Chapter 18

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Sophie

She doesn't know what to say.

She'd been doing so well until now, she'd thought, acting like everything was fine, like her heart wasn't stammering in her chest every time he looked at her. But this question isn't one she'd been expecting, and the lie doesn't slip as easily off her tongue as it did before. Whether that's because she's not used to lying or because it feels especially wrong lying to him, she doesn't know, but she tries her best to do it anyway.

"I..." she begins, her voice coming out with the husk of uncertainty. Her hands fold together in front of her, fingers fidgeting with each other in slow twists and flicks. At least she'd had a task to distract her before, to make hiding her nervousness a little easier, but now she's left with nothing to do but be all too aware that his eyes are on her. All too aware that she has nothing to hide behind.

She tries to get the rest of the sentence out, but she looks up to see the sky blue of his eyes begging her to be honest with him. It's too much for her to take, and a heavy sigh leaves her as she looks down at her hands again.

"No," she finally relents, feeling her shoulders drop. "I felt fine. Physically, at least." Mentally was a completely different story, of course, but he didn't need to know that. He probably thought she was crazy enough as it is.

He nods like this was the answer he'd been expecting, and he doesn't seem angry or judgmental about it at all, which makes her feel even more guilty about lying to him in the first place. She doesn't know why she's feeling so shy around him still– even more than she had before they'd slept together, oddly enough–and it's a feeling she's trying to fight. Maybe it's that shell that she was telling Cathy about– he's the only person that's seen her pried out of it, and it had slammed shut back around her this morning once she'd seen the empty side of his bed. Now that she's back within it, she's not quite sure how to move. She doesn't know if she's even supposed to be wearing it at all with him anymore, but it's her default state of being so she keeps it anyway.

"I'm sorry for lying to you," she says, and she means it. "I'm not...I don't really know what I'm doing." It's not exactly a prideful admission but it's the truth, and she owes at least that much to him, she guesses, even if he'd left her this morning.

"It's okay," he says, the rasp of his voice kind and patient. It shouldn't surprise her–after all, he'd shown he was more than capable of those things last night–but it still does, somehow, and she doesn't like that she's made so many assumptions about him without really knowing him at all. Most of them seem to be wrong so far. "I don't think anyone ever really knows what they're doing."

His smile is a small twitch at the corner of his mouth, and it makes her own appear in gratitude. He seems to be good at reassuring people, or at the very least reassuring her, and she finds herself admiring the ability.

She picks up the knife and cutting board, turning around to place them in the sink behind her. The sun glints off the blade, casting light leaks across the room, and the sound of it clanking in the sink seems too loud even though she's gentle with its placement.

"Why did you lie to Cathy?" he asks, and she was really hoping he wouldn't. It's an answer she doesn't want to give, and she contemplates feeding him a lie before disregarding it as an option.

"I didn't know how to handle seeing you," she says instead, the admission made quietly to the board in her hand. She rinses it off under a trickle of water before flicking off the faucet, grabbing the dish towel hanging on the bar above it. "Not after..." she shrugs, letting the sentence fill itself in. She quickly swipes the towel over the bamboo before setting it back in its place on the counter, and she grabs the bottle of olive oil from beside it before turning around to the island again.

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