15
“I’m just going to get the first aid kit and I’ll be right back, okay?”
I nod from my seat in the kitchen as wayward tears streak down my face. I’m not even in pain with the shock of it all, but emotions are crashing over me all at once and I can’t make it stop.
“I’m so embarrassed.” There’s a catch in my voice I can’t conceal. “It’s just a cut, I’m sure I’ll be fine.”
Andy reemerges from the bathroom carrying a blue and white bin labeled First Aid, as well as a washcloth and a bowl of soapy water.
He pulls out the chair next to me, positioning us face-to-face and setting the supplies beside us on the kitchen table.
“There’s nothing to be embarrassed about. I’m just going to take a look and then we can decide if you need stitches, okay?”
“No stitches,” I insist. “My insurance sucks. And I don’t think it’s that bad, really. I’m sorry I’m crying.” I wipe more tears away, laughing a little. “I’m even ruining the eyeliner Rayna did. This is so silly.”
“It’s not silly.” His voice is firm, calm. “But Soph, I need you to take off your shirt so I can see the cut. Do you want a blanket or something?”
I shake my head. “No, that’s okay, just give me a second.”
He politely looks away as I pull my turtleneck up and over my head, then drop the ruined garment on the table.
“There, all set.”
Andy turns back to me and very pointedly does not look at my chest. Instead, he leans in to look at the gash in my right tricep.
“Alright,” he says, gently turning my arm in his hands, “it looks pretty deep, which explains the bleeding, but it’s not very long. I think we can skip the stitches if we need to.”
“Thanks.”
“First, I’m going to wipe off the blood,” he explains, “then I’ll check if there’s glass in the cut, and if there isn’t we’ll just wash the whole area with soap and water and bandage you up. Okay?”
I nod, and he begins.
“You know, I have a scar in almost the same spot,” he says in a low, even voice, like I’m an animal he doesn’t want to spook.
“From when Owen and I were kids. We were playing in the forest by our house when I was probably five or six.”
His touch is feather light as he slowly wipes the blood from my skin.
“I was chasing Owen but he was faster than me, and I was a kind of clumsy little kid, so I tripped on a stick and it poked right into my arm.”
With his attention locked on the task, I can watch him openly. It’s not often I get a full, uninterrupted story out of him—especially not a story about Owen—and I’m captivated.
“I threw a real fit about it. But Owen was there and he was so calm.”
Andy carefully examines the wound for glass, clearing away the drops of red as they well up.
“He was only seven or eight, but he was so confident I would be okay that I just believed him. And when I stopped crying, he took my hand and walked me home, and we seemed so normal when we got into the house that our mom wasn’t even worried. She just cleaned me up and that was that.”
His eyes meet mine, earnest as they’ve ever been. “There’s a piece of glass I have to remove. Is that okay?”
“Yeah,” I reply, my voice hoarse.
Andy cleans the tweezers with a sterile wipe, then holds my arm in place with gentle fingers as he goes to remove the shard.
“Ah!” I flinch at the first touch, a cascade of new tears falling.
“I know it hurts, baby—”
Baby. My heart trips on the word.
“—but I need you to stay still for one more second and then it’ll be out. On the count of three give me a long exhale. One, two, three.”
He’s so sure, and I’m grateful he’s here to tell me what to do. I obey, taking a deep breath in and out, and he’s done before I am.
And he called me baby.
“Good job.” He catches the tear trailing along my jaw with his index finger. “This next part might sting too, but I’ll be quick.”
The clean end of the cloth dips into the sudsy water.
“It sounds like you and Owen used to be really close,” I say, pleading for distraction again.
“We were,” he replies, but doesn’t offer more. The cloth touches my arm with tenderness, the gentlest scrape over my raw skin and rawer nerves. Then he looks up again. “Just have to bandage it up. You doing alright?”
I force a smile. “You’re really good at this. It’s like you were a battlefield surgeon in a past life or something.”
“Nah,” he says as he pulls ointment, cotton pads, and gauze from the kit. “I’m not great under pressure.”
“Don’t do that.”
He instantly pulls his hands back.
“You’re always putting yourself down. Clearly tonight proves you’re great under pressure.”
Andy exhales, but doesn’t argue, just silently treats and wraps the wound.
“There. All done. How does it feel?”
I test out moving my arm a bit. “Honestly? Horrible.” I smile up at him so he knows I’m okay. “But you did an amazing job. Thank you.”
“I’ll get some ibuprofen.”
“Okay. I guess I should put on a shirt anyway,” I laugh.
And it’s like Andy forgot I was sitting here in my bra until that moment. I thought he just wasn’t interested, but now…
The full weight of his attention drags down, from my face, to my neck, then lower. His dark eyes are blown black, his chest lifting and falling with each controlled breath.
Every inch of my skin feels flushed, but trapped as I am in the lock of his gaze, I don’t want to cover up. I want him to see me.
I want him to want me.
He lowers to his knees before me, and it feels like anything could happen.
The calm before the storm, the stillness before the dive.
His eyes fix on my ribs, where a smudge of blood remains.
Holding the washcloth, he raises a hand and drags it over the mark, featherlight, just skimming the underside of my bra as he wipes away the stain.
I inhale sharply at his touch—I can’t help it. And that seems to break the trance.
Andy stands abruptly, clearing his throat. “I’ll uh—I’ll go get that ibuprofen.” He takes a few stumbling steps backwards towards the bathroom before finally looking away.
As soon as the bathroom door shuts behind him, I bolt up and into my room.
Pajamas. I need pajamas. I need extremely unsexy pajamas. I don’t know what’s happening right now but I’m too exhausted and tipsy to figure it out.
I find a pair of oversized Ashmore sweats and a long sleeve NPR t-shirt.
Perfectly schlubby. And as I work to pull them on—which is not easy with a tender new arm injury—I convince myself that what just happened was not weird.
It doesn’t mean Andy has figured out I’m into him, and it also doesn’t mean he’s into me.
It means emotions are high and we’re drunk and not in our right minds.
It takes ten—ten!—anchoring breaths before I’m ready to open my bedroom door again.
“Wow,” I say as I enter the living room, declaring my presence, “getting dressed is not easy like this.”
Andy is sitting on the couch. He pats the seat beside him, where he’s thoughtfully laid out painkillers and a glass of water. I take a seat and take the pills, and only once I’ve swallowed them down does he say, “Sophie, I have to know. What happened back there? With Elliot?”
His question hits me like a tidal wave, pulling the events of the night over my head to drown me. I feel my chin start to quiver, and bury my face behind my hands before Andy can see me cry.
Immediately he’s there, wrapping his arms around me and tucking me against his chest. “Shit, I’m sorry. We don’t have to talk about it.”
And then he just holds me. He holds me there against his chest for I don’t know how long, letting me cry, stroking my hair, rubbing circles across my back.
Poor Andy. I never cry in front of other people—really, I hate feeling like the one other people have to take care of—but somehow I always end up crying in front of him.
As soon as I can gather myself a bit, I sit up and wipe my palms over my cheeks. “I guess this is what I get for ignoring our problems for so long.” My feeble laughter doesn’t stick. “This is what I get for just… wanting someone to love me.”
There’s a pause, then Andy says quietly, “I love you, Soph.”
“I know,” I say, letting myself curl back towards his chest. “But I want someone to be in love with me. I want…” But I don’t know how to explain it in a non-pathetic way, so I just let it drop.
“Elliot was in love with you for a long time,” Andy offers. “He probably still is. You’re… very easy to love.”
“You know what’s really sad? I honestly don’t think he was. If he loved me...” I trail off again.
“What?”
“You want to know why we broke up?” I ask.
“It’s not even dramatic or interesting. It wasn’t his comment about not dating hot girls at the karaoke bar—though that did make me want to jump off a bridge.
And it wasn’t the fact that we hardly saw each other anymore because he was always at work or with his friends or doing something else that didn’t include me. We were talking about my grad school applications,
and I mentioned that if I don’t get into Ashmore again we might have to move to California. Which he knew! He was there when I decided what schools to apply to. We talked all about it and he said my list sounded great to him.
But that day he just scoffed and said we weren’t going to uproot our lives and move to California for—and I quote—my hobby.”
“Your hobby?”
“He basically said that a PhD was nice if I wanted it, but that my first priority was going to have to be our kids in a few years, so it wasn’t worth moving for. Like, even though I had never said anything about being a stay-at-home mom, he just assumed I would do it because that’s what he wanted.
And he was so condescending and horrible about it. He was like, ‘well it’s not like you have a serious career anyway.’ And it was like… oh my god, who have I been with for three years? Do we even know each other?
Like I suddenly realized I had spent all this time with a guy who didn’t share my values or my interests. He didn’t even like how I looked. He just thought I was easy. An easy option to get to the life he envisioned for himself.”
More tears are falling now, but they’re angry tears, so I angrily wipe one away.
“Maybe I should just accept that people only like the easy part of me. The part that always makes jokes and diffuses tension and is okay with everything. Maybe I’m just this superficial, party trick of a person.”
“Sophie…”
“That’s how it was with my parents after their divorce. They were so mad all the time that there was no room for me to be anything but alright. And I love them and wanted to make things better, so that was fine. I could play that role. I could be happy no matter what.
But somehow it feels worse when it happens in my relationships. I love so hard and try so hard and they just… don’t. They just think I’ll be fun and fine and an easy lay until something better comes along.”
I feel him squeeze me tighter to his chest, and I know he doesn’t know what to say when I get like this but I can’t stop.
“Then tonight Elliot said some things that I just… I couldn’t take it anymore. I’d spent so long trying to be what he wanted, trying to make him really love me, and he just didn’t. I’m not the one who was emotionally unavailable in that relationship. Or maybe he’s not emotionally unavailable,
but I just wasn’t good enough. I just....”
I take a deep breath. “I’m so tired. I’m tired of pretending to be okay. I’m tired of caring so much, and always being the one who loves more. I want someone to know everything about me, even the sad things and the dark things and the dumb things, and still choose me. Still love me.
I know it’s stupid, but it’s the truth.”
Andy leans his head against my hair, holding me tight. The radiator clangs, my sniffles slow, and eventually he asks, “Do you remember the party where we met, my sophomore year?”
I nod into his chest.
“You know I’ve always hated parties. Especially at college. They just felt like loud rooms full of people I didn’t care about. And when my roommates hosted they were always worried I’d ruin things by being too quiet or sullen or whatever… they literally had to supervise me.
It felt like I was bringing them down just by being there.”
I start tracing slow swirls across Andy’s forearm, not wanting to interrupt his story, but reminding him I’m listening.
“All of freshman year I dreaded those parties, so for our first party of sophomore year I promised I would stay for an hour, then leave before I could mess things up. But then you were there. You barged into my room and surprised me and I…”
He shakes his head against the top of mine, gathering his thoughts.
“You said people only like the easy parts of you. Well, let me tell you, that night when I met you—yes, it felt easy. For maybe the first time ever, it felt easy to be with someone. I didn’t feel anxious, I just felt like a—a person. I don’t know if that makes sense, but…”
He squeezes me tighter against him, taking time to find his words.
“What I’m trying to say is—you are not a party trick, Sophie. You are this rare, amazing person. You’re smart without making other people feel dumb, and you’re loud without making other people feel too quiet. And you are easy to be around, but that’s just the start. You bring out the best in people.
At least, I feel like the best version of myself when I’m around you.”
A new tear traces the corner of my lip. Andy reaches up to stop its path with the pad of his thumb, and the whole world narrows into that touch.
It would be so simple, to fall into each other. Sitting together on this couch with a decade behind us and two inches between us. My face tilted up towards his, a familiar longing whispering there.
And I know he’s just my friend. I do. But then why is there a pull under my skin and an ache in my chest?
Just show me you feel it too, Andy. I’ve been shot down before, but I’m still right here. If you want this too, you have to show me.
But he doesn’t. And when I’ve held his gaze long enough that I feel the stinging behind my eyes change from Elliot-tears to Andy-tears, I know I’m torturing myself for nothing.
I shift away—still next to Andy, but supporting my own weight.
“Well.” I clear my throat. “You were a pretty great version of yourself in the bar today. Coming for Elliot like that? I’m very impressed, Walsh.”
“This is the brave new me.” He cocks a one-dimple smile. “Get used to it.”
I break our eye contact, but grant myself permission to rest my head on his shoulder, one last time.
“I really do love you, Soph,” he says, almost a whisper.
And I know he does. So I say, “I love you, too.”
But I can’t go on like this. I can’t languish in hope for another nine years. Something has to change.