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She finally stares directly at me. “You don’t look it to me.”
We’re both silent. I try to analyze her expression for a clue into her thoughts. Her demeanor is different again; more confident than usual.
Maybe she does want me.
She speaks again. “You look very handsome.”
My hands are gripping my script tighter now. I want to respond, but the weight of her eyes has rendered me speechless. Why is she saying these things? Has she changed her mind? I know she understands what I’m looking for. Just something casual. Does she want that now too? Why else would she be acting this way?
Gradually, she lowers her hands from my hat and rests them on my shoulders. She sucks her bottom lip into her teeth as she trains her eyes on my chest and begins to trail her fingers along the outsides of my arms.
My heart stops. Goosebumps threaten to rise on the skin where she touches me. It’s a gentle, languid, soft stroke. I want it—need it—so badly. But nothing about this makes sense.
“What are you doing?” I ask quietly.
Her hands pause and she blinks rapidly for a drawn-out stretch of seconds. I think maybe she will admit her change of heart right here.
“I don’t know,” she finally whispers, closing her eyes.
I wait a beat, hoping she will continue, but she remains still, with her hands still on my triceps.
“Sophie?” I ask, a bit less hesitant than before.
She drops her hands and shakes her head. “I don’t know, ok? I don’t know.” She stands quickly and shifts in place, staring at me. She has one hand on her hip as she breathes a little heavier.
I raise an eyebrow.
“What?” She presents her palms like she doesn’t want to try explaining herself.
“You’re the one stroking my biceps. I think that’s my question,” I reply.
“I’m sorry,” she mutters. “Something…came over me.”
I raise an eyebrow again. “Something came over you?”
She exhales loudly, looking at the ground. “I don’t know. Forget it. I’m not really sure.”
I cross my arms and sit back on the sofa, watching her. “This, thing, that came over you; is it because of our love scene this week?”
She blushes, studying her shoes as if the answers are written on them. “I don’t know…”
“Sophie?” I ask again.
“I suppose, maybe so.” It’s barely a whisper.
Her responses are so vague and imprecise. But her body language tells me the story she tries to hide.
“Did it…give you a new perspective?” I continue carefully.
“I don’t know.” It’s her favorite phrase of the evening.
I take a deep breath, trying to collect myself. The sixteen-year-old me might actually get his wish. “You’re gonna have to be more specific than that.”
She lifts her gaze to mine. “What did you think of it?”
Now, I want to tell her how badly I want her, but I know I have to word my response carefully, respectfully. I still owe her my promise, if that’s what she wants. So I shrug my shoulders. “It was a scene. I was being William. That’s all it was to me.”
Lies. So many lies.
