22. Sophie
TWENTY-TWO
SOPHIE
You’re being ridiculous , I scold my reflection in the microwave. It’s Wednesday night, and I haven’t seen or talked to Foster since he left my house on Sunday. Today, I was back at the school and managed to avoid him all day. Five minutes ago, his name popped up on my phone, and I haven’t had the nerve to open it yet.
It’s not his fault that my parents don’t know the full extent of my past relationship or breakup. It’s not his fault he doesn’t, either. I know if I told him, he’d go to the ends of the earth to protect me from future pain. I think he’d do that anyway, even without the full story, because that’s who Foster Walsh is.
The microwave beeps, and I’m pulled out of my little spiral.
Three days of no Foster has not been fun. And not because I miss his face, which I do—he has a very nice face. But I miss how I feel when he’s around, like the world isn’t tilting and I’m racing to keep from falling off.
I abandon my reheated lasagna, suddenly disgusted by the sight of it after multiple days of eating it hot or cold for every meal. Flopping down on the couch, I stare down at my phone, willing myself to see the message without actually opening it. If he sees I’ve read it then I don’t respond, it will be worse. And I do want to respond. I just don’t want to get into all the shit with Gregory and my parents and me quite frankly. I’m not ready to show Foster what an idiot I was for five years of my life.
The phone screen blurs as I stare at it until it goes dark. Cass’s name appears moments later, lighting it up and causing me to blink rapidly to clear my vision.
Cass
I’m coming to Easter!
Aren’t your parents doing something?
Obvs, but my uncle will be there so fuck that.
I remember meeting her whole family a couple times when I was a kid and wondering how Foster and Cass were related to some of them.
My mom invited Foster too.
Why?
I mean, awesome but how the hell did that come about?
He was over for dinner when she was here on Sunday night. He said he was going home though.
Well now I feel bad.
He can still come.
He’ll make an appearance at home regardless. He feels obligated to and shit. Plus our grandmother will be there and he feels bad that he doesn’t see her enough.
Damn, I love their grandmother so much. I’d be going too if I were him.
There seems to be no escaping thinking about Foster so I finally open his message. It’s a meme of two chocolate bunnies, one missing its ass and the other missing its ears. A classic.
Never gets old.
I watch the three dots of his reply appear and then disappear over and over again, my anxiety amping up in the meantime.
I’m sorry I’ve been MIA.
I fire off after the dots disappear again.
I was busy with work and needed a couple days.
I hope you don’t think I was mad at you.
Now I sound full of myself…
Anyway, I am sorry. I haven’t been a good friend.
I reread my barrage of texts, zeroing in on “friend.”
He hasn’t read the texts yet, and the dots haven’t returned. I could delete them and pretend like I never said anything, but then maybe he’ll see that I deleted them and wonder what I wrote. What if he thinks I was telling him off and then was too chickenshit to own up to it?
I stuff the phone under the couch cushion before I let myself do another thing. A knock on the door makes me jump out of my stupor. The curtains are closed so I can’t see who it is through the living room windows. So I sit still, hoping whoever it is goes away. After ten minutes of silence I creep to the door and peek through the window at the top. Seeing that the coast is clear I slowly open it and stick my head out to look around. As I’m about to close it I happen to look down and see a small tin with an envelope taped to the top.
Bending to pick it up, I pull the note free.
Soph
I’m sorry I made things awkward on Sunday. I know these won’t erase it, but hopefully they’ll help you forgive me.
F
I open the tin and reveal a mountain of mini chocolate chip cookies. He made me “I’m sorry” cookies. Backing into the house, I don’t even remember shutting the door before my back hits the wall and I slide down to the floor, still staring at the cookies.
I force myself to put the cookies away after I’ve swallowed the final bite of the fifth, and then I go dig my phone out from the couch.
Foster
Sorry I was out for a run.
Did you run to my house?
Guilty.
Can I FaceTime you?
I just got home, I’m gross, need to shower.
I don’t care.
My phone rings, and I hit accept. Foster’s slightly blotchy face fills the screen, and I pull my lips between my teeth to keep my smile at bay. He looks good like this. His usually artfully coiffed hair is sticking up in all directions where it’s not plastered to his face. Little dots of sweat cover his forehead and temples, and his lips are parted as he still works on catching his breath. I have to remember to breathe myself as I take him in. I want to make him sweat like that . My face heats at the thought.
“Hey,” I greet him quietly. “Thank you for the cookies.”
He tilts his head, eyes narrowed. “How many have you eaten?”
“Two.”
I watch his eyebrow rise. His eyes narrow further, and I lift my hand spreading out my fingers to reveal the real number. The deep warm tone of his laugh reaches places it has no business reaching, and I try to cover how flustered I feel with an eye roll.
“It’s your fault for making good cookies. If they were half as good, I could have stopped at one.”
“You eat as many as you want, sunshine, they’re all yours.” Warmth washes over me.
“I’m sorry,” I blurt out.
“You mentioned that in your texts. You’ve got no reason to be sorry,” he says gently as he sits.
“I do, though. I disappeared and that wasn’t cool.”
“As you said, you’ve been busy.”
I shake my head. “I haven’t been that busy. I just didn’t know what to say after Sunday. I’ve been avoiding you.” I clamp my jaw shut so nothing else escapes. I know once I get talking about things I won’t be able to stop, and I’ve never been someone who likes to have honest conversations on the phone. I need to be in the same room as the other person, otherwise I become hyper-focused on what their body language could be saying. Which, let’s be real, I’m going to do regardless, but at least if I can see all of them, I do a lot less spiraling.
“Are you done avoiding me now?” he asks slowly, leaning forward.
“I am,” I confirm.
“Do you want to talk about it?” It’s so easy to see why his students adore him. Even the ones who have outbursts eventually come around when Foster is the one sent in to defuse the situation.
“One day, but not today.”
“Well, I’m here whenever you want to.”
We sit there for a few seconds looking at one another, and it’s then that I see that underneath the sweat and wind-burned skin, Foster looks as tired as he had the week of the concert.
“Rough week?”
“Do I look that bad?”
“Not bad, just tired.”
“Same thing,” he counters. He runs his hand through his hair, the sweaty strands sticking up at new angles. “I haven’t been sleeping well, and we’re down two EAs this week.”
It seems selfish to feel guilty—the not sleeping well may have nothing to do with me—but guilt seeps in all the same.
“I didn’t know.”
Foster shrugs and then stretches his neck. “It’s not like you could fix it, Soph. No need to apologize.”
“I know, but I could have at least been a sounding board for you.”
He stops stretching and stares through the camera. I can feel the heat of his gaze. “And I could have reached out. Should I be sorry that I didn’t?”
“No.”
“So no one needs to be sorry.” His expression relaxes and his lips turn up at the corners. “Cass told me she’s going to Easter at your parents this year.”
“Yeah, she told me too. Does that change your plans?”
“No, I want to spend some time with my grandmother, and my mom told me she’s been complaining about forgetting what I look like.” He chuckles as he stands, the lighting changing and shadowing his face. “Sorry, I’ve gotta get out of this shirt. It’s drenched, and now I’m freezing.” He tosses the phone, and it bounces a bit so I assume it landed on his bed. When it settles, I can just make him out. I freeze when I realize what he’s about to do. I should look away, give him some privacy. He likely doesn’t realize that the phone did not land flat.
But I don’t look away. Instead my eyes are glued to him as he reaches over his shoulder and pulls his shirt up and over his head in one fluid motion. Why is that maneuver so fucking hot? I haven’t seen Foster’s body since we were kids, and while I can’t really get a good look now, I can see that his arms are not the only area tattooed. He picks the phone back up and I’m greeted by his face again. No complaints, but lord help me, this is going to be such a distraction whenever I see him in clothes now. I’m going to want to study every line he has drawn on his skin.
I can see some dark lines right below his collarbone and realize he didn’t put a shirt back on. “I thought you were cold?” I tease.
“I’m not putting something on when I’m about to go shower.”
My mind is spinning out of control. Probably because I haven’t done anything sexual in months. But one tiny glimpse of Foster shirtless, and I’m ready to scream “fuck it” while running to his apartment, stripping as I go.
Because my mind is fracturing in real time, I don’t know how I manage to piece a sentence together, let alone the one that leaves my mouth. “I can come with you to Easter, if you want. Then we can go to my parents’ after. It’ll knock E off our list.”
Foster’s smile is radiant. “Really?”
Sure. Maybe. No. Yes. Absolutely. “Why not? E is for efficiency.”
He frowns. “You wanna get through the alphabet faster, sunshine?”
A nervous laugh bubbles out of me. “What? No, but now I’m curious what you’re going to pick for some of the letters.”
“Oh, I’ve got those figured out, don’t you worry.” Why does he sound flirty? Why are my nails digging into my thigh?
“I’m not worried,” I counter.
His eyes travel behind the phone, and he sighs. “I am working through my own daily alphabet, though, and I’ve done R so need to do S.”
Sex? Suck? “Shower.” It comes out a bit too dreamily. “Nothing like getting clean,” I squeak, cringing at myself in the process.
He smirks back. “It does make getting dirty more fun.” His eyes widen comically, and all the nerves and mortification I had been feeling disappear.
“Go shower, Foster, you probably stink. I’ll see you tomorrow.”
“Night, Soph.” He gives a little wave before hanging up, and it leaves me fucking breathless.