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The realization struck me hard when I clicked on our bedroom light. Sophie wasn’t there, sprawled out on the bed, watching mindless television. And she wasn’t downstairs in the library, hard at work on her book or her videos. She was across an ocean, despising our separation as much as I was. But of the two of us, only one seemed to be under the impression that the other should be patiently waiting until she was needed.
Neil Elwood, you are the biggest idiot who ever lived.
It hadn’t been so long ago that I’d been desperate to be near her, separated by maddening hospital regulations. More than once I’d been gripped with panic, thinking I might die without ever touching her again. I still occasionally woke and reached for her in mindless terror, fearing I was still in that isolation room. That had only been a few months ago, and we were back to the relationship we’d had before the cancer. Me, too busy with work to make time for Sophie except on the occasional evening or weekend. Her, pursuing her own career with a single-minded determination I admired.
And I had been taking her presence in my life entirely for granted.
I went to the master bath. The fluffy pink robe Sophie loved so much still hung on the back of the door. I would have to remember to take it back to New York for her.
In the shower, I thought about Sophie, and not the usual way I thought about her when I was in the shower. I couldn’t begrudge her drive and ambition, no matter how… experimental her career path seemed at the moment. In my twenties, I’d based all my job prospects on what superficial title would grant me access to unlimited cocaine, so she was fairing far better than I had.
Sophie would never be a woman content to stay at home waiting for me, and that arrangement wouldn’t make me happy, either. I wanted to see Sophie achieve success the way her relatives wanted to see the Packers win a Super Bowl.
Surely she would be better equipped to focus on job concerns if she had more support at home?
There was a solution to my dilemma, but it wasn’t one I cared to admit to myself just yet.
I dressed for my dinner with Emir the way I would for any casual dinner with an acquaintance. I wore a white oxford shirt, dark slate trousers, and a pair of my favorite black alligator loafers. Sophie frequently mocked my shoe collection; she didn’t understand the fundamental truth that more shoes were preferable to fewer shoes. I found that rather surprising, taking into account her fashion journalism career.
Jumpy with nerves, I took a deep breath and checked myself over in the full-length mirror. “All right, old man. This is the best you can do.”
The bell rang over the intercom. He was here. I hadn’t felt quite this nervous in a while. The last time had been the night Sophie had first come to my apartment to stay the weekend. I’d been nervous for another reason, then. I’d been so in love with her, desperate not to fuck anything up. I didn’t need to impress Emir; I knew who he was, he knew who I was, and we knew what we wanted from each other.
Outside of the lifestyle, Emir was El-Mudad ibn Farid ibn Abdel Ati, a socially connected billionaire who flaunted his family money in a way that was only just this side of propriety. He raced cars. He owned expensive motorcycles. His yacht was like something out of a Bond movie. Emir made Richie Branson look like a stuffy old man.
Though I didn’t feel the need to awe him with my wealth or charm— we’d been in a threesome together, so we were quite past getting to know each other— I did worry that without Sophie’s youthful exuberance, I wouldn’t seem cool enough. I’d always thought of myself as being fairly hip, but living with a woman who routinely masked her looks of horror when I didn’t know the name of some former Disney channel star had somewhat shaken that self-confidence.
At least we’d most likely be talking about cars.
The intercom beeped, and I hurried over to hit the button. Before the staff member on the other end spoke, I said, “Thank you, I heard the bell. Please show my guest to the dining room.”
“Very good, sir,” Matthew answered. “What shall I tell him?”
“Tell him that I’ll be down presently.” I released the button, checked my hair one last time in the small mirror on the wall by the door— a move Sophie consistently chided me for— made sure my fly was closed and my collar open, and headed downstairs.
The dining room was softly lit. I’d preferred low light when recovering from the stem cell transplant, as I’d suffered from photosensitive migraines. Though I was blessedly free from them now, bright indoor lighting seemed garish to me. Unfortunately, Emir didn’t know any of this
, and I panicked at the thought he might assume it had been for some romantic ambience.
So when he stood as I entered, I gave him a firm handshake and a warm smile, no more than I would have done for a business colleague. There. My intentions couldn’t have appeared more platonic.
“Leif.” Emir used my name from the club— it was easier that way, we’d all agreed— and he squeezed my hand with equal, but not competitive, pressure. “So good to see you again.”
“Likewise. Soph— excuse me, Chloe, was disappointed that she couldn’t join us, but we’ve done a fair bit of traveling lately, and she couldn’t stand the thought of another plane. I do hope you understand.”
“Well, our loss, then.”
Emir was thirty-five, tall, dark, and handsome, with perfect teeth and an engaging personality. Though conventional wisdom dictated that I should consider him a threat where Sophie was concerned, it was difficult to dislike the man when he had such genuine affection for her. He was gentle, polite, and damned sexy, and while I had been a touch jealous at seeing my girlfriend splayed over his lap, writhing and moaning, I would much rather have brought a man like Emir into our bed than someone who didn’t appreciate her as much as I did.
“I’m glad to see you looking so well,” Emir continued. “I called once, when you were in the hospital. Chloe said things were… well, she said ‘he’s fucked, and not in the good way.’”
“It was quite hard on her, as well as on me.” I always had the strangest sense of guilt, as though I should apologize for being sick and putting Sophie through all she’d gone through when I’d been ill. It was yet another issue I was working on in therapy. “There’s a bit of a mental toll—”
Shut up! He doesn’t want to hear this! I needed a refresher course in having conversations that didn’t come back to cancer. “But why spoil the night speaking of it?”
Emir nodded his agreement, but said gently, “I hope you realize that my concern is genuine. I like you and Chloe very much.”
“And we’re both very fond of you.” Needing a change of subject, I motioned to the decanter on the table. At his nod of assent, I poured the wine— a fragrant red the kitchen had selected— into his glass before filling my own. “We’re having a lovely meal tonight. My cook is very good.”
