Cackle(76)

“Hey, Sophie,” I say. I want to get it out while I still have the nerve.

“Darling,” she says, drying her hands on the air. She points to the table. There are two cups of coffee and a glass of water beside a small vial of something. “Let’s sit.”

The chairs pull out for us. I lower myself down. I keep forgetting about my hangover. It keeps reminding me. My head throbs.

“Ginger concentrate,” she says, tapping the vial with a long nail. “Will make you feel better.”

“Right. Thank you. So, Sophie . . .”

“I know you’re not fine, pet. I’m sure yesterday was difficult,” she says, playing with the steam rising from her coffee. She forms it into the shape of a doe, and it runs around in a circle before disappearing. “I don’t understand the point of it. Valentine’s, whatever. But I imagine for you, it was something like picking at a scab. You were upset. Are upset. I can smell your distress, darling.”

What does distress smell like? Like whiskey and BO?

“I’ve made it so you feel you can’t talk to me about Sam”—she pauses to shake off her revulsion at having to speak his name—“and while I don’t approve of falling into complete despair over someone who hurt you, I suppose I can understand occasionally lamenting the loss of what once was. Memories have their purpose, and nostalgia is not a danger in small doses. It can be good to remember what has made us who we are, to reflect on what has made us stronger.”

She reaches across the table for my hand.

“You never have to hide your feelings from me, pet. I apologize if I’ve ever led you to believe otherwise.”

If last night didn’t happen, if Nadia didn’t reach out to confirm the eerie accuracy of the psychic, if I didn’t go in search of liquor and stumble upon that conversation, if Sam didn’t tell me that he missed me, maybe Sophie’s words would be a salve. But now I can’t get past my suspicion. I can’t silence the constant hiss of doubt.

“Sophie,” I say, making my voice soft as baby skin, “I appreciate you coming by, but you have nothing to apologize for. I’m not upset, really. I just overindulged last night. I made myself dinner and cake and I went too hard on the whiskey. I’m sorry I didn’t come by. I didn’t mean to worry you. But I’ve got a pretty bad headache that I think I need to sleep off. I think I want to take it easy for the rest of the weekend. Hang here. Alone.”

“Oh,” she says. A coldness sweeps across her face. All of the color and kindness about her drains in an instant. Then an inkling of a smirk appears at the corner of her mouth. “All right, pet.”

In spite of my doubts, I don’t want her to be mad at me. It’s a horrible feeling. It’s unbearable.

“I’m sorry,” I say. “Maybe next weekend.”

“Maybe,” she says, gathering her cloak. “Maybe.”

She leans toward me and clamps her hand around my chin. She looks at me, through me. I feel her gaze deep in the back of my skull.

Then she kisses me gently on the forehead.

She runs the back of her hand along my cheek. She turns to leave. She’s at the door when she stops and says, “I almost forgot.”

She reaches into the dark depths of her cloak.

“I brought a gift.”

She produces a black satin pouch.

“For a very good boy.”

She sets the pouch down on the coffee table and leaves without another word.

When I hear the second door shut, I get up and go to the front window to watch her walk down the street. I wait until she disappears before I collapse back onto the couch with a big sigh of relief.

Ralph is on the coffee table peeking into the black satin pouch.

“What you got there?” I ask him.

I look. It’s dead flies.

“You’re spoiled,” I tell him, pouring out a few.

I watch him eat. When he’s done, he gives a little burp and promptly falls asleep on the arm of the couch.

I get up and drink some water. I eat peanut butter on bread while standing in the kitchen, willing my hangover to subside.

I return to the couch, licking peanut butter from my fingers.

I check my phone.

I have a message from Sam. It reads Annie.

Yes, I reply.

I really do miss you.

Ralph stirs at the sound of the text, but then yawns and rolls over onto his back, snoozing through it. Which is lucky, because he’s usually very diligent about policing any communication I have with Sam.

I take my phone into the bedroom and close the door as quietly as possible. I get in bed under the covers. I read and reread the texts.

What would it be like if Sam and I had never broken up? If we decided to work on things. If we sought couples counseling. Why didn’t we do that? Why didn’t I ask? Why was I so afraid to fight for what I wanted?

In some other timeline, in some alternate reality, I’m back in our apartment and we’re waiting for takeout, watching old cartoons. We’re playing with each other’s hands like we used to when we first started dating.

Why did we ever stop doing that, and why did it become so impossible to start again?

Maybe these months apart have been good for us. Maybe he’s learned to appreciate me, and I’ve learned how to be more self-sufficient, and maybe now things will work.