5. Sophia
5
SOPHIA
T he scent of gingerbread wafts through the air, warm and nostalgic, carrying a bittersweet pang that always takes root in my chest this time of year. I sit at the large wooden table in my mother’s kitchen, helping her assemble a gingerbread house. The prosthetic replacing my left forearm makes the task tedious—delicate icing work and balancing cookie walls aren’t exactly what it was designed for—but I manage. The frustration grows, though, when the icing bag slips, smearing a crooked line on the snowy rooftop I’m trying to craft.
“Perfect,” I mutter under my breath.
My mom stands at the counter, hands dusted in flour, as she rolls out another dough sheet. Her gaze flickers to my prosthetic for the briefest moment—a heartbeat, no more—and then away. The titanium structure lies beneath a natural-looking layer of silicone. So it’s not the sight of my bionic arm that Betty’s trying to escape. It’s the memory it brings to her mind.
She doesn’t say a word, of course. Nobody does. The charred mess of my left arm and what happened the night I lost it have been a forbidden topic in this house for almost a decade. She wouldn’t raise it now, especially during Christmas. Especially with my sister’s wedding looming.
“Try not to overthink it, sweetie.” My mom’s voice is gentle, like I’m still ten years old, fretting over lopsided frosting trees. “Gingerbread houses aren’t supposed to be perfect.”
“Maybe not,” I reply, smoothing another line of icing along the base, “but they’re also not supposed to collapse on the first snowfall.”
Mom chuckles softly, her laugh warm and familiar, like the crackling fireplace in the living room just beyond. I glance at her—her auburn hair, streaked now with gray, is swept neatly to one side, and her lips are painted the same vibrant red she’s worn for as long as I can remember. She looks timeless here, standing in this kitchen, its honey-toned wooden cabinetry and polished granite countertops illuminated by soft golden light. Outside, snow blankets the ground, visible through the wide windows that frame the dining area. The rustic stone fireplace anchors the open space, casting cozy waves of heat, while the table nearby is set with plates and Christmas candles. It feels like stepping into the past, where every detail whispers of home. I stare at the counter in front of me, at the center of the kitchen, which holds the mess of gingerbread crumbs and powdered sugar I’ve just created. I shake my head, turning my attention back to my work. My mind doesn’t stay there for long, though. It wanders, inevitably, to him.
Ray Flanagan.
His name flickers like a dangerous flame in the back of my mind, scorching and scaring me all at once. It’s absurd—I’ve barely thought of him in years. At least, that’s what I’ve been telling myself. But now that I’m back, just a few blocks away from where he lives, memories of him creep in, uninvited.
He’s just the boy from down the street , I tell myself, but the words feel hollow.
“You’ve been quiet,” Mom says, breaking the silence. “Thinking about work?”
“Yeah, actually,” I lie. “Dee called on my way into town. The drummer from The Experiment ?”
Betty’s features brighten. “She’s such a sweetheart.”
“She is,” I say, smoothing another line of icing along the roof of the gingerbread house. “She wanted my input about a festival gig they’re doing in February. It’s huge—great for their new album. Balancing it with their tour schedule will be tricky.”
Mom turns from the counter, wiping her hands on her apron. “Sounds like you’ve got your hands full managing all that.”
I chuckle. “That’s the job. Keeping them on track, making sure they don’t burn out—or kill each other.”
Her eyebrows lift. “Kill each other? You mean fighting over Dee?”
I grin, glancing at her. “Not quite. They’ve got that all figured out.”
She pauses, considering. “I got the impression last time your dad and I visited that those boys were all smitten with her. How does that... work, exactly?”
“It works because they’re all in love—with Dee, with each other, with the whole dynamic. They’re in a poly relationship.”
Her brows knit slightly, but she doesn’t look shocked—just curious. “And it never gets out of hand?”
“They’ve been together for years,” I reply, shrugging. “It’s unconventional, sure, but they’re happy. That’s what matters.”
Mom tilts her head, still thoughtful. “Well, they’re lucky to have you keeping everything running smoothly. Not everyone could handle that.”
“Probably not,” I admit with a small smile.
She brushes a stray curl from her forehead, her tone shifting to something more casual, though the subtext is anything but. “You know, a job like that could be done from here just as easily as from the city.”
I roll my eyes, but there’s a smile tugging at my lips. “Mom, we’ve been through this. Mammoth Lakes isn’t exactly the epicenter of the music industry.”
She shrugs, turning back to her dough. “The world’s more connected than ever. You could work remotely.”
“Like from here, Mom?” I ask, raising an eyebrow. “Sure, I’ll just set up shop in the living room and field calls between cookie breaks.”
She doesn’t answer; she hums softly as she presses cookie cutters into the dough. I follow her gaze out the window, where fat snowflakes drift lazily to the ground, blanketing the deck and the pine trees beyond. This peaceful place seems like an alien planet compared to the gridlocked streets of San Francisco. For a moment, I let myself imagine it—staying here, waking up to birds chirping in the trees instead of honking horns in the traffic. The idea tugs at a longing deep inside me that I can’t name.
But it’s just a fantasy. My life isn’t built for this town. And it’s not just San Francisco I’d have to leave behind. It’s also the independence I’ve clawed for after my world fell apart. Here, everything feels too close—memories, family, him. The thought of running into Ray Flanagan again makes my chest tighten, though I can’t tell if it’s from anticipation or dread. Probably both.
The doorbell rings, sharp and unexpected, jolting me from my thoughts. I glance at my mom, who’s already wiping her hands clean on a towel.
“Can you get that, Sophia? I’m covered in flour.”
I nod, rising from the table. As I walk through the dining room, my boots creak softly against the polished wood floors. The warmth of the kitchen fades behind me, replaced by the cooler air. I pass through the dining room, where the antler chandelier casts long shadows over the polished wooden floors. The light dims as I leave the kitchen behind, and the air feels cooler in the foyer, carrying a faint trace of pine from the garland Mom draped over the staircase railing. The house seems quieter now, the muffled sound of snowflakes hitting the windows amplifying the pounding of my heart. I don’t know why my pulse quickens as I reach the door, but something tells me this isn’t just another holiday visitor.
A rush of cold air hits me as I pull the door open, snowflakes swirling into the warmth of the house. My breath catches when I see him—a tall figure framed by the soft glow of the porch light, his broad shoulders dusted with snow. For a moment, I can’t make out his face, just the imposing outline of a man who seems too out of place on this quiet, snowy night. Then his eyes meet mine—piercing blue, sharp enough to cut through the chill—my stomach flips, and the world shifts.
There he is.
Ray Flanagan.
He’s different now, and yet, somehow, exactly the same. The boy I once knew has been chiseled by time and pain into this man, all hard angles and quiet intensity. His fiery red hair is slightly long, tousled by the wind. His jaw is sharp, shadowed with stubble that only emphasizes the cold perfection of his features. But it’s his eyes that hold me captive—icy blue and brimming with something dark I don’t recognize but feel all the same. My lungs stop functioning, so I grip the edge of the door as if it’s the only thing keeping me standing.
“Sophia,” he says, my name rough yet familiar on his thick lips, as if it’s something he’s been holding onto for years. The sound sends a shiver down my spine. But the rippling sensations ignite a low fire deep inside me.
It takes me a moment to find my own voice. “Ray?” The word comes out softer than I mean it to, like a question I didn’t know I had.
He watches me with those baby-blue eyes, his expression unreadable. It seems he’s seeing through me, into places I’ve tried to keep hidden—even from myself. He’s standing so close, the scent of him—woodsmoke and pine—wraps around me.
The silence between us stretches, heavy with all the things that remain between us. The years apart, the memories we can’t erase, the scars we both carry—they hang in the air like the snowflakes falling around him. I want to say something, but the words catch in my throat.
And for a moment, I wonder if he’s as haunted by me as I am by him.