Page 69 of Cackle

At some point I start to doze off. Sophie puts a blanket over me and a glass of water on the coffee table.

“I’ll see you tomorrow,” she says, petting my hair.

Sophie never sleeps over. I couldn’t really picture her sleeping on a couch; she’s too glamorous for that. But I wonder if there’s another reason. Some rule I don’t know about. Does she sleep at all?

—

I wake up late the next morning and meet Sophie for coffee at the farmers market. It’s starting to get chilly. Sophie wears a long, soft leather jacket that cinches at the waist. I wear a blue puffy coat that she finds hilarious. She pokes at it and giggles.

We walk around town and eat a late lunch at the diner. We each get grilled cheese and share a side of fries.

“Darling,” she says, “I might go home after this.”

“Okay,” I say.

“Is that all right?” she asks. “I hate to abandon you, but I’m feeling so tired today. New moon. And with Mercury in retrograde . . .”

She rolls her eyes.

“Yeah,” I say. “Of course.”

I didn’t know she could get tired. I’m always the one passing out early or calling it a night. Maybe she’s sick of me. We have been spending a lot of time together.

When we’re done eating, Tom hurries over to clear our plates. He doesn’t leave a bill. He never charges us. Of everyone in town, I think he’s the most terrified of Sophie.

She hugs me on the sidewalk.

“I’ll drop by tomorrow afternoon,” she says. “We can have tea.”

“Only if you’re up to it.”

She winks at me, then turns on her heel and walks off.

On the way home, I stop in Simple Spirits and get a bottle of Pinot Grigio that Alex recommends. She’s always got a sour look on her face. I can’t tell if it’s because of my association with Sophie or if she judges me because it’s fairly obvious that I drink too much.

I tell myself that I’ll have a glass. A single glass. I tell myself that I won’t immediately change into sweatpants and pull my hair back in a low ponytail like I’m the backwoods murder suspect in a low-budget crime show reenactment.

Act like a real, functioning human being, I beg myself as I climb the stairs to my apartment. Read a book. For the love of God, read a book!

But sure enough, after five minutes of walking around my apartment, pretending I’m not about to do exactly what I’m about to do, I do it.

I change into sweatpants, pull my hair back in a low ponytail, open the bottle of wine, not bothering to get a glass, and sit on the couch. I reach for the remote to put something on TV, but “accidentally” grab my phone instead.

Sam texted me again last weekend. He wrote, Annie . . .

I was with Sophie, so I didn’t respond. But I’m not with her now.

I know I shouldn’t talk to him. It’s better for me not to. A few days this past week, I woke up, and he wasn’t the first thing I thought about. I didn’t open my eyes and instantaneously feel the crushing ache that reminds me I’m without him. One day, I didn’t even think about him until I was eating my lunch, picking the crusts off of my uninspired turkey-and-mayo sandwich, something he used to criticize me for.

“The crusts won’t kill you!” he’d say.

“Where’s your proof?” I’d ask.

He’d groan. “It’s wasteful.”

“I give them to you,” I say. “No waste.”

As I sat there decrusting my sandwich, I wondered if he’d known that one day he wouldn’t be around to eat them. Maybe that was why he objected so strongly.