Chapter 2 #2
Sophie sits up straighter. The teasing leaves her face for half a second, replaced by something warmer and more exact.
“She said that?”
“Yes.”
“She doesn’t waste that word.”
“No,” I say. “She doesn’t.”
“Then take it,” Sophie says.
“I am taking it.”
“You are reporting it. That is not the same.”
I look toward the balcony doors. A strand of hair has slipped loose from the knot at the back of my neck, and I tuck it behind my ear.
“I laughed when she emailed me,” I say.
Sophie’s expression softens. “Good.”
“It was a normal laugh.”
“I love that you think I called to audit the classification of your laugh.”
“You might have.”
“I might have,” Sophie says.
“That doesn’t make the answer less useful.”
I set the coffee down and move my pen away from the edge of the desk before it rolls off.
“I’m fine, Sophie.”
Sophie goes quiet. That is never casual with her. Sophie’s silences have shape. This one sits between us, patient and unsparing.
“Serena,” Sophie says.
“What?”
“How are you actually?”
The question lands with none of her usual decoration. No joke. No flourish. No theatrical softness. She asks it plainly, which is the worst thing she can do because plainness has fewer places to hide.
I look at the screen. Behind Sophie, I can see the familiar corner of her apartment: cream sofa, green velvet pillow, stacks of art books arranged in a way she insists is casual and absolutely is not.
A framed black-and-white photograph hangs slightly crooked over her shoulder.
I know that apartment. I know the cabinet where she keeps the wine she opens for other people and the better wine she opens when she is upset.
I know the bathroom drawer where she keeps three shades of the same lipstick because she refuses to accept that two have been discontinued.
I know the sound her front door makes when it sticks in winter.
The familiarity of it catches somewhere under my ribs.
“Rome is extraordinary,” I say.
Sophie doesn’t blink.
“That’s not what I asked.”
“I know.”
She waits.
I look down at the open notebook beside my laptop. My handwriting fills the page in tight lines. Rome is not generous. It is discerning. The sentence looks back at me as if it knows exactly what I am doing.
“I’m functional,” I say.
Sophie’s brow tightens.
“That’s a terrible word.”
“It’s an accurate word.”
“Accurate doesn’t make it less terrible.”
“I’m working well,” I say.
“You always work well.”
“The food is good.”
“Food is not a substitute for answering me.”
“It’s closer than most things.”
Sophie exhales through her nose, then sits back in her chair.
“Did he text you?”
My hand stills on the desk. I don’t look at the phone screen because the answer is already in my body, in the small tightening of my shoulders, in the way my thumb presses against the side of the coffee cup.
“Yes,” I say.
“When?”
“My first night.”
“What did he say?”
I glance toward the phone, though the screen is dark.
“That he thinks he made the biggest mistake of his life,” I say.
“That he wants to talk.”
Sophie’s face changes quickly. Anger sharpens her mouth first, then discipline reins it in. She has never liked Ethan the way Ethan thought she liked him. She was charming to him because Sophie can be charming to a hostile witness if the lighting is decent.
“What did you say?” Sophie asks.
“Nothing.”
“Good,” Sophie says immediately.
I smile faintly. “I thought you might enjoy that.”
“I enjoy very little about this, but I do support silence as a weapon.”
“I’m not using it as a weapon.”
“You are allowed to, Serena.”
“I know.”
“Do you?”
The city noise rises from below the balcony: a scooter, footsteps, a man calling to someone across the street. I turn my pen once between my fingers.
“I’m not interested in punishing him,” I say.
Sophie’s face softens again, but the anger stays in her eyes.
“That’s because you are kinder than you pretend to be.”
“I’m not pretending not to be kind.”
“You are absolutely pretending not to be kind. It’s one of your more elegant lies.”
“Sophie.”
“I’m right,” Sophie says.
“You make all that sharpness look like armor, but half the time it’s just how you keep from bleeding on people who didn’t cut you.”
I look away from the screen. The room has grown too warm. The air-conditioning hums near the ceiling, but Rome keeps finding its way in through the balcony glass, through the seams, through every place the hotel fails to be sealed against the city.
“I don’t want to talk to him,” I say.
“Then don’t.”
“I’m not.”
“Good.”
“I also don’t want him to become the center of this assignment.”
“He won’t unless you let him.”
“I’m trying not to.”
Sophie leans closer. “Look at me.”
I do. Her face on the screen is beautiful in the careless way that has nothing to do with symmetry and everything to do with animation. Sophie is never still unless she means to be. Right now, she means it.
“He doesn’t get Rome,” Sophie says.
“He doesn’t get San Sebastián. He doesn’t get Lyon. He doesn’t get Paris. He doesn’t get eight weeks of your work because he decided regret was more comfortable once you were out of reach.”
The back of my throat tightens once, quickly enough that I can swallow around it.
“I know,” I say.
“I need you to know it in the part of you that answers hotel-room texts at midnight.”
I huff out a small laugh.
“That part of me has been under supervision.”
“By whom?”
“Me.”
“That is both reassuring and concerning.”
“I’m very strict.”
“You are until you’re tired.”
I do not answer. Sophie catches it anyway. She always does.
“That’s when he’ll try to get in,” Sophie says.
“Not when you’re furious. Not when you’re at some perfect table writing brilliant little sentences. He’ll try when you’re tired, when the room is quiet, when you’ve had enough wine to miss being known but not enough clarity to remember he didn’t know you well enough.”
I stare at her. The sentence is too accurate to fight.
Sophie’s voice lowers.
“I’m not saying this to hurt you.”
“I know.”
“I’m saying it because I remember what you sounded like the night you saw that photo.”
I pick up the pen again, then set it down because there is no reason to be holding it.
“I sounded calm,” I say.
“You sounded like you were standing very still in a burning room.”
The image moves through me before I can stop it. I had finished the review I was writing before I cried. I hate that Sophie knows that–but I also love that Sophie knows that. Both things sit in the same place.
“I’m not in that room anymore,” I say.
“No,” Sophie says. “You’re in Rome.”
“Yes.”
“Eating figs and frightening servers.”
“Only a little.”
“And writing exceptional work.”
“Apparently.”
“And not answering him.”
“No,” I say. “I’m not answering him.”
Sophie nods once. “Good.”
The word settles between us, not as praise, but as agreement. For a moment, neither of us speaks. The silence is easier now. It has the shape of an old friendship. It has the shape of two women who can let a hard thing sit on the table without decorating it. Then Sophie clears her throat.
“Now tell me something shallow before I become too emotionally sincere and need to lie down,” Sophie says.
I laugh, and this one comes easier.
“The hotel receptionist remembers me from three years ago because I rejected a concierge’s restaurant recommendation.”
Sophie’s eyes light.
“Of course she does. That is your origin story.”
“Her name is Lucia. She said faster is vulgar.”
“I love Lucia.”
“She also judges people by what they eat.”
“I worship Lucia.”
“I thought you might.”
“Describe her.”
“Silver hair. Sharp cheekbones. Black dress. Terrifying in a helpful way.”
“So, Italian Diana.”
“Less severe.”
“Impossible.”
“Different severe,” I say.
Sophie points at the screen.
“There it is. That’s the line. Use that somewhere.”
“I’m not putting Lucia in a restaurant column.”
“You should put Lucia in everything.”
“I’ll consider it.”
“You won’t, but I appreciate the lie.”
A knock sounds faintly somewhere beyond my room, followed by a rolling cart and a housekeeper’s soft apology in Italian. I glance at the time.
“I have to finish the Rome notes,” I say.
“Of course you do,” Sophie says. “What is today?”
“Last full day.”
“Then San Sebastián?”
“Tomorrow morning.”
“Are you taking the train?”
“Yes.”
“Good. You like trains.”
“I like not being searched by airport security before breakfast.”
“That too.”
I reach for my coffee and find it cold. I drink it anyway.
Sophie watches me do it and grimaces.
“That was room-temperature coffee.”
“It was available coffee.”
“You are a food critic.”
“I am off duty.”
“You are never off duty.”
“That is unfortunately true.”
Her expression shifts again, gentler now.
“Text me when you get on the train,” Sophie says.
“I will.”
“Text me if he messages again.”
“I might.”
“Serena.”
“I’ll text you.”
“Thank you.”
I look at her through the phone, this woman who has seen me mean and soft, hungry and heartbroken, right and insufferable. The one person who can call from another continent and still make the room feel less empty by sheer force of will.
“Thank you for checking,” I say.
Sophie’s smile is small and real. “Always.”
“Don’t become weird about it.”
“I would never.”
“You absolutely would.”
“I’m already making a private note not to become weird about it, which I admit is the first sign of becoming weird about it.”
“There she is.”
Sophie laughs. “Go write something devastating about pasta.”
“I already did.”
“Then make it worse.”
“I’ll try.”
“You’ll succeed.”