Chapter Thirteen
After a night of amazingly heavy sleep, Sophie woke up early and video-called her best friend Edie.
It was a Sunday and Edie loved nothing more than moving as slowly as possible on such days, often lounging about in her sleepwear until late in the afternoon. So it wasn’t entirely a surprise when she answered the call in a set of teal pyjamas, her small body swimming in a gold patterned robe. Edie’s features were delicate, her nose tilted slightly at the end, and with her mass of auburn hair, Sophie always thought her friend looked rather like a woodland sprite, if woodland sprites had sharp tongues and the libido of a cat in heat.
Her hair was currently piled up high on her head in a messy heap, held together by a plastic clip. Thick blonde streaks twisted here and there through the mass.
‘You got highlights,’ Sophie said. ‘Obviously. Sorry, the tea hasn’t kicked in yet.’ Likely because she was having a difficult time drinking it. Mike had tasted like tea yesterday. She mentally swerved away from that thought, returning to her best friend.
Edie smiled faintly. ‘Reggie said he preferred “natural-looking women”, whatever that means.’
‘Ah,’ Sophie said. ‘So the streaks were a spite move?’
‘No,’ Edie said. ‘I refuse to let a man have that much control over me. I’d been thinking about getting the streaks anyway. I just pushed the timeline forward. Me not wearing make-up to our last and likely final date will be my spite move.’
‘You think you not wearing make-up will be a deal-breaker for him?’ Sophie asked.
‘No,’ Edie said, laughing evilly into her coffee. ‘He likes me too much. His comments happen to be a deal-breaker for me, however.’
‘He lasted what, six whole weeks?’
‘Seven,’ Edie corrected. ‘I must be getting more patient in my old age. How are you doing?’ She squinted at the screen. ‘You’re looking a little washed out. Rough night’s sleep?’
Sophie shook her head. ‘No, I slept well.’ Like a rock, actually. She didn’t usually sleep that long or that heavily. ‘I’m still tired this morning, though.’
‘Go back to bed,’ Edie said promptly.
‘I might later.’ Sophie settled deeper into her seat, wrapping her fingers around her mug.
Edie frowned at her. ‘Okay, what’s going on? You’ve got a’ – she waved one hand around her face and shoulders in a rough circle – ‘thing about you.’
Sophie took a deep breath, then mumbled a series of words into her tea that she wasn’t sure even she could make out.
‘I’m going to need that again,’ Edie said impishly. ‘Except slowly and with enunciation. Pretend that you actually want to tell me whatever it is you’re struggling with.’
Sophie puffed out a breath. ‘Fine.’ With as few words as possible, and many, many intimate details left out, she went over the events of the night before.
‘Dry-hump,’ Edie said thoughtfully, as she stared at her cup, ‘is a terrible phrase. It’s better in French – frottage , I think.’
‘The French have a word for everything,’ Sophie muttered into her tea.
‘Yes, love, that’s how language does tend to work, having words for things.’ Edie frowned, holding up a hand. ‘Wait a moment, this is the same man who flipped out after a single kiss?’
Sophie wasn’t entirely sure if she would classify their first kiss as a single anything , but nodded anyway.
Edie leaned closer to the screen, her entire focus on Sophie. ‘He kissed you, flipped out, told you he was going to start his own monastery and die an untouched monk, apologized complete with friendship pact and blood offering, and then deliciously molested you on your sublet’s couch?’
‘I feel like at least half of that is nonsense, and molested is a terrible word that implies unwanted attention.’ Sophie might not know entirely how she was feeling about yesterday, but unwanted wasn’t part of the emotional tangle. No, his actions had been extremely wanted.
Edie rolled her eyes, set down her coffee and picked up her phone. When Sophie opened her mouth to speak, Edie held up a single finger, making her stop. She scrolled for a second, before lighting up with unholy satisfaction. ‘Deliciously fondled, then; held you in a torrid embrace as you delightfully canoodled on the couch in your sublet.’
Sophie scowled at her. ‘I’m taking away your thesaurus app. You clearly can’t be trusted with even a sliver of power.’
‘You got it on with a hot man and had what I am hoping was a spine-melting orgasm. He may be Captain Mixed Signals, but at least he delivered, yeah?’
Sophie thought about the way his eyes had blazed into hers as she fell apart on him. ‘Yes, he delivered.’
‘Did he, you know?’ Edie made a vague gesture that Sophie wasn’t sure how to interpret.
She gave it a shot anyway. ‘Pet a duck? Play cricket? What are you doing?’
‘Did it go both ways?’ Edie tried one more time for subtle, mostly in deference to Sophie’s slightly more delicate sensibilities, before giving up entirely and getting right to the meat of the matter. ‘Did he have an orgasm? Did you take him to a state of bliss? Did you fondle his titbits?’
‘Did I fondle his what?’ Sophie shook her head. ‘Hardly titbits.’
Edie raised her mug in salute. ‘Good for him and hopefully good for future Sophie.’
Sophie traced the rim of her cup with her thumb. ‘You don’t think I should put a stop to things? Because of the mixed signals?’
Edie snorted. ‘If that man managed to get you off using only his fingers while you were both fully dressed, I have high hopes for what he can do when he has his entire arsenal behind him. You deserve a good time after Asshole Andrew.’
‘Marisa has been calling him the Wicker Man.’
Edie barked a laugh. ‘I like her.’
‘You really think it’s okay?’
Edie pursed her lips. ‘You don’t have to marry the man. You don’t even have to date him. He’s only in the city for, what, two more weeks?’
‘I’m not sure,’ Sophie said, frowning. ‘It depends on a few different things.’
‘But he’ll be there less time than you?’
‘I think so.’
‘Great,’ Edie said, dancing in her seat. ‘Better than great. Perfect. There’s a built-in timeline. Have fun. End it when he leaves. Until then, emulate rabbits.’
‘I’m not sure I can do that.’ Sophie sighed.
Edie shrugged one shoulder. ‘Won’t find out until you try.’
Sophie bit her lip. ‘I’ll think about it.’
‘You do that,’ Edie said. ‘In the meantime, go and take that nap. You’re looking decidedly peaky.’
After signing off with Edie, Sophie took herself back to bed, surprised when she didn’t wake up again until noon. She still felt exhausted. In fact, she felt worse than when she’d gone to bed. Her body felt heavy, her throat scratchy. Her nose was somehow stuffy and runny at the same time.
She must be getting ill. That might explain a little of her behaviour yesterday. She’d fallen asleep on the poor man. Had he been put out about that? Maybe he’d been expecting reciprocation? She curled deeper into her blankets, replaying yesterday afternoon in her head. She hadn’t had any indication that he’d been upset. But maybe she’d missed it? She didn’t entirely trust her gut still.
After she’d fallen asleep in his lap, he’d tucked her into bed, despite the early hour. She touched her temple, sure there had been some kind of kiss planted there before he’d left. Should she feel embarrassed by her actions? Did she owe him anything? With Andrew—
No.
No.
She wasn’t even going to go there. Mike had offered – practically begged, if memory served. Sophie decided that until she learned otherwise, she would take the offer at face value: a thing freely given.
With that thought firmly in mind, she shuffled to the bathroom, took the last dose of the pain relief she’d brought with her from London, and dragged herself back to bed.
Mike didn’t hear from Sophie the next morning, which was fine. Absolutely fine. It was her prerogative whether or not she wanted to talk to him. He could reach out first. It wasn’t like he was a teenager any more, trying not to seem too keen by calling someone too soon. She was used to him messaging her by now, anyway, so he would text her at lunch. If she needed a little time to get to grips with what had happened, he could give her space.
He just wished he knew how she felt about everything. Mike knew how he felt about it. The mental film had been playing on a constant loop in his head. The blissed-out look on her face. The satisfying feeling of her in his lap, in his arms. The way she’d dozed against him, snoring lightly once or twice. He’d held her until his legs had gone to sleep.
Then he’d held her a little more.
Once he’d tucked her into bed, he’d pressed his lips to her forehead, closed his eyes and breathed her in. She’d smelled a little like him, and he’d liked that, too.
Then he’d let himself out of her flat, caught a cab and gone back to his place. He’d opened his front door with shaking hands, barely keeping it together at that point. As soon as he was inside, the door locked behind him, he went into the bathroom and proceeded to have what might have been the shortest wank in his entire life history. And that included his teenage years, which was saying something.
So no, he wasn’t even a bit conflicted about what had happened the afternoon before. Far from it. In fact, he was more than a little obsessed. He wanted to do it again. Hopefully in more ways and with fewer clothes.
And he was really, really hoping she felt the same way and wasn’t deleting his contact info from her phone for the way he’d handled, well, everything. So he decided to text her after lunch and take it from there.
Except he got swamped at work. He’d had to play a bit of catch-up from the day before, and it was almost teatime by the time he took a break. No messages from Sophie. Right. Well, it was possible she’d had a busy morning or was waiting for him to make the next move. It took him a few minutes to figure out what to say. Finally, he settled on something simple: Thinking about you a lot today. Hope you’re well.
He sent it. Waited. No dots appeared. Well, she was hardly tethered to her phone. And while he was tempted to stare at it like some sort of lovesick adolescent, that would only drive him mad, and besides, he had more work to do.
He tucked his phone into his pocket and got back to it.
She didn’t text all afternoon. His phone was maddeningly silent for the entire evening. By bedtime, he was feeling frustrated and concerned, his gut sinking as he stared at his blank screen. Maybe he’d overstepped? Maybe she hadn’t really liked it. Maybe afterwards she’d been ashamed or embarrassed or unhappy or . . . something. Something that wasn’t happy .
He blew out a long breath. Or maybe she was completely fine but hadn’t been as blown away by it as he had. He ran a hand over his face, tired of his brain chasing itself in circles. He decided the decent thing to do was text her goodnight. Two texts wasn’t veering into stalker territory.
Are we okay? Are you okay?
Nothing. Just a blank, mocking screen. He resolutely set it down, showered and brushed his teeth. Climbed into his cold, empty bed and plugged his phone into his charger. No response. Finally, he texted her goodnight , put his phone on do not disturb, and went to sleep.
In the morning, his phone was still silent, except for a message from Rahul sharing some photos of Stella and Archie. An hour later, Amaya sent him a photo of his plant, Barney – she’d written his name on the pot. She’d also added a small plastic dinosaur, standing it in the dirt. He was pretty sure it was a brontosaurus.
But no message from Sophie.
He copied the photo of Barney, dropped it into their chat and added good morning under the photo. Once it was sent, he went about his morning routine, diving quickly into work. He surfaced around two o’clock for lunch. No texts.
Was he getting ghosted? It wouldn’t be the first time in his life that had happened, though he’d been lucky that he’d only had to deal with it once when he was seventeen and Margo Flanagan had ditched him for her ex-boyfriend, deciding there was no reason to tell Mike any of this first.
But that . . . didn’t seem like Sophie. Rather than grassing on Lee to his boss, she’d helped get him safely back to his flat. She’d got on a plane, something she was terrified of, just to be there for her kids in their time of need.
She’d forgiven him when he’d been an absolute fucking muppet.
What she hadn’t done was ignore him. So this . . . this felt off.
Something was wrong. Maybe her phone was broken? Maybe something had happened to her kids? But he just couldn’t see her ghosting him.
By the evening, he was decidedly uneasy.
By the following morning, he was checking his phone every two minutes.
And by nightfall, he couldn’t shake the frantic, uneasy feeling seeping into his bones. He’d been going back and forth with himself all day – he was probably overreacting. It had only been, what, forty-eight hours? She was a grown woman with things to do and didn’t owe him anything. She hadn’t promised him anything. It wasn’t like they were dating. But all of those perfectly logical, rational statements felt like the thinnest tissue paper, tearing under the relentless feeling that something was wrong . That Sophie would answer her fucking phone, even just to tell him to leave her alone .
He could text Tom. Mike had his number in his phone, but at this point Mike wouldn’t feel better until he saw Sophie with his own eyes. He didn’t bother getting out of his suit, just grabbed his jacket and headed to her flat. If he was overreacting, they could have a good laugh over it, or she could tell him to lose her number. He’d deal with it if those were the outcomes, but at least then he’d know she was okay.
It was raining – of course it was raining – and despite catching a Lyft by the time he got to her flat, his hair was flat against his skull and his jacket soaked through. When he got to her door, he knocked quietly at first, then a little more firmly. No one answered. Had she gone? Was she at her son’s flat? He could check – he knew which flat they were in, after all. Or he could knock on her neighbour’s door, see if he’d heard from Sophie.
Mike gave a third and final knock, and was somewhat surprised when the door opened.
Sophie stood wrapped in a blanket looking like a furry caterpillar. She blinked up at him owlishly, her eyes glazed, her cheeks a florid pink. A sheen of sweat coated her face, but she shivered as she pulled the blanket tighter. ‘Mike?’ She licked her dry lips. ‘What – why?’
‘Sophie, are you sick?’ Without waiting for a response, he reached out and put a palm on her forehead. His hand was chilled from the rain, but it felt to him like she was burning up. Sophie leaned into his hand like a cat, but didn’t answer him.
He shook his head. ‘Come on, back inside. Let’s get you settled.’
She let him herd her back into the flat. Mike stripped out of his wet jacket and hung it up while toeing off his shoes. He wouldn’t help her by dripping all over her.
‘Sit on the couch,’ he said, heading for the bathroom. Once inside, he grabbed a towel and dried his hair as best he could before going through the drawers and cabinets. No thermometer. He frowned. No medicine, either, except for a few antacids and a bottle of eye drops.
He hung up the towel and headed back into the living room. Sophie was sprawled on the couch, using a paper towel to wipe her nose. An empty box of tissues sat on the table next to a disturbingly large pile of used tissues and a mostly empty glass of water.
Mike sat on the edge of the couch and put his hand back on her forehead to see if she felt different now that his hand wasn’t impersonating an ice lolly. Still hot. ‘Sophie, do you have any cold medication?’
She mumbled and had to say it twice before he caught it. ‘No.’
‘When’s the last time you took something?’
She squinted at him, thinking hard, a shiver shaking her body. ‘Don’t know.’
‘Have you eaten?’ He wasn’t feeling good about the answer.
‘Not hungry,’ Sophie rasped, right before she covered her mouth with her blanket and started coughing.
Mike brushed some of the sweat-damp hair back from her forehead. ‘Okay, I’m going to go down to the shop and get supplies. Are you allergic to anything?’
She shook her head, her lips curved down into a miserable pout.
‘Good. I’ll be right back.’ He stood up, grimacing at the idea of putting his wet jacket and shoes back on. Not that he had another option. ‘Do you have keys? That way I can let myself back in without getting you up.’
Sophie waved in the vicinity of the table before burrowing unhappily back under her blankets.
It took Mike a few seconds to find the keys. Then he moved quickly, tempted to run down to the store, though he kept the urge in check. He wouldn’t be much use to Sophie if he slipped on the wet pavement and broke his bloody hip.
Once he was under the florescent lights of the shop, he grabbed a pack of lozenges and a box of tissues. He had to ask for a little help from the assistant to figure out what medicines to get – the packages and names were different from what he was used to at home. Then he paid for them before rushing back to the flat.
He let himself in, grabbing Sophie’s glass and refilling it with water. ‘You’ll need to sit up for a moment to take the pills. Then I promise you can lie back down.’ Sophie dutifully eased herself up, but that was all he got for a response. He handed her the glass of water and two pain relief tablets that the assistant had told him would hopefully work for her fever.
She tossed them into her mouth and drank half the glass of water before shoving it at Mike. As soon as it was in his hand, she collapsed back onto the couch, shuddering under her blanket. Mike spent the next few minutes getting her sorted – used tissues in the bin, new box on the table, along with a small plastic bin for the next round of tissues. After washing his hands thoroughly, he checked her cabinets and fridge. He found an empty box of camomile tea, a little honey but no lemon, juice, and a mostly empty fridge.
He frowned at that. Had she been sick like this the whole time, then? He was starting to think she had been. Mike wasn’t sure why she hadn’t called her son, or even him. Had she been loath to ask for help, or too out of it? He’d find out later. In the meantime, he picked up his phone and started ordering things from a grocery delivery app. The store had some things, but he didn’t want to go back there and leave her, and it wouldn’t have everything he wanted anyway.
While he waited for the order, he checked her room. If she’d been sweating and feverish for two days, she’d probably spent a lot of that in bed, and likely hadn’t had the energy to change the sheets. She’d managed to get into her pyjamas at some point, the clothes from their disastrous – and then glorious – tea date strewn on the floor. He put those in the laundry basket, stripped her bed and put on fresh sheets.
After that, he checked on her again. She still looked sweaty and miserable. He refilled her water and then got a damp flannel, folded it and pressed it to her forehead. Since Sophie was stretched out and cocooned in blankets, there wasn’t much room on the small couch , so he sat on the coffee table and held it there.
About thirty minutes later, she’d cooled down a bit and wanted to get back into her bed. He helped her to her room, stepping out when she got in there because she wanted to put on a pair of clean pyjamas. That didn’t entirely go to plan, and Mike ended up having to help her get them on. Then he got her back into bed and tucked in, asleep almost as soon as her head hit the pillow.
By then the grocery order had arrived. Mike put away the juice and a few other things he’d got her, including ginger ale and some fresh fruit, but left out the tea, honey and lemons. At that point, he rolled up his sleeves and went back through the cupboards looking for a pot. It was late, but he had no idea what her sleep schedule had been like, or if she’d wake up hungry soon. If he started the soup now, it could simmer and be ready for when she resurfaced. He diced up onions, carrots, garlic and celery, sautéing them while he started prepping the chicken.
After he’d added in the broth, he left it to simmer, once again washing his hands before going in to check on Sophie. She snored softly while he put his hand on her forehead, rechecking her temperature. Cooler, but still warm. At least her fever was responding to the medicine. He opened the packaging to the new thermometer, placing it on the bedside table along with another new box of tissues.
He’d done all he could at that point, so he went back to check the soup. He stirred it, dropping down the temperature to low. Then he went to the couch, grabbed the TV remote and started looking for something to watch to keep him company during what was likely to be a very long night.