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More questions rise to my tongue. About how she met Percy. What she studied. How her life led her here, to my conference room past nine at night, eating takeout.
But that would be crossing the line, and I’ve spent my entire career avoiding that.
“Interesting,” I say, and finish the last of my wine.
She clears her throat. “I’m sorry for staying so late. I’ll work mostly out of Exciteur’s offices going forward, now that we’ve had the full tour.”
“You’re welcome here whenever,” I say. “After all, you need to learn the ins and outs of the Winter brand, to do your job well. Don’t you?”
Her eyes sparkle. “Yes, I suppose I do.”
4
SOPHIA
All the walls in my apartment are beige. It’s the off-white that’s too off to be called white, and the brown that’s too light to be called brown.
It’s also a color too plain to be called a color.
I lean back against my couch and look at the absence of art on my living room wall. Six months of living here, and I haven’t made any of the changes I’d planned to.
There’d been a frenzied week of attempts. Hanging my favorite paintings in my bedroom—check. Asking the landlord if I could repaint the kitchen—check. Receiving no for an answer—check.
The place is too new to have any character yet. I’d loved that when I desperately needed out of the apartment I’d shared for years with Percy.
That place had enough character to choke me. Two generations of Brownes had lived in it before us. And I’d loved it. The windows overlooking the park, the wainscoting on the walls, the wallpaper in the guest bathroom.Mine.Expect it hadn’t been.
My name might have been added on the door for a few years, but it was sure as hell not on the deed.
But this beige place ismine, plain as it might be. Milo jumps up on the couch beside me. He walks carefully around my tray, paw over paw, ignoring the leftovers of my pasta.
“Hey,” I murmur and stretch out a hand. He rubs his head against it, soft and insistent. “How many mice did you catch today?”
Milo starts to purr.
“Not a single one today either, huh. I’m sorry.” I scratch under his chin. “My sister says your mom is an excellent mouser. You should be living with them, you know, and not here in this apartment with me. You must think you’re the unluckiest cat in the world.”
He presses his front paws against my thigh and stretches big and long, his gray-striped body going fluid, the picture of feline contentment.
“I’ll bring you with me when I go back upstate next time,” I tell him. “Our little experiment will be over by then.”
But I lift him onto my lap regardless. He’s a soft, warm weight, the damn cat, and not for the first time, I thank my sister’s stubbornness in giving him to me.
I’d told Rose I was barely looking after myself, and she’d looked at me as if to sayyes, exactly. That’s why.She had added triumphantly, as if it would win the argument, that “you always loved cats as a little girl!”
Yes,I’d told her.But I also loved pink ribbons and lollipops and ponies.
“Just take him,” she’d said, in the tone my little sister used when she didn’t want you to argue.
And that had been that.
Milo burrows his head against my fluffy sweater and his purring vibrates from his body into mine. At least there’s someone who wants to spend their evenings with me.
My friends from college are nonexistent. With all my focus on my career, and then my marriage, we’ve grown apart. And the friends I made through my marriage? Gone.
I try to focus on the TV. I’ve put on an old romantic comedy, a classic, but it’s not holding my attention. It’s like beautifully, occasionally outdated, background music to my overthinking.
I lean my head back against the couch. The Winter pitch has occupied more of my time this week than any of my other projects. There’s something about it that demands excellence.
