“I own the land it sits on,” she says. “Why?”
I shrug. “Just wondering.”
I’m curious to know exactly how much real estate she owns, how much of this town, but I think it’d be rude to ask outright.
“I like to get pancakes with strawberries and a side of bacon,” she says. “But you can’t go wrong, really.”
“All right. Sold on the pancakes.”
Tom is back with the coffee, and Sophie orders for both of us.
“Coming right up,” he says. He won’t make eye contact with her. Or me.
“He’s funny,” I say.
“Nervous personality,” she says. “Annie. What’s wrong?”
“What do you mean?”
“You don’t seem yourself this morning. Is everything all right? Did I do something?”
“No,” I say. “No, I’m fine.”
As the words “I’m fine” leave my mouth, I realize how untrue they are. Sophie’s right. I’m not myself. I’m hungover, and I’m ashamed to be hungover.
I sigh. “I had too much wine last night.”
“My fault,” she says. “I’m a bad influence. I’m sorry, pet.”
“Don’t be sorry. I’m the one who drank it. I guess . . . this is the second time in the past week that I’ve gotten drunk. I don’t want to be this sad, single thirtysomething getting wine drunk multiple times a week. I don’t know.”
“Do you not like wine?”
“I do.”
Sophie takes a slow sip of her coffee. “Annie, why would you say ‘sad, single thirtysomething’？”
I’ve offended her. “I’m sorry. I just meant that’s how I feel.”
“No. No, I don’t think you did,” she says. She slowly unfolds a grin. “You think being single is a sad state of being. I promise you, it’s not.”
“No, I know.”
“Do you?”
Honestly, I don’t. I don’t want to end up alone. I don’t want to be an old maid. I want to be with someone. Share my life. Have someone love me. Want me.
“But why?” she asks.
“Sorry?”
“Why do you feel you need someone to love you, to want you? Why are you seeking that outside yourself?”
I’m confused. Did I say it out loud? Did I think out loud?
She puts her elbows on the table and leans forward. “You think you need it, but you don’t. I’m proof enough of that, don’t you think?”
“We’re different.”
“We’re not.”
Our pancakes arrive. They’re the thickest, fluffiest pancakes I’ve ever seen in my life. They swim in a garishly pink strawberry compote. A fat dollop of cream sits on top of the pile.
“You want to think we’re different, Annie. I’m telling you, we’re not.”
“Sophie,” I say, “you’re beautiful. You could have anyone you want. It’s not like that for me. I’m not . . . I’m not like you. I want a relationship. I want to love someone and have them love me back.”
“You want sex?”
“What? No. Well, I mean . . . that’s part of it, I guess. But no.”
“Sex is easy,” she says. “I, personally, find I can do it better myself. But I understand wanting it from someone else.”
She takes a big bite of pancake. A drop of pink strawberry goo oozes out of the side of her mouth. She scoops it up with her tongue.
“It’s love,” I say. “I want love.”
“You want validation.” She’s not being mean. Her tone is as soft and warm as ever. She’s being honest. Only the honesty is just as bad.
“Yeah. Maybe I do.”
“You’re never going to get it. Not from someone else, darling. Not from Sam.”
“He did love me.”
“No, pet,” she says, “he didn’t. Or else you wouldn’t be here crying over pancakes.”
I bring my hand up to my face. My cheeks are wet. I didn’t realize.
“Annie, I only say this because I know you’re above what you seek. Meaning, you’re . . . What’s the word? Lowballing? Is that what it is?”
“I guess.” I can’t help but laugh a little. It’s funny hearing her say it with her haughty accent.
“Your life can be so much more than chasing after some domestic fantasy.”
“I don’t think that’s what I . . . I don’t know. I don’t know if that’s what I’m doing.”