Chapter Thirty-Seven Paul
Chapter Thirty-Seven
Paul
Such a wonderful night celebrating these warriors, including my dear friend Sophie, who is currently battling breast cancer. Sophie, you inspire me every day! #FightLikeAGirl #PinkGala #BaileyBanksOnIt @salvatoreintl
My hand starts to shake as I look at the social media post in front of me.
I know how pathetic this is, and I know that I should stop.
But I can't.
Bailey Banks, I've learned, is a journalist who actively posts on both her personal and professional social media.
I know this because I've been obsessively searching their accounts for any mention of Sophie.
I've already saved the photo she shared of Sophie from the article, and I quickly capture a screenshot of the one I’m looking at now.
I'm like a starving dog scavenging for glimpses of Sophie. She never cared for social media, finding it pointless and always valuing her privacy, so I knew I'd never see her post anything there.
The pictures saved in my camera roll from our years together—vacations, cooking dinner, tangled in the sheets—and the prized Polaroid I keep in my wallet are tainted.
All they do is remind me of the Sophie that I destroyed, and I can't look at those without crying anymore.
I need to see Sophie as she is now. To remind myself that she's still here, that she still exists in this world.
And to remind myself that maybe... maybe there's still a chance.
That hope is the whole reason I'm sitting in this therapist's waiting room right now. I need to hope for a future where I can repair the harm I caused Sophie, and show her that I've changed, that I'm not the short-sighted, immature boy who devastated her.
Maybe I can change and become the man she deserves.
Maybe... she'll let me try again.
Selfish, I know, but I need to hold onto hope for the future because the past makes me too sick to think about it.
I just... I want—need—to see her.
And fucking hell, she looks...
Sophie looks incredible.
Beautiful. Stunning. Gorgeous.
Happy.
I drink in the sight of her like a man dying of thirst. Pink dress, hair and makeup done, smiling brightly at the camera in front of a pink decorated hall.
She looks like my Sophie—different in some ways—the hair likely a wig, her eyebrows done differently.
She's thinner, paler, but the Sophie I knew and loved is still there.
Conflicting emotions fill me when I see how happy she looks. Happy that she's happy, but wrecked because she's happy without me.
There's a whole carousel of photos in this post—many feature Sophie and the journalist, Bailey.
There's a mirror selfie—Sophie and Bailey pouting and blowing kisses at the camera.
Sophie mid-laugh while Bailey sticks her tongue out.
Bailey and Sophie's faces squished together, smiling brightly for the camera.
Bailey and a dark-haired man in a tux holding her, and—
I flinch so hard that the phone slips from my hand and lands on the floor with a loud thud, sounding deafening in the quiet of the waiting room.
There's a ringing in my ears, and my heart slams in my chest to the point I think everyone can hear it.
I glance around the nearly empty waiting room, and the receptionist at the front looks at me, concerned.
Giving her a tight smile, I take a deep breath and reach down, grabbing the phone.
I hesitate for a second before I turn it around.
It's like a punch to the gut.
I think everything inside me is collapsing in on itself. All the air leaves my lungs at once, the walls close in on me, and the vein in my temple throbs painfully.
It's Sophie...
And Callum.
It's an action shot of him lifting her, his arms around her waist, her arms around his neck, her legs popped up like an old movie. Sophie's head is tipped back, eyes closed in pure joy, a bright smile on her face. She looks free, like she's flying.
She looks so alive.
But Callum's eyes are on her, the expression on his face making me feel sick.
His look is pure love.
The look on his face is like he can't believe someone like her exists, like she's a miracle. And God, she really is. She's a miracle I threw away for nothing.
For fear.
But Callum is holding her tightly like he never wants to let go.
My stomach rolls violently, and I'm worried I'm about to vomit all over my lap, so I swipe my phone—bad idea. I barely make it into the tiny bathroom before I throw up into the toilet, dry heaving until my stomach aches.
The photo is now seared into my brain, and I have to take a couple of deep breaths before I look at it again. The nausea rolls, but there's nothing left in my stomach to empty.
I feel empty because what I'm looking at is a photo of Callum and Sophie kissing.
His hands cradle her face, holding her as if she's precious, and the look on her face, her lips pressed firmly against his, reads pure joy.
The kiss is not erotic, it's not lewd, it's not a sloppy open-mouth passion-filled makeout.
Fucking hell, it's worse.
It's so tender it feels obscene. It's gentle and loving and romantic and so fucking intimate I have to bite my fist so I don't cry out from the pain shredding open my chest, my heart. It's a tearing type of pain, like someone ripping something away I've tried desperately to hold onto—hope.
He's holding the face I once had the privilege of holding, kissing the lips that I once was able to kiss whenever I wanted. The lips that whispered that they loved me at one point in time.
I feel too hot all of a sudden. The cable knit—the blue one Sophie always loved—feels like it's choking me, and I have to pull at the collar for some relief. It doesn't come. There's no relief from this, nothing that can make me feel better about what I'm looking at.
The love of my life is kissing someone else, someone who clearly loves her. And from the article and the pictures... goddamnit, she loves him too.
Sophie has moved on.
Not only that, she looks happy—happier than I've ever seen her, even at our best.
And it feels like a fucking death knell.
◆◆◆
"Do you think you performed love?"
I'm still wrecked, feeling completely hollowed out while sitting in the chair across from Dr. Forseti. She's watching me with soft, inquisitive eyes, her pen spinning slowly between her fingers like she's tuning an instrument.
My body feels like it's running on autopilot, but I still sit and think about her question, though I'm confused by her meaning.
Performed love?
Of course, I loved Sophie—hell, I still love her. My reaction to the picture should prove that. I think about her every day, from the moment I wake up to when I fall asleep. I miss her so much it hurts.
We shared a whole life together, including multiple apartments, various experiences, vacations, holidays, and big adult purchases. We were planning a wedding. We paid bills. We shared our bodies and our thoughts.
I loved Sophie Bracken more than I've ever loved anyone.
None of it was a performance.
Except for your lies, my thoughts jab me. I grit my teeth, curling my hands into fists and feeling my nails bite into my palms.
My lies, my deception, my betrayal, my cheating, my fucking mistakes.
All of that was a performance.
But the love I feel for Sophie?
That's real.
"Perform? No," I say, swallowing hard. "I genuinely loved Sophie."
"Right, I understand that, Paul—" she nods her head, before leaning forward. "But, I'm going to say something, and I don't want you to respond—I want you to sit in it, and I want you to feel. Can you do that?"
I nod my head, but my stomach drops, feeling like I'm at the top of a roller coaster.
She takes a deep breath, and her face and eyes soften with what appears to be sympathy.
"Paul, I think you see love—and relationships—as something to consume. Not something you actively participate in."
I blink.
Her words hit with sudden force—a dizzying blow that leaves me off balance. For a moment, I can practically feel the floor tilt, my thoughts spinning as I try to process what she just said.
"What—"
"Feel," she holds her hand up, stopping my words.
Consume? Well, yeah, relationships are supposed to be comforting, aren't they?
Having another person there for you, loving them, talking to them, them doing things for you, and you reciprocating.
You have sex. You go on dates. You build a life with this person, loving them through the easy times and the arguments.
That's like the whole benefit of a relationship.
And I did that—I participated. We went places together, the farmer's market trips where I would buy those snacks we liked, we went on dates that I paid for, vacations that I helped pay for, I put forth effort into helping clean up the apartment, I bought us dinner, coffee dates, I—
I frown, realizing that a lot of it was financial or logistical. Not intentional.
Those things were for both of us.
What did I do just for Sophie?
Dr. Forseti just watches me as I untangle six years in my head.
I listened to her vent—sometimes—but she wasn't one to complain about things.
I helped with grocery shopping, but she planned and cooked the meals.
I helped her study from her notes for her finals, but she also helped me study for mine—creating study guides and spreadsheets to keep me organized.
I paid my half of the bills, but she contributed just as much, if not more, when you factor in groceries and household items. I paid for our dates, but she was usually the one who picked the place and scheduled the reservations—I just had to drive us or meet her there.
And then all of the small things, the things that would annoy me or I would write off as unimportant, when I'd forget to put my dirty clothes in the hamper.
Or when I would leave my dentist appointment and wouldn't schedule my next appointment.
Or when I wouldn't tell her we were out of eggs or butter, so she had to modify a dinner recipe.