Page 19 of Chasing Sophia

“I want to eat what you made.” I can’t pull my gaze away from him and notice the way his eyes widen in surprise.

“It’s not worth eating, firecracker.”

“My boyfriend doesn’t do anything half-assed, so I know he’s spent a hell of a lot of time arranging all this for me.” I wave my hand around us. “I’m not going to let his hard work go to waste.”

“Your sweetness will someday kill me.” Asher groans as I cut a piece of the charred pancake and put it into my mouth. He cringes, making me smile some more.

“It’s… good, actually. I mean, the batter is good.”

“Yeah, the measuring part was easy. It was the cooking part that turned out to be the bane of my existence.” He shakes his head before glaring at the burnt food, as if it was the pancake’s fault that it didn’t jump off the flame at the right moment.

“Come with me.” My steps come to a halt at the kitchen doorway. “Okay, I’ll show you tomorrow how you clean the kitchen as you go, because believe me, entering a messy kitchen is almost as bad as sleeping hungry.”

I quickly make space on the counter while intermittently looking at Asher, who’s preparing the batter with a precision of a heart surgeon performing a procedure. When I turn the flame on, he starts to back away, but I pull him closer. “You are not running away, mister. I’ll show you one, and then you’ll make the rest.”

And when Asher places the last pancake onto the table, any thoughts I had of him being anything other than my wonderful boyfriend are gone.

10

SOPHIA

“Best of luck,sweetheart. You’re going to be amazing.” My grip on the phone tightens, and I wish Asher was here in person and I wasn’t just hearing his voice on the phone. As if he can hear my unspoken words, he says, “I’ll be there, Soph. I’ll be watching you play from the front row.”

“Thank you so much.” My voice shakes as I end the call. I get dressed into my blue silk dress, which I purchased two years ago for such special occasions. My hands shake as I french braid my hair, as I do for all performances. I hate the locks sticking at my face while playing. I’ve never felt this nervous before. I remind myself that it’s better to perform bad than not perform at all, because the way my pulse escalates, I feel like I’ll pass out at any moment.

After grabbing my handbag, I leave the house.

“Are you nervous?”A sax performer asks, wiping his forehead with a pocket square.

“A little.” I hate the tremble in my voice.

You’re not a wuss for fuck’s sake, Soph. You’re a fighter. You’re a—

“It’s my first time.” The young man interrupts my mental pep talk and then cringes immediately. “I mean… my first performance.”

“You’ll do great.” My nervousness calms, knowing I’m not alone, until Nicoleta walks in wearing a pale blue dress and her hair in a french braid exactly like mine.

“Are you performing together?” The sax player, whose name I never caught, asks as Nicoleta throws me a wry smile.

Before I can say anything, she replies to him. “No. I’m performing before her.” She turns to me. “I don’t know how many people will be looking forward to another pianist after me, Soph.”

Watching the expression of pity on her face, unhealthy anger rushes throughout my body. Undesirable thoughts of Nicoleta meeting an accident right before her performance hit me like a blizzard, leaving me with a feeling of guilt in their wake.

“Don’t worry, tonight I’m playing for Asher.” As soon as the words leave my mouth, energy shoots like sparks, flowing throughout my veins. The fear and anger are replaced by anticipation.

Asher will be in the first seat, just for me. That’s what matters and nothing else. Not the crowd, and definitely not Nicoleta.

The dry smile slips from Nicoleta’s face for a second. “I must say, I’m envious of you. Asher seems to be a complete package. Where did you find him anyway? It would be hard to ignore a man like him in St. Peppers.”

“I think what’s meant for us finds us. You don’t always have to go hunting, or imitating.”

Her laughter is still echoing in the green room when one of the organizers rushes inside. He holds a small box and, with shaking hands, attempts to pry off the tight golden latch unsuccessfully. “I can’t believe he’s here.”

“Mr. Kaufmann, do you need help?” I reach him before he passes out.

He nods, handing me the soft blue velvet. “Mr. Miller is here. He RSVPed, but we weren’t sure.”

My gasp is loud at the sight of a shiny sapphire lapel pin.

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