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There is none, which is suspicious. I haven’t said anything to her about running into Oliver two days ago, or about the time I spent with him yesterday. And I most certainly haven’t mentioned his job offer.
I finish getting dressed and go find her in our little kitchen, which we’ve been trying to remodel for years. I glance at the half-done, coral subway tile backsplash. It’s going to look great…eventually. Maybe the income from working with Oliver will speed up the process.
“Tate? As in, Oliver?” I know Claire’s staring at me, but I busy myself by rummaging around the contents of our refrigerator.
“Tate, as in, the company that builds resorts,” I correct. I take a deep breath. May as well go for it, like a band-aid, right off. “They hired me to curate their resort library.” I refrain from telling her about my disappointment in its size.
“What? When?” She stares at me open-mouthed. Even though she’s younger than me, she’s the taller one. Her nose is longer and more graceful. Her hair is curly like mine, but a lighter shade of brown.
I grab a bag of baby carrots and turn to her.
“He saved me from Troy’s dad.” I laugh as I finally break, telling her about his catching me crawling on my hands and knees, about riding in his car, and that Troy’s father finally found us.
“I’m so glad you said no about chairing Longdale Days, Soph. That would have been a nightmare—for me, mostly.”
“I wouldn’t have asked you to do much.” Even as I say it, I know that’s not fully true.
Claire gives me a look that reminds me of a warden telling an inmate not to touch the glass partition between the calling booths. “I’ve lived with you when you’ve had projects like that. It’s a nightmare.”
“Well, you’re in luck because I said no.”
“Troy’s dad is just…yuck.”
“Agreed.”
“I’m glad you gave up the bad habit that was Troy.”
I am, too. More than I can express. But that doesn’t mean I’m happy about Claire’s negative comments about him the entire time we were dating. She was right, but it would have been nice to get support from her, regardless of her personal feelings about Troy.
“So, Oliver just up and asked you to work for him, huh?”
“Temporarily. It’s not a big deal.” I wave her away and stuff my mouth full of a ranch-dipped carrot.
The tilt of Claire’s head tells me she’s not buying that. “Please keep your wits about you.”
I choose naivete. “My wits? I’m not going to blow the budget over graphic novels and board books.” I’m back in the fridge, grabbing a couple of slices of turkey from the deli bag.
“That’s not what I mean, and you know it.” Now Claire’s got her arms crossed over her chest. Her voice is soft. She reminds me of mom in this pose, level-headed, bossy, but with a gentle demeanor that makes it impossible for me to be mad at her for too long. I almost wish she’d get upset or something. Then it would be easier to feel justified in my frustration.
When I don’t respond on account of the turkey I’m devouring, she carries on. “Many a woman has had a hard time being…smart…around the Tate men. You deserve better, Sophie. Oliver Tate can’t give you what you need.”
I sigh and squeeze my eyes shut. “And what is it you think I need, Claire?”
The sound of her voice tells me she’s stepped closer to me. “A stable man who appreciates you and…all your…quirks.” That last word is said louder and at a higher pitch.
That’s what I want. Of course I do. I’m pretty sure that’s what my mom wanted, too. But she didn’t get it. She got a man who turned out to be unstable. He didn’t appreciate or want her, or my sister, or me.
And after the debacle that was Troy, I’m not sure I can trust myself. I was heading straight down that road with him that was devoid of the sorts of feelings I’d always knew—innately—I deserved. I was fixing to commit without that real and abiding feeling of love. What kind of woman does that? Someone who can’t be trusted to make good decisions about herself and her own life, that’s who.
Add in my persistent attraction to Oliver and I’m really, really not trusting myself these days.
But I can’t say all of this to Claire right now. We’re both in a mood. “Noted.” I give one nod, take a last bite of turkey, and step into the mud room to put on my shoes: my old Mary Janes, a scuffed, dull red.
“And you’re going to this new temporary job wearing these clothes, why? You look like you’re ready to go to work in a factory…” She glances at my feet. “In odd, used-to-be nice shoes.”
I shudder but tell myself to stick to my resolve and not change out of my old, baggy jeans. “First you tell me not to fall for the Tates and then you mock my choice of clothing designed to help me not fall for them?” I snort and sling my little canvas bag that doubles as a purse over my shoulder.
Claire’s hair swings around as she goes to open the door for me. “Gotcha. If you’re going for the look that says, ‘please don’t notice me,’ you’ve made the perfect choice.”
