Page 67 of The First Time I Saw You
‘Well. We were starting to think that you had disappeared from the face of the earth. Do you have any clue how many Sophie Williamses there are on Facebook and Twitter?’
I don’t know how to respond to this. Questions flit behind my nervous fingers as they twist the napkin between my hands. A waitress appears at his side and he orders a Diet Coke. I shake my head and reach for the sparkling water that I have been nursing for the past twenty minutes. ‘Samuel tried so hard to find you. I never quite understood why he would want to after you left him again.’
‘I didn’t steal his idea if that’s what you think.’ This comes out abruptly, and I wish I could suck the words back in. Nerves are fuelling my defensive nature.
‘I know. Sammy put up quite a good defence of your honour. But he wasn’t the one who threw you to the wolves, either. You broke him when you left. Do you know that?’
‘I had no choice,’ I reply as I feel the first hot sting of tears behind my eyes; ready to fall but not yet released.
‘Yes, you did.’ I flinch but he isn’t looking at me; he’s gazing around the room as if there are more important things on offer.
‘I thought that he had . . . got his own back, that—’ My words don’t flow from my mouth as they should, but instead they tumble out in a disorganised heap, landing on the floor like wet washing from a machine.
‘Then you don’t know him at all.’ He looks me straight in the eye; his words are crisp and neat, the edges sharp.
My hand reaches for my glass. My nails are short; my rings are still in my jewellery box at home now that my fingers have swollen. Bret is still referring to Samuel in the present and I take comfort in this small mistake. I take a sip of water and Bean fidgets against the coolness of the liquid.
‘I know what you must think of me, but please understand that, that he did mean a lot to me. I was devastated when I heard about the accident. I cared for Samuel, very much.’ Bret leans back, appraising me.
‘You know about the accident?’ he asks, his voice catching. This is obviously something that hurts him.
‘A little. I read it in a newspaper article . . .’ My words are controlled, not betraying the feeling inside. They don’t give a glimpse into the way that beneath them, my skin feels like it’s peeling away from my bones.
‘A newspaper article?’
‘In theWashington Post. There was an explosion, it said?’ My mouth is dry and I take another sip of water.
‘There was. He hadn’t lit the gas hob, it had been leaking gas for well over an hour before the spark from the light switch lit it. He was thrown from the room and knocked unconscious. His neighbour dragged him free.’
‘I told him that needed fixing,’ I say; the phrase sounds annoyed, not regretful. ‘Was he burnt?’
‘Yes.’ I bite the inside of my lip. I can’t taste the blood; I can’t taste anything other than guilt.
‘Did he suffer?’
‘Yes.’
‘When did he . . . when did Samuel go back to Ireland?’
‘You know he’s in Ireland, but you haven’t been in touch? What do you want, Sophie?’ he asks, folding his arms across his chest.
‘I want to say goodbye, I want to say sorry and I want to get on with the rest of my life.’
‘And what if he doesn’t want your apologies? What if he’s moved on? What if he’s found someone else and—’
‘What do you mean, found someone else?’ Jealousy and confusion battle against each other as the words erupt from my mouth.
‘Samuel is recovering slowly, but—’
‘Recovering?’ I can feel my eyelids blinking, trying to process this information.
‘He was in a neck brace for twelve weeks, so yes,’ he adds impatiently, ‘he’s still recovering, and he is just adjusting—’
‘He’s alive? But I thought . . . I thought he was dead.’ Euphoria and relief fill me: my body contains these emotions; I don’t know how they are still inside of me, but they are.
‘Dead? No. Sammy boy is alive and kicking.’
‘And he’s in Ireland?’ I’m smiling, leaning forward.
