“Why are you telling me this?” Sophie asks. I thought she’d be more interested in the story.
I shrug. “I don’t know.”
She smiles. Boops me on the nose. “You want me to tell you that she was full of shit?”
I laugh. “I guess. Maybe, yeah. That’s what I’m after.”
“She probably was, yes. It’s very likely. Or it could be that your future is uncertain. That you’re in a place where your path diverges, and not even fate itself knows which way you’ll go.”
“Oof.”
“Don’t despair,” she says, running a thumb under my pouty bottom lip. “I’m also full of shit. To be honest, pet, I don’t even believe in fate.”
“No?”
She scoffs, waves a hand in the air. “If it does exist, I’ve eluded it so many times.”
“You’re special, though.”
“So are you.”
Now it’s my turn to scoff.
“Fate is just another invention to trick us into complacency. Inaction. If one assumes that they cannot change their circumstances, they won’t try. When you think about it, really, there’s a myriad of ways we’re conditioned to passivity. Women, especially. Of course, I realized all of this a long, long time ago. It saved me. It could have just as easily drowned me.”
“Yeah,” I say.
“Literally,” she says. “They tried to drown me.”
“Who?”
“The townspeople,” she says. Her tone is casual. She’s not looking at me. She’s browsing shows on the TV. The remote is making that bloop-bloop sound as she scrolls.
“When?”
“As I said, a long time ago.”
“In the well?”
“No, that was a different occasion. There were many attempts over many years,” she says. She shakes her head.
“That’s awful,” I say. “I’m sorry.”
“Oh,” she says, “don’t be. I’m here, aren’t I?”
“You are.”
“I’m on your couch with you watching Netflix!” she says. “And they’re all dead.”
She pats my knee twice. “I should get home. I’ve got so many chores to do around the house that I’ve been neglecting.”
“Busy taking care of me,” I say. “Your sad, pathetic friend.”
“Next time you insult yourself in front of me, I’ll tie your tongue in a knot,” she says, putting her coat on. “Will you come over next weekend, please, pet? I really miss having you around. The ghosts won’t bother you. I promise.”
“I’m skeptical.”
“You don’t trust me?”
“It’s not that,” I say. “I’m scared.”
“Don’t be,” she says. Like it’s that simple. “It’ll be fun. Come over, yes? Come Saturday around noon. I’ll make us treats.”
“Okay.”
“Yes! Lovely,” she says. She kisses me on the forehead. “You’ll be all right, darling. Better than all right.”
“Thanks, Sophie.”
“I left food in your icebox,” she says. “Fridge. Whatever you call it. Good night.”
As soon as she’s gone, as soon as I hear the door close, I open my laptop and go straight to Facebook to look at the picture again.
I stare at it.
I know I shouldn’t be doing this, but there’s a nagging evil inside me, a little devil brandishing its pitchfork, compelling me. Punishing me. Its sole mission is to deprive me of any momentary relief I might have if I were to escape the hard evidence of my heartbreak.
Eventually, the screen blurs and my eyeballs recline.
I shut my laptop.
I put myself in the shower. I turn the water as hot as it will go so I can disappear into the steam, let it transport me somewhere else. If I can’t see anything, I can pretend I’m anywhere.
I pretend I’m in the spa of that Italian villa from the luxury real estate show.
I pretend I’m in a Diane Lane movie. I masturbate.
Afterward, I put on soft cotton pajamas and carry a sleeve of crackers and a glass of water into my bedroom. I settle in bed and eat the crackers slowly while staring out the window. I’m too lazy to get up and close the curtain.
It’s a mystery hour. The sun has been setting earlier and earlier. The daylight selfish, sparing. Soon my entire day will be spent in darkness. The drive to work. Teaching in my basement classroom. My drive home after.