Page 52 of All Our Almosts

“Okay. I guess I should put on a shirt anyway,” I laugh.

And it’s like Andy forgot I was sitting here in my bra until that moment. I thought he just wasn’t interested, but now…

The full weight of his attention drags down, from my face, to my neck, then lower. His dark eyes are blown black, his chest lifting and falling with each controlled breath.

Every inch of my skin feels flushed, but trapped as I am in the lock of his gaze, I don’t want to cover up. I want him to see me.

I want him to want me.

He lowers to his knees before me, and it feels like anything could happen. The calm before the storm, the stillness before the dive. His eyes fix on my ribs, where a smudge of blood remains. Holding the washcloth, he raises a hand and drags it over the mark, featherlight, just skimming the underside of my bra as he wipes away the stain.

I inhale sharply at his touch—I can’t help it. And that seems to break the trance.

Andy stands abruptly, clearing his throat. “I’ll uh—I’ll go get that ibuprofen.” He takes a few stumbling steps backwards towards the bathroom before finally looking away.

As soon as the bathroom door shuts behind him, I bolt up and into my room.

Pajamas. I need pajamas. I need extremely unsexy pajamas. I don’t know what’s happening right now but I’m too exhausted and tipsy to figure it out.

I find a pair of oversized Ashmore sweats and a long sleeve NPR t-shirt. Perfectly schlubby. And as I work to pull them on—which is not easy with a tender new arm injury—I convince myself that what just happened was not weird. It doesn’t mean Andy has figured out I’m into him, and it also doesn’t mean he’s into me. It means emotions are high and we’re drunk and not in our right minds.

It takes ten—ten!—anchoring breaths before I’m ready to open my bedroom door again.

“Wow,” I say as I enter the living room, declaring my presence, “getting dressed is not easy like this.”

Andy is sitting on the couch. He pats the seat beside him, where he’s thoughtfully laid out painkillers and a glass of water. I take a seat and take the pills, and only once I’ve swallowed them down does he say, “Sophie, I have to know. What happened back there? With Elliot?”

His question hits me like a tidal wave, pulling the events of the night over my head to drown me. I feel my chin start to quiver, and bury my face behind my hands before Andy can see me cry.

Immediately he’s there, wrapping his arms around me and tucking me against his chest. “Shit, I’m sorry. We don’t have to talk about it.”

And then he just holds me. He holds me there against his chest for I don’t know how long, letting me cry, stroking my hair, rubbing circles across my back.

Poor Andy. I never cry in front of other people—really, I hate feeling like the one other people have to take care of—but somehow I always end up crying in front of him.

As soon as I can gather myself a bit, I sit up and wipe my palms over my cheeks. “I guess this is what I get for ignoring our problems for so long.” My feeble laughter doesn’t stick. “This is what I get for just… wanting someone to love me.”

There’s a pause, then Andy says quietly, “I love you, Soph.”

“I know,” I say, letting myself curl back towards his chest. “But I want someone to be in love with me. I want…” But I don’t know how to explain it in a non-pathetic way, so I just let it drop.

“Elliot was in love with you for a long time,” Andy offers. “He probably still is. You’re… very easy to love.”

“You know what’s really sad? I honestly don’t think he was. If he loved me...” I trail off again.

“What?”

“You want to know why we broke up?” I ask. “It’s not even dramatic or interesting. It wasn’t his comment about not dating hot girls at the karaoke bar—though that did make me want to jump off a bridge. And it wasn’t the fact that we hardly saw each other anymore because he was always at work or with his friends or doing something else that didn’t include me. We were talking about my grad school applications, and I mentioned that if I don’t get into Ashmore again we might have to move to California. Which he knew! He was there when I decided what schools to apply to. We talked all about it and he said my list sounded great to him. But that day he just scoffed and said we weren’t going to uproot our lives and move to California for—and I quote—my hobby.”

“Your hobby?”

“He basically said that a PhD was nice if I wanted it, but that my first priority was going to have to be our kids in a few years, so it wasn’t worth moving for. Like, even though I had never said anything about being a stay-at-home mom, he just assumed I would do it because that’s what he wanted. And he was so condescending and horrible about it. He was like, ‘well it’s not like you have a serious career anyway.’ And it was like… oh my god, who have I been with for three years? Do we even know each other? Like I suddenly realized I had spent all this time with a guy who didn’t share my values or my interests. He didn’t even like how I looked. He just thought I was easy. An easy option to get to the life he envisioned for himself.” More tears are falling now, but they’re angry tears, so I angrily wipe one away. “Maybe I should just accept that people only like the easy part of me. The part that always makes jokes and diffuses tension and is okay with everything. Maybe I’m just this superficial, party trick of a person.”

“Sophie…”

“That’s how it was with my parents after their divorce. They were so mad all the time that there was no room for me to be anything but alright. And I love them and wanted to make things better, so that was fine. I could play that role. I could be happy no matter what. But somehow it feels worse when it happens in my relationships. I love so hard and try so hard and they just… don’t. They just think I’ll be fun and fine and an easy lay until something better comes along.”

I feel him squeeze me tighter to his chest, and I know he doesn’t know what to say when I get like this but I can’t stop.