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There were hints of this version of Sophie earlier today in her office. Flirty. Slightly feisty. Office Sophie is proper and poised and she keeps her cards pressed firmly against her ample bosom. Wine Sophie is brazen and doesn’t speak to me like I’m some sixteenth century guillotine-happy king.
I picture her tossing back her unpretentious wine, grinning drunkenly as she taps out her messages. No one but Broderick has ever spoken to me with such blatant casualness before, and I fucking love it.
ME: I didn’t randomly choose you. You stood up for me in the break room. You got my attention, whether you wanted to or not. And when I looked into your file, I knew there was something different about you. You’re not like anyone else. Also the fact that you turned down seventeen million dollars, tells me you know your worth.
She still hasn’t officially accepted my second offer, but the clock is still running. Broderick gave her seventy-two hours on this one. We wanted her to have the weekend to think it over.
SOPHIE: Thank you for the flattery and the kind words, but I’m still not going to marry you or be your fake fiancée or have your baby. Also, I’m exactly like everyone else.
A second later, a photo comes through—a selfie of Sophie with her blonde locks in a messy bun piled high on her head, a lime green mud mask covering her pretty face, and a wine chalice pressed against her fuckable, full mouth.
I chuckle.
Smart ass.
I’ve received millions of “selfies” in my day—never anything as wholesome—or unsexy—as this.
ME: You have no idea how turned on I am right now … please send more.
SOPHIE: Despite my education and extensive list of accomplishments and references, at the end of the day, I’m as basic as the next girl.
ME: There’s nothing basic about you, Sophie Bristol.
I love her name, the way it rolls off my tongue when I say it out loud. But Sophie Westcott sounds even better. There’s a ring to it. A rhythm.
SOPHIE: All joking aside, you only see what you want to see when you look at me. And my resume? It’s a small drop of water in the ocean of my complexities.
ME: Poetic. Also, how can you be basic and simultaneously complex?
SOPHIE: I write poetry. See? That’s not on my resume. And plenty of basic women write poems. Sometimes we sketch too. And listen to music that makes us cry. It’s a whole thing. Also, we have a group that meets on Wednesdays. At Starbucks. We get matching pink drinks.
ME: Send me some of your work.
She sends me three laughing emojis—the ones with tears.
ME: I mean it. I’ll forward it to our publishing division.
SOPHIE: Your publishing division doesn’t publish poetry. Only commercial fiction. The kind that makes insane money … $$$$$$$$$$.
ME: Then I’ll add a poetry imprint.
SOPHIE: You’re too much.
ME: And apparently not enough.
My phone stops buzzing with texts. Either I’ve got her tongue or she passed out from all that “dessert” wine.
I wait a while longer before heading to bed. It’s enough for tonight.
We’re making progress.
It’s only a matter of time.
Twelve
Sophie
Present
Oh my god.
I wake on the couch Saturday morning with a throbbing head and immediately reach for my phone, poring over the drunken text messages I exchanged with Westcott last night.
“No.” I clamp a hand over my mouth when I realize none of it was a dream.
I can’t believe I was so casual with him …
I sent him a selfie …
And used emojis …
Also, I think I flirted with him a little? No—there’s no “think” about it. I definitely flirted.
Two wine bottles rest on my coffee table—one empty, one half full. I don’t always drink like that, but yesterday was the anniversary of a day that changed my life, and I wanted to zone out to silence those painful memories.
I re-read the messages, cringing, and then I tap out a quick text, my thumb hovering over the ‘send’ button until I delete the whole thing.
Half of me wants to apologize and explain that I wasn’t myself last night. The other half of me knows he’s going to see it as an invitation to keep his foot in the door of my life.
And what’s going to happen come Monday when I’m back in the office? I’ve always prided myself on being professional, keeping my workplace persona top notch. He’s officially seen the other side of me. The side I share with friends and family and people whose electronic signatures don’t grace my paycheck every other week.
I’m damned if I say something, damned if I don’t.
I type out a second message and scan it over three times before changing my mind and deleting it all. I’m not going to say anything to him. I’ll wait until Monday and I’ll apologize in person for being so off-the-cuff. I’ll tell him I hope I didn’t give him the wrong idea about … us.
