35. Foster
THIRTY-FIVE
FOSTER
Sophie’s friends are wonderful and clearly think the world of her, and that alone wins them points in my book. I do find myself on the outskirts of all their conversations though, awkwardly putting in bits and pieces from my work life when it feels appropriate.
I am proud of what I do and I love my job, but my uncle’s words have worn away at me over the years. People making comments about how I’ve somehow lost my way and ended up in a female-dominated profession also haven’t helped. Sitting here, I have to remind myself that ultimately what matters is how I feel about my life. But it’s hard while sitting between people with advanced degrees and ambitions I can’t even begin to fathom.
Sophie’s been crying. I see it immediately when she walks around the corner from the bathroom, and I have an intense desire to rush to her, pick her up, and carry her home, shield her from the world. When she sees me staring she forces a smile, it does nothing to abate my desire to get her out of here.
“You okay?” I ask quietly when she sits back down next to me. It’s not lost on me that she doesn’t sit as close as she had been. There’s a full hand width between us now whereas before her thigh was pressed against mine.
“Yeah,” she lies. I see the no in her eyes, but I don’t push it.
I look over at Maya, who plasters on a smile when she notices me. Everything that’s happening right now feels contrived, and the tension in the air feels thicker than it should at a brunch with friends.
By the time we leave, Sophie seems more herself. She holds my hand as we walk to the car and takes it again once we’re buckled in.
“Sorry I keep running to the washroom every time we’re out. I promise it’s not you.”
“You never need to apologize,” I say before placing a kiss on the back of her hand and her responding sigh has me smiling against her skin. “Now, let’s go look through someone else’s junk.”
“How about this?” Sophie holds up what appears to be the artwork of a child.
I take it from her to study. “Imagine selling your kid’s artwork.”
“Can’t you see the genius in the brush strokes?” she says, leaning into me and pointing at the one thick red line that extends across the canvas.
“I’m pretty sure this was done with fingers.”
“Oh well, I’ve never claimed to be good at judging art.” She laughs as she walks away toward an antique trunk. “This is— Oh, oh god no.” She slams the lid down and sits on it quickly.
“What’s in there?”
“Nope, don’t even think about opening this thing.”
“Come on, let me see.” I drop to my knees in front of her. “Please, Sophie,” I beg.
She blinks a few times before swallowing. “Foster.” She looks at me, her face pure seriousness. “You do not want to know. Trust me.”
“I do trust you, but I also want to know what caused your reaction.”
She shakes her head. “I’ll tell you one day, I promise.”
“Fine. I won’t look. But if there’s a body in there, you should probably report it.” I stand and hold my hand out to her.
She takes it and stands. “Not a body. Well… no, not a body.”
I tilt my head suspiciously. “Parts?” I whisper.
She shakes her head again, eyes wide, lips pressed together so tightly they’re almost white.
“Alright, well, let’s go look through the kitchen stuff over there.” I gesture behind me.
She holds my hand until we get to the table, but once she lets her guard down and loosens her grip, I drop it and run back to the trunk.
“Foster, no!” she shrieks, her desperation only adding to the need to see what’s enclosed in the trunk.
When I open it and see the contents, my jaw hits the ground. “Are those…”
“Yes,” she confirms.
“So when you said they weren’t body parts…” I trail off and peek over at her. Her face is three shades redder than usual, and I find myself unable to look away.
She finally meets my gaze and shrugs. “They are representations of a body part I guess, but they’re not a body part.”
“Do you think they know they’re in there?”
“How could they not?”
“There are so many,” I say, looking down at the closed trunk.
“So many,” Sophie agrees as a laugh bubbles out of her, and within a few seconds we’re holding each other up as we make our way back to the car.
“I think I need a minute,” I gasp, leaning my head back against the headrest.
“No one is going to believe us,” Sophie says as she wipes her eyes. “I wouldn’t believe us.”
“I wonder what treasures the next stop will have,” I say, pulling away from the first sale. “Perhaps a bag of vibrators?”
“Oh, some of those probably vibrated.” Sophie erupts in a fit of giggles, and they wash over me like sea-foam, tiny bubbles popping gently as they touch my skin.
The second sale does not reveal any interesting, disturbing, or even useful findings, so we move onto the next.
“Wyatt Earp! Look at this.” I can barely contain my excitement as I lift the dark blue Le Creuset dutch oven off the table.
“My mom has one of those,” Sophie says, brushing her finger over the enameled cast iron pot. “How much is it?”
I lift it above my head and find the sticker. “Five dollars,” I whisper in awe.
“Why are you whispering?” Sophie whispers back.
I look around to make sure no one is listening. “Because I’m afraid I’ll sound too excited and they’ll say it’s a mistake.”
“How much are these things normally?”
I look at her in shock. I know she’s not much of a cook, but she was raised by a tremendous one. “Seriously?” I ask.
“Seriously.”
“One this size is about six hundred dollars.”
Her jaw drops. “No way.”
“Way! Quick, look to see if there are any other ones.”
“Here.” She reaches for an orange pot about half the size of the one I’m holding and never parting with. “Oh, but this one doesn’t have a lid. Is that a deal-breaker?”
“Not even a little bit.” I have the urge to throw cash at the teenager sitting scrolling through his phone and running to the car.
Sophie seems to notice my nervous excitement. “Is this a ‘start the car’ moment?”
“A what?”
“You know that old commercial where the woman gets such good deals she wants her husband to start the car before someone comes out and tells her it’s not real?”
“Ikea?” I recall, and she nods. “Yes, this is definitely one of those moments.”
I drop a ten on the table in front of the teen who barely acknowledges us and then Sophie and I speed walk back to the car with my new favorite kitchen accessories.
“So, what are you going to make me?”
“Whatever you want, sunshine.”
“French onion soup,” she says as if it’s a challenge.
“Done.”
“Coq au vin.”
“Easy.”
“Boeuf Bourguignon.”
I glance over to see her grinning back.
“I’ve seen that movie with Meryl Streep. I know what it is, but my French is très terrible.”
Dare I say I found something Sophie is not good at? Although even hearing her butcher the French language is a bit of a turn-on. Perfectly imperfect.
At the last sale we stop at, conveniently around the corner from my apartment, Sophie finds Lord of the Rings placemats and buys them. My heart skips several beats when she says our meals will taste even better with them on the table. At least that’s what I think she said. I’m stuck on how she brought up collective meals, plural.
Once at my place, we each open our food delivery apps, pick a cuisine, scroll once, and where our finger stops the page, that’s what we order. I landed on a barbecue place and then picked pork with baked beans and mac and cheese. I have no clue what Sophie got because she refuses to tell me.
While we wait, we scroll through all the streaming services until we find a movie that some may call junk, but we’ve decided to call a guilty pleasure.
“I think we’re starting to play a bit fast and loose with the alphabet now,” Sophie says as she sets her bag of takeout on the counter.
“Is that sushi?” I ask, surprised.
“It is, and three of the kinds I’ve never even had before. You’re rubbing off on me, Mr. Walsh.” The minute the words leave her mouth, I see them register. “Oh, no, well, shit. That’s not… Can we maybe just forget I said that?”
“Absolutely not,” I tease. “That’s getting filed up here for later.” I tap my head and wink.
“Oh my god, Foster, ew!” She cringes before covering her face, her body shaking with silent laughter.
Sophie, completely uninhibited, laughing in my kitchen, surrounded by takeout. I can’t believe this is my life.