12. Sophia #2
“I feel terrible. Order me the strongest thing they have.”
He ordered a bottle of C?tes du Rh?ne and let me talk.
That was always Julian’s gift, the ability to listen without judgment, to make space for messy emotions without trying to fix them.
I told him about the sabotage, the investigation, Alexander’s doubt and Camille’s composure and the fight that had left me feeling like the villain in my own marriage.
“He said being around me is exhausting,” I said, swirling the wine in my glass. “Like I’m this burden he has to manage instead of the person he chose to spend his life with.”
“That’s brutal.”
“He apologized. Said he didn’t mean it.”
“Did he mean it?”
I looked at Julian, at his familiar face with its familiar kindness. “Probably. At least partially. I think he meant that I’ve been difficult lately, and his frustration came out in the worst possible way.”
“Being difficult isn’t a crime, Sophia. You’re allowed to have needs. You’re allowed to ask for things.”
“Try telling that to my husband.”
We finished the bottle and ordered another.
The bar filled up around us, voices and laughter creating a warm cocoon of anonymity.
For the first time in weeks, I felt myself relax.
Julian wasn’t trying to solve my problems or explain why I was wrong.
He was just present, and that presence was its own gift.
“I should get you home,” he said finally, when the second bottle was empty and I was pleasantly numb. “It’s late, and you have a gala to survive.”
“Walk me?”
“Of course.”
The night air was cool as we strolled through the 6th, past closed boutiques and quiet cafés. Julian kept the conversation light, stories about his gallery and the artists he was working with, gossip about mutual friends from our art school days. I laughed more in that walk than I had in months.
We reached my building, and Julian turned to face me.
“You’re going to be okay,” he said. “You know that, right? Whatever happens with Alexander, whatever happens with the company, you’re going to be okay. You were extraordinary before you met him, and you’ll be extraordinary after.”
“You’re a good friend, Julian.”
“I try.” He pulled me into a hug, warm and familiar and completely platonic. “Call me if you need to talk. Anytime.”
I hugged him back, letting myself sink into the comfort of uncomplicated affection.
“Sophia.”
I stepped back from Julian and turned toward the voice.
Alexander was standing at the entrance to our building, his coat unbuttoned despite the chill, his expression unreadable. His eyes moved from my face to Julian’s, taking in our proximity, the lingering warmth of the embrace.
“Alexander.” I straightened my spine. “This is Julian Moreau. We were at art school together.”
“I know who he is.” His voice was flat. “You used to date.”
Julian glanced between us, clearly sensing the tension. “I should go. Sophia, it was good to see you. Alexander, nice to finally meet you.”
He offered his hand. Alexander shook it briefly, his jaw tight.
Julian left. I watched him disappear around the corner before turning back to my husband.
“You looked comfortable with him,” Alexander said.
“He’s my friend.”
“Your friend who you used to date. Your friend whose arms you were just in.” He moved closer, and I saw the jealousy he was trying to hide, the discomfort radiating from every line of his body. “Why didn’t you tell me you were seeing him tonight?”
“Because I don’t report my social calendar to you. Because I’m allowed to have drinks with a friend without asking permission.”
“A friend who used to be more than a friend.”
“That was years ago, Alexander. Before I ever met you.” I studied his face, watching the emotions flicker across it. “You’re jealous.”
“I’m concerned.”
“You’re jealous. You saw him touch me, and it bothered you.”
“Yes.” The admission seemed to cost him. “It bothered me. I don’t like seeing another man’s arms around my wife.”
“Interesting.” I climbed the steps to the entrance, keying in the code. “You saw him touch me once, and you decided it mattered. I’ve been telling you for weeks that Camille’s closeness bothers me, and you keep explaining why it shouldn’t.”
“That’s different.”
“How?” I turned to face him. “How is it different? Julian is an old friend I see once every few months. Camille is someone who spends more time with you than I do, who knows every detail of your schedule, who calls you by my nickname and feels comfortable enough to adjust your clothing.”
“There’s nothing between me and Camille.”
“There’s nothing between me and Julian.” I let the parallel hang in the air. “Funny how that doesn’t make you feel better.”
Alexander’s face went through several expressions I couldn’t name. He climbed the steps to stand beside me, and I watched him struggle with a realization he didn’t want to have.
“Seeing you with him scared me,” he said quietly. “I know that’s irrational. I know he’s just a friend. But seeing his arms around you, knowing you have history, knowing he got to see a version of you I never will… it scared me.”
“Then imagine feeling that every day.” My voice was gentle but firm.
“Imagine watching someone else become indispensable to your spouse. Imagine seeing them share jokes and routines and intimate little moments that used to be yours. Imagine telling your husband it bothers you and having him explain, over and over, why your feelings aren’t valid. ”
“I never said your feelings weren’t valid.”
“You said I was reading too much into harmless gestures. You said I was obsessed. You said you can’t treat every normal interaction as a betrayal.
” I touched his arm. “Alexander, I’m not asking you to fire Camille.
I’m not asking you to treat her like a criminal.
I’m asking you to feel what you just felt, that fear and discomfort and jealousy, and understand that I’ve been living with that for months. ”
He let the silence stretch.
“I’ve been an idiot,” he said finally.
“Yes.”
“I kept telling you your concerns were unreasonable,” he said, and I watched what the admission cost him. “And then I felt exactly what you’ve been describing and immediately decided it was different.”
“That’s the pattern, Alexander. Your feelings matter. Mine need to be justified.”
“That’s not fair.”
“No. It’s not.” I opened the building door. “Are you coming up?”
He nodded, following me into the elevator. We rode up in silence, but it was a different silence than before. Not hostile or exhausted this time, but thoughtful.
“I don’t know how to fix this,” he said as we reached our floor. “I keep trying, and I keep making it worse.”
“You could start by believing me when I tell you something bothers me. Without needing to feel it yourself first.”
“That sounds simple.”
“It should be.” I unlocked our apartment door. “It really should be.”
We stood in the hallway of our home, two people who loved each other and couldn’t seem to translate that love into actions that carried it.
“The gala is in a week,” Alexander said. “After that, the pressure lifts. After that, we can focus on us.”
“You’ve said that before. After the launch. After the last crisis. After the one before that.”
“I know.” He caught my hand. “But this time I mean it.”
I looked at our intertwined fingers, at the wedding ring he still wore, at the man I’d chosen eight years ago when choosing felt simple.
“Show me,” I said. “Don’t tell me. Show me.”
I went to the guest room, and he didn’t try to stop me.
But for the first time in weeks, I heard him pacing in the hall outside my door for a long time before his footsteps finally retreated to the main bedroom.
Progress. Maybe.
Or maybe just another prologue to disappointment.
I closed my eyes and waited to find out which.