27. Sophia
— ? —
Sophia
It was two weeks before I went back to Paris.
Not for Luca. I’d ended things with him the day after the restaurant, unable to pretend that dinner hadn’t changed everything. He’d been gracious about it, understanding in a way that made me feel worse. “You’re still in love with him,” he’d said, and I hadn’t been able to deny it.
The trip was for work. Whitmore Maison had reached out about a potential collaboration, and part of the arrangement involved accessing their design archives.
Old sketches, historical pieces, documentation of techniques that had been developed before I was born.
It was a legitimate professional opportunity, and the fact that it required me to spend several days in proximity to Alexander was entirely coincidental.
At least, that’s what I told Juliette.
“You’re going back for him,” she’d said, watching me pack.
“I’m going back for the archives.”
“The archives you could access digitally. The archives that don’t require you to be physically present in Paris for four days.”
“There are pieces I need to see in person. Things that don’t translate to photographs.”
“Uh huh.” She’d crossed her arms. “And the fact that Alexander runs the company whose archives you’re visiting is purely coincidental.”
“Purely.”
“You’re a terrible liar.”
“I know.”
Alexander met me at the Maison on my first morning.
He looked better than he had at the restaurant, more rested, like the two weeks had given him time to recover from our conversation.
His hair was still longer than I remembered, but he’d trimmed it slightly, and he was wearing a suit that actually fit the body he had now.
“Thank you for coming,” he said, his voice carefully professional. “The archives are this way.”
He led me through the building I’d once known as well as my own apartment.
The hallways were the same, the light falling through the same windows, the faint smell of metal and polish that had always meant home to me.
Everything was familiar and strange at once, like visiting a place I’d dreamed about but never actually seen.
“The materials you requested are in the third-floor study,” Alexander continued. “I’ve arranged for you to have private access during your visit. Coffee and meals can be brought up whenever you need them.”
“That’s very accommodating.”
“We want the collaboration to be successful.”
“Of course.” I followed him up the stairs, watching the tension in his shoulders, the way he kept a precise distance between us. “Alexander.”
“Yes?”
“You don’t have to act like you don’t know me.”
He stopped on the landing, turning to face me. His expression was guarded, careful in a way that made my chest hurt.
“I don’t know what you want from me, Sophia.”
“Neither do I. But treating me like a stranger isn’t it.”
“Then what is? We’re not married anymore. We’re not together. I lied to you two weeks ago and you caught me, and now you’re here for professional reasons that have nothing to do with me personally.” He dragged a hand down his face. “I’m trying to be appropriate.”
“Appropriate is exhausting. Can’t we just be civil?”
“Civil I can do.”
We continued up the stairs, the silence between us less hostile but no less heavy. The study was exactly as I remembered it: high ceilings, tall windows, shelves lined with boxes of archived materials. A large table had been set up in the center, covered with the documents I’d requested.
“I’ll leave you to it,” Alexander said. “If you need anything, my office is down the hall.”
“Alexander, wait.”
He paused at the door.
“At the restaurant. When you said you’d been dating.” I made myself look at him. “Were you lying about all of it, or just part of it?”
“I told you the truth outside.”
“You told me you hadn’t touched anyone since I left. But that doesn’t mean you didn’t try. That doesn’t mean there weren’t women you wanted to pursue, even if nothing happened.”
“There weren’t.” His voice was flat, matter-of-fact. “I went on a handful of dates in the first year. Coffee, dinners, that sort of thing. They all ended the same way: polite conversation and mutual acknowledgment that I wasn’t ready for anything serious. After a while, I stopped trying.”
“Why?”
“Because every woman I met became a comparison to you. Because I kept looking for your laugh in their voices and your wit in their conversation and your eyes across the table. Because I realized I wasn’t trying to move on. I was trying to find a replacement, and that’s not fair to anyone.”
The honesty cut through me. I thought about all the men I’d dated in Florence, all the comparisons I’d made, all the tears I’d cried after perfectly good evenings because the person across from me wasn’t him.
“I did the same thing,” I said. “The comparison thing. I kept measuring everyone against you, and they kept coming up short.”
“Even Luca?”
“Especially Luca.” I sat down at the table, suddenly needing the support.
“He was wonderful, actually. Kind and attentive and genuinely interested in my life. But he didn’t understand when I rambled.
He didn’t follow my tangents. He asked polite questions two beats behind the thread, and I kept wishing I was talking to someone who didn’t need the translation. ”
“Someone like me.”
“Someone exactly like you.” I looked up at him. “I stopped seeing him after Paris. After the restaurant.”
Alexander’s expression shifted. Relief flickered across his face, obvious and immediate, and it irritated me more than it should have.
“Don’t look so pleased. I didn’t end it for you.”
“I didn’t say anything.”
“You didn’t have to. Your face said it all.” I pulled one of the archive boxes toward me. “This is going to be a long four days if you’re going to celebrate every time I mention not dating someone.”
“I wasn’t celebrating.”
“You were definitely celebrating a little.”
“Maybe a little.” The corner of his mouth twitched. “I’m sorry. That was inappropriate.”
“It was very inappropriate.”
“Won’t happen again.”
“See that it doesn’t.”
The banter came too easily. I heard it happening and couldn’t stop it, couldn’t maintain the professional distance that was supposed to protect us from exactly this.
Three years apart, and we still fell into the same rhythms, the same patterns of speech, the same comfortable sparring that had always been the foundation of us.
I turned my attention to the archive materials, determined to focus on work.
The box I’d opened contained design sketches from twenty years ago, delicate drawings that showed the evolution of Whitmore Maison’s signature techniques.
I pulled out a folder, started sorting through the contents, and found a sketch I recognized.
“Is this from the Millennial collection?”
Alexander moved closer to look. “I think so. That was my father’s last major project before he retired.”
“The metalwork is incredible.” I traced the lines with my finger. “Look at the way he handled the transition from matte to polished. It’s seamless.”
“He spent months perfecting that technique. Drove the whole workshop crazy with his perfectionism.”
“Some things are genetic, apparently.”
“Careful. That almost sounded like a compliment.”
I kept sorting through the materials, and Alexander stayed, pointing out details I might have missed, explaining the context behind certain pieces.
It was like the early days of our marriage, when we’d spent hours in this building discussing design and technique and the particular alchemy of turning raw materials into beauty.
I found another folder near the bottom of the box and opened it without thinking.
The sketches inside were mine.
I recognized the drawings immediately, pieces I’d created during our marriage, designs that had never made it into production. But the margins were covered in handwriting that wasn’t mine. Alexander’s notes, his thoughts, his suggestions for how to improve what I’d started.
The curve here could be softer. What if the stone floated instead of sat?
This is brilliant. Don’t change anything.
Ask S about the chain length. She mentioned wanting more flexibility.
I love this. I love her. Both are relevant.
My throat tightened. “You kept these.”
“Of course I kept them. They’re good work.”
“I meant the notes. Your comments in the margins.” I looked up at him. “I didn’t know you were paying this much attention.”
“I was always paying attention. I was just terrible at showing it.” He sat down across from me, the table covered in memories between us.
“I used to read through your sketches after you went to sleep. I’d make notes about things I wanted to discuss, and then I’d never have time to actually discuss them.
The notes were my way of participating in your work when I couldn’t be physically present. ”
“Why didn’t you ever tell me?”
“Because it felt inadequate. You wanted me there, and I wasn’t. Writing comments in the margins seemed like a poor substitute.”
“It wasn’t.” I touched one of the notes, his familiar handwriting blurring through unexpected tears. “It wasn’t a substitute for anything. It was proof you cared about what I was building, even when you couldn’t be there. I would have loved knowing you did this.”
“I should have told you.”
“You should have done a lot of things.” I wiped at my eyes. “So should I.”
We sat in silence for a moment, surrounded by the evidence of years we’d spent together and apart. The archive materials had become a minefield, each folder containing another reminder of who we’d been and what we’d lost.
“There’s a question I keep not asking,” Alexander said.
“Maybe.”
“Luca. When you said you didn’t end it for me, what did you mean?”
“I meant I ended it for myself. Because being with him felt like settling, and I’ve spent three years building a life where I don’t have to settle for anything.” I closed the folder. “The fact that you benefit from that decision is coincidental.”
“Noted.”
“Why do you ask?”