When I was a sophomore in high school, my friends cornered me in the bathroom to accuse me of ditching them for my new boyfriend, Josiah. He was my first serious boyfriend, and I was obsessed with him. I remember crying and telling my friends that I was sorry, that I’d be better about making time for them. I promised that I would sit with them at lunch again, go to the movies on weekends. But after they confronted me like that, I really didn’t want to. It was mean. So I continued to spend all of my time with Josiah. And after he and I broke up, I started dating Drew. Then Sean, then Griffin and, after a brief intermission, Sam.
I’ve been accused of being the type of girl who always needs a boyfriend. A “relationship girl.” It never bothered me until now, because this lost-at-sea feeling proves the cruel hypothesis.
“I like children,” Sophie says, creating a pretty lattice pattern with strips of dough. “Some of them, anyway. And I don’t judge anyone for wanting to have them.”
“No, I didn’t think that.”
“Good,” she says. “Shall I stick this pie in the oven, then?”
“You mean that oven big enough to fit a few small children?”
She laughs. “Oh, Annie, you’re wicked.”
“Maybe,” I say.
“This will go in for about an hour,” she says. “I feel like I’ve gobbled up your whole day. You’re welcome to stay, of course, darling, but I thought I would give you an out.”
“I don’t have other plans, but I don’t want to put you out,” I say.
“Annie,” she says, “that was just a courtesy. I’ve actually kidnapped you and you don’t know it yet.”
“Damn,” I say. “I’m locked in a castle and being fed pie. Please, someone help!”
“I am known for my viciousness. Come, let’s venture somewhere else. Do you like to read? I’ll show you the library.”
She takes my hand and leads me back through the mirror hallway and into the foyer. We go through a different archway, down a flight of stairs and then up another flight of stairs to the library.
Oak paneling, coffered ceilings, bronze accents. Everything about the room is rich and dark, steeped in tawny light. There’s a marble fireplace that reaches all the way to the ceiling, carved with such incredible detail that I have to fight the urge to rush over and touch it, to run my fingers along each individual swirl, every last groove.
There’s so much to drink in, so much room, so much stuff, that when I finally get to the bookcases, I’m not at all surprised by them, despite their grandeur. And there’s a sliding ladder! I didn’t know people actually had those.
“Look around,” she says, “or sit.”
She distributes herself across a chaise longue, extending her legs out, letting one arm rest overhead, the other dangle at her side. There are plenty of chairs around, and a set of small uncomfortable-looking couches. That’s the downside of antique furniture. Beauty over function.
“After the conservatory, I think I spend the most time in here,” she says. “So many stories.”
“Yeah,” I say, sitting down in a hard armchair. “I don’t read as much as I should. Especially for an English teacher. I should read more. Watch less TV.”
“I don’t own a television,” she says.
“Really?”
“Really,” she says. She starts to laugh, letting her head fall back. “I use a projector. Please. I love it. Well, I watch films mostly. I like movies. I don’t have channels for television. Or what is it now? Streaming? It’s all too much for me. But I’ll watch a film anytime.”
“Me, too,” I say.
“I like a good story,” she says. She leans forward. “I bet you have a very interesting story.”
“Me? No, not really.”
“No?”
“I’m boring.”
“I don’t believe that. Not for a second.”
I shrug. “I grew up in a small town in Connecticut. I went to NYU. I teach. That’s pretty much it.”
“Annie,” she says, stretching an arm out to me, “why did you want to become a teacher?”
“My mother was a teacher.”
“She’s not anymore?”
“Um, no. She died when I was really young, so . . . I don’t know. I guess I just wanted to be like her,” I say. I feel like this chair is sitting on me, not the other way around. I stand and walk over to the bookcases, begin to browse, feel the spines.