to go first.
I slip the minute my foot hits the floor beyond the now-soaked mats, and strong hands wrap around me.
“Careful.” Warm breath brushes the side of my face, and I’m suddenly glad he’s holding me up. “Wet floor.” Foster lets me go once I’ve proven I’m not a fawn taking its first steps, and part of me wants to replay it over and over.
“Thanks.” I smile awkwardly back at him.
“Any time, sunshine.”
Unknown
It’s Foster, Cass gave me your number, I hope that’s okay.
Foster Walsh is texting me, holy crap, like the holiest of craps. I see him nearly every day and yet seeing his number at the top of the message has me on the verge of a meltdown. A happy meltdown, but a meltdown nonetheless.
Of course!
I somehow manage to complete those two words without adding in unwanted letters or thirty exclamation marks.
Figured this way you can reach out if you get snowed in and need someone to dig you out. Or bring you food or watch Game of Thrones with you.
As if I’d be able to watch the show if he was sitting there with me. I’d be sitting there like, oh my god, Foster Walsh is sitting beside me, in my house . Then he’d ask if I liked the episode and I’d be all like, “oh yeah, it was great,” even though if you asked me what happened, my only answer would be “well, Foster was there and I think maybe there was a dragon or something?” It would be like Lord of the Rings all over again. Must have something to do with fantasy.
Good thinking! Just having someone to help shovel the driveway would be amazing!
I’d shovel your driveway any time, Soph.
That sounds like a euphemism for about seven other things, none of them involving snow removal.
I wouldn’t say no!
I add and then remove a winky emoji. This already feels like unsafe territory for reacquainted friends to be venturing into.
What are you up to today?
Went for a run, now I’m being lazy.
I think the run negates any claims of laziness. I am revoking any rights you think you have to laziness.
I look out the window at the miserable February weather. It’s too gray, too slushy, too unwelcome on every level. Who runs in this? I bet he’s cold. I bet I could help warm him up. Oh, stop it, you delusional cow.