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Her responses are simple, almost like Sophie’s, yet so much less endearing. Maureen responds like a five-year-old who didn’t get her way. Sophie responds like an adult with an innocent array of curiosities.
I fold my script in my hands and take a deep breath. “I wasn’t thinking clearly. But I see now that as coworkers, it wouldn’t be good for us to get involved.”
“Oh.” Her voice is so small.
Hating the sound of her disappointment, I look at her again. “I’m sorry.”
She shrugs, lifting her long lashes to blink at me. “It wouldn’t have to be anything serious, you know…”
I hold her gaze for a moment. Here she is, laying herself out for me, willing to be exactly what I told Sophie I wanted. This is what I asked for. She is the perfect catch for the line I’ve been casting out. A year ago, I wouldn’t have hesitated for a second.
Yet here I am, about to decline her.
I take a deep breath, looking back and forth between her sad eyes. I see the outward beauty there. I see the ‘Maureen’ she wants everyone to see. But I can’t see the person behind those eyes. She hasn’t let me go there, and I’m not sure she ever really will.
Actually, I’m not sure I’ll ever want to.
The same analogy continues to plague my mind. Maureen is a bandage to cover a wound. If I continue to seek out enough ‘Maureens,’ I’ll never have to bear the pain of bumping or irritating the injury. But I’m starting to realize that the wound won’t heal on its own that way. It will remain open and raw if I don’t tend to it by some other method.
The revelation seems to be coming to me all at once. Hearing Brent talk about his soon-to-be fiancé, I’m reminded of the deeper, more reflective talks I’ve had with Sophie. They far outweigh any of the conversations I shared with the types of women like Maureen in my life. I didn’t see what was missing when I was with them, but now that I have someone like Sophie to compare them with, I suddenly find it hard to see their value.
The thing is, if I sleep with Maureen, she’ll tell me about her latest shopping spree or the disappointing haircut she received two years ago. If I sleep with Sophie, she’ll tell me about her soul.
“Shit,” I whisper to myself, blinking and looking down at my lap in disbelief. Do I actually want that?
Shit. Maybe I actually do.
“What was that?” Maureen asks, leaning in closer.
I quickly look up at her, having forgotten for a moment that she was there. “I’m sorry, I just…I’m not myself right now.” I glance toward the door to see Sophie returning from an interview. “I think I’m next.”
I stand up before Maureen has a chance to respond. I feel bad that I keep leaving her hanging, but I can’t help myself. She can’t hold my interest like Sophie can.
As I walk out the door, I glance at Sophie. She’s talking to her stylist, smiling and fiddling with the skirt of the dress they’re looking at.
I bite my lip, watching her and considering a possible change of heart. Do I really want to dive into something serious again?
No.
The wall slams up again, surprising me with its strength. The burn of Heather’s betrayal stings harder than ever at the thought. I close my eyes and scowl. The possibility of Sophie betraying me is too much to bear. The prospect of learning her deepest self is enticing to me, but giving her the deepest part of me? Not possible.
It's a mental block that won’t budge. Sophie would need the wall broken down. I know what kind of relationship she’s looking for. She wouldn’t be content with someone whose heart is sealed up so tightly like mine. She’d want more of me. More than I have to give. And if I couldn’t, she might leave. That stings the most; the fear that she would move on if I couldn’t give her enough of me. What’s the purpose of trying if failure seems so probable?
I’m beginning to realize that we are coming back around to the same problem we’ve had all along. We’re nowhere closer to finding common ground. Maybe I’m starting to see that I could benefit from something marginally more serious than my usual fare of one-night stands, but not with Sophie. That’s too far a leap to jump.
I look at her again. She’s distracted, ignoring me from just a few yards away. And she’s fed up with me anyway. I probably burned that bridge Saturday night with my attitude, so I’ll have to just thank her for opening my eyes to this small baby step in the right direction. The best choice for both of us will be to move on.
I nod, accepting my internal admission just before she looks at me. I smile lightly at her. I pretend like her eyes aren’t the smoothest, richest honey I’ve ever seen. I pretend my heart isn’t starting to race, just seeing her gaze reflect mine. I pretend I don’t care to see the deepest parts of her and show her the deepest parts of me. I pretend to be happy to just be her friend, and I pretend to hope that she will be happy with that too.
***
At the end of the day, I throw my bag over my shoulder and step out of my dressing room and into the hallway. I have to get back to my hotel room and prepare for Nick’s birthday outing. And I have to find Maureen and share a cab with her. I scrunch my nose at the thought.
I walk slowly down the corridor, trying to plan my eventual excuse to leave the club early, when I hear voices nearby. I come around the corner to see Nick and Sophie standing in the center of the hallway. He has his fingers wrapped around her wrist and he’s speaking very close to her face.
“You look really pretty today, you know that, Soph?” He’s blinking longingly at her, and she’s trying to free her wrist from his hand.
“Nick, I’ll see you at the club in a while, ok?” She steps away, still pulling at his grip.
