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“What are you doing here?” Eddie asks, smiling widely as we move out of the path of the door to exchange an awkward hug.
I force a lighthearted smile and raise my cup. “Getting coffee?”
He laughs. “No, I know. I meant here, in Bellevue.”
I knew what he meant. I just didn’t feel up to answering his question. “I live here now,” I say reluctantly, hoping that he wouldn’t press further. I don’t want to answer any questions, no matter how well meant, about my life or my failed marriage.
His brows lift questioningly, but he doesn’t press it. “I work here too.” He says, going on to tell me about his new job at an investment firm.
“It sounds interesting.’ Eddie.” I say when he’s done. “I’m happy for you.”
“Thanks.” He nods. “It’s really great to see you again.” He adds earnestly.
Is it? Maybe there’s something wrong with me, but it feels awkward to me. I can hear the questions he’s not asking, and the last thing I want is to have to deal with them.
“I have to go.” I tell him, smiling apologetically as I edge towards the door.
“Oh, right.” He frowns and starts to follow me. “I guess I’ll see you around?”
Ignoring the invitation in his statement, I just smile, wave, and leave him standing there. I’d rather not see him. I’d rather not wonder how long before he asks me what I’m doing in a tiny Bellevue café when I’m supposed to be married to David Preston.
The store is only a short, fifteen-minute walk from the café. Maybe it’s because I ran into Eddie, but as I walk, I start thinking about David again, and that long ago morning back at my apartment in Ashford.
I wonder how things would have turned out if I had let him go, if I hadn’t begged him to take me with him. Would I have forgotten about
him in time, learned to remember him as no more than just the instrument of my sexual awakening? I remember the desperation I felt that morning, the knowledge that if he left, things would never be the same. Those feelings closely echo the yearning I feel now. There’s no way I’d have easily forgotten about him, I realize, then or now.
I’m close to the store when my phone beeps the alert for a text. I reach inside my bag as I walk, and take a quick look, thinking it might be a message from Jan or Larry.
It’s another alert from my bank. The first time David transferred money to me was right after he left me at the hotel. The next transfer came a month later. This is the third one for the same, needlessly large amount.
It should be obvious to him by now that I have no intention of spending his money. I haven’t used the cards he had Steve deliver to me, and I haven’t touched the money paid into my account either.
I feel a faint spurt of annoyance. Is the money his way of paying me off and assuaging his guilt over how he treated me? Does he think the money will ever mean enough for me to forget his cruelty?
The store is still empty when I enter. At my desk, I power on my computer and start to get ready for the day ahead. My movements are practiced and mechanical, my mind shut against the urge I have to pick up my phone and make the call I’ve been dying to make for too long, especially now that I have an excuse.
I manage to control myself. I process the new orders, reply to some of the posts on the Empathy Zone Facebook page, and drink my coffee, all the while thoroughly ignoring my phone.
Jan comes in after about an hour. He’s a tall middle-aged man with a pleasant, slightly lined face, and a very long blond ponytail. He’s the friendly, gregarious one of the duo, and while he waits for Larry to arrive, he spends some time telling me about the glory days of Empathy Zone, when the t-shirts they designed were worn by a couple of movie stars and famous musicians.
Larry arrives, and they both go into the back office. It’s supposed to be their studio where they create intelligent and artistic graphics for new t-shirts, but I soon hear the tell-tale sounds of the video games they’re both addicted to.
I try my best to focus on the things I have to do, and it helps for a while, but later in the day, when most of my work is done, and I have nothing to occupy my mind, it goes back to David, and even though my brain is warning me to control myself, I find my fingers reaching for the beckoning phone.
It’s not only because I want to hear his voice, I tell myself as my fingers dial the familiar numbers on the keypad. It’s not because I miss him. It’s only because I need to tell him that I don’t want his money. That is the only reason why I’m calling.
It suddenly occurs to me that he may not have my new number. What if he doesn’t pick up? I think in panic as the phone starts to ring on the other side. My stomach knots expectantly. My fingers are clammy and trembling, and there’s suddenly not enough air in the room. Maybe I really shouldn’t be doing this, I think frantically, feeling weak as his phone continues to ring. I’m about to stop the call when I hear a small click, and then the voice I’ve been longing to hear for weeks, deep and sensual, just the way I remember, and yet somehow, more incredibly seductive.
“Sophie.” That’s all he says, but in that moment, I completely forget how to breathe.
It’s the way he says my name. I think helplessly as my whole body starts to ache. It feels like a caress, moving from my ears to enfold me like smooth velvet. I feel paralyzed, overwhelmed by emotion. How can he make me feel like this with just one word? I should say something, but I can’t seem to find anything in my head that makes sense, all I want is to hear his voice again.
“Sophie?” He says again. This time it’s a question.
“Hello.” I choke out with a voice that sounds nothing like my own. I’m desperately trying, and failing to get my thoughts and feelings in order. He is silent, but I can imagine him listening, waiting for me to say something. I can imagine the frown on his brow. I can imagine every inch of his beautiful face, his perfect body.
“Sophie, are you all right?”
