She stares at me. “It’s Saturday. You always come over on Saturdays, pet. I thought something might have happened to you.”
“Oh,” I say. “No, no, I’m fine. Just . . . overslept.”
I follow her eyes to the half-empty bottle of whiskey, to the small remaining mound of chocolate cake.
She opens her palm and Ralph climbs into her hand. He cuddles her thumb.
“Annie,” she says, still smiling, “I know that’s not true.”
My throat constricts.
“I . . . It is. I didn’t . . . I mean, I did. I overslept.”
She settles herself next to me on the couch. She smells like violets. “I’m not angry with you. I’m concerned.”
She begins to stroke my hair with her free hand, Ralph still in the other. My hair snags on one of her rings. I whimper. “So sorry, darling.”
She doesn’t sound sorry.
“I have to pee!” I blurt out.
I bolt into the bathroom and shut the door behind me. I need a minute to think, to collect myself. Also, I really do have to pee.
I sit on the toilet, self-conscious because of the trickling sound despite knowing I have bigger, more pressing concerns.
I can’t forget about last night, what I overheard. When it comes to Sophie, I’ve always been keen to let certain things slide for the sake of our friendship, but it’s at the point now where I can no longer ignore my mounting distrust.
There’s also the issue of Sam.
I broke my promise. I told her that I was done with him, but then I went and told him that I missed him.
And he said it back.
He misses me.
If there’s a chance that Sam and I can make things work, that I can go back to him and my magnificently normal, uncomplicated life, that I can escape this Grimm-worthy mess I currently find myself in, isn’t that a chance I have to take?
I need to get rid of Sophie. I’ve got too much to figure out. I can’t have her here.
But I can’t risk pissing her off. She has magic.
A voice speaks quietly from somewhere inside me. Yes, it whispers. But you have some, too.
I flush, wash my hands with an emphatic lather and take a series of deep breaths.
When I open the door, Sophie’s gone. So are the cake, the bottle of whiskey . . .
“Sophie?”
I find her in the kitchen washing the dishes.
“Hey, Sophie,” I say. I want to get it out while I still have the nerve.
“Darling,” she says, drying her hands on the air. She points to the table. There are two cups of coffee and a glass of water beside a small vial of something. “Let’s sit.”
The chairs pull out for us. I lower myself down. I keep forgetting about my hangover. It keeps reminding me. My head throbs.
“Ginger concentrate,” she says, tapping the vial with a long nail. “Will make you feel better.”
“Right. Thank you. So, Sophie . . .”
“I know you’re not fine, pet. I’m sure yesterday was difficult,” she says, playing with the steam rising from her coffee. She forms it into the shape of a doe, and it runs around in a circle before disappearing. “I don’t understand the point of it. Valentine’s, whatever. But I imagine for you, it was something like picking at a scab. You were upset. Are upset. I can smell your distress, darling.”
What does distress smell like? Like whiskey and BO?
“I’ve made it so you feel you can’t talk to me about Sam”—she pauses to shake off her revulsion at having to speak his name—“and while I don’t approve of falling into complete despair over someone who hurt you, I suppose I can understand occasionally lamenting the loss of what once was. Memories have their purpose, and nostalgia is not a danger in small doses. It can be good to remember what has made us who we are, to reflect on what has made us stronger.”
She reaches across the table for my hand.
“You never have to hide your feelings from me, pet. I apologize if I’ve ever led you to believe otherwise.”
If last night didn’t happen, if Nadia didn’t reach out to confirm the eerie accuracy of the psychic, if I didn’t go in search of liquor and stumble upon that conversation, if Sam didn’t tell me that he missed me, maybe Sophie’s words would be a salve. But now I can’t get past my suspicion. I can’t silence the constant hiss of doubt.
“Sophie,” I say, making my voice soft as baby skin, “I appreciate you coming by, but you have nothing to apologize for. I’m not upset, really. I just overindulged last night. I made myself dinner and cake and I went too hard on the whiskey. I’m sorry I didn’t come by. I didn’t mean to worry you. But I’ve got a pretty bad headache that I think I need to sleep off. I think I want to take it easy for the rest of the weekend. Hang here. Alone.”