Sophie's Smile: A Novel (26 page)

And, just on cue, I received a text from the man I was falling in love with:

Thank you for the gift and card. You are becoming so special to
me,
I only wish I could do even more.

I grinned, more confident now than I’d ever been on my feelings for Liam.
How could anyone resist?

37

Pulling out the clean and hot load of fluffy whites, I wondered what Liam was doing at this very instant. Every time I thought of him I smiled. Tiff usually gagged—probably jealous every time I talked about him and all the sweet things he did for me. Of course she was thrilled for me, but I couldn’t help but hear the edge of jealousy that caught in her voice every now and again. It made me feel good. I felt good. I finally felt complete somehow.
Whole.

Excitedly, I headed back to my computer to see if he might be by his. I couldn’t wait to see him tonight. Maybe I’d finally be able to take down my guard and share my feelings with him…maybe.

Itchy Bonsai (11:13:54 AM): Sophie
are
you there?

Pinkie16 (11:32:41 AM): Hi

Itchy Bonsai (11:37:02 AM): Oh good. I was wondering what time you wanted to get together…like 6?

Pinkie16 (11:37:16 AM): Yea 6 works

Itchy Bonsai (11:37:59 AM): great can’t wait, see you round, beautiful

Liam picked me up at six o’clock—I loved that he was punctual—and right before I greeted him, I strategically wafted a spray of perfume over me.

“Hi, Beautiful!”
His hold on me lingered as his nose made note of the familiar scent. “
Mmmm
, you
smell
good,” his eyes knowingly commented on what he detected was a successful gift.

“Thanks, so do you.” And he did smell wonderful, like Dove soap.

Leading me to his car and opening the door like he always did, he said, “So, I’m going to be cooking for you this evening.”

“Really?”

“Yes, so be prepared to be wowed,” he laughed then—his eyes twinkling, cheeks flushed, and lips spread into a wide joking smile—and oh, how it sent a flutter to my stomach. I loved his laugh and his weird sense of humor.

In a way, his humor was slightly off; there was something slightly devilish in the way his mind worked. He was intrigued by the weird, the wrong and the grotesque. His mind would always spin with jabs and jokes, briefly returning, only to spin so far out of control he would be left in bouts of hysteria. But it suited him, and I loved it. Sometimes I couldn’t follow his more
Avant-garde
lines of humor, but I was always fascinated and amused by his mental somersaults.

“So, what’s on the menu?”

“What? Oh,” he refocused—as he clearly was thinking about something that stemmed from his last comment, something hilariously funny (probably a scene from
The Simpsons
—his go-to comedy), something I probably wouldn’t understand—and came back to Earth. “I’m making you spinach lasagna, focaccia bread, mixed greens salad with marinated tofu, and for dessert, chocolate covered strawberries.
Dark chocolate, of course.”

“Of course,” I grinned.
“Sounds delicious.
Just one question.”

“Shoot.”

“Do you cook as well as you
bake
?”

“You’ll have to taste and judge for yourself,” he winked.

“Can’t wait.”

What a spread. The lasagna was already in the oven, mouthwatering smells of tomato sauce, garlic, and cheese hit me as I walked through the doorway; the bread was done and cooling, the salad was in the fridge, and the table was already set for two. An unlit candle stood romantically in the center, next to two wine glasses and a bottle of Chianti. All I could do is stand awkwardly to the side and stare, agape.

I watched him finish the dinner preparations: he uncorked the wine to let it breathe, lit the candle, cut the bread into thick, springy slices, tossed the salad with some vinaigrette, and once the lasagna was ready, he plated everything and brought it to the table.

He watched me as I took my first bite. The cheese and spinach were joined in perfect harmony with the sauce and pasta, the bread was doughy and melted in my mouth, the salad was crisp and clean, and the wine warmed my insides as it went down smoothly. My expression seemed to satisfy him greatly as he joined me.

“Wow, Liam, this is really good. You’re a great cook.”

“Thanks,” he beamed. “I learned from the best,” referring to his dad, “although he’s a better cook and I’m the better baker.”

Looking around, I noticed his dad was nowhere to be seen. “By the way, where is your dad this evening?”

“Oh, he decided to stay over at a motel for the night…he wanted to give us some space.”

“Oh…that was nice of him,” I gulped.

He shrugged. Trying to distract me he asked, “So are you ready for seconds…or dessert?”

I looked down at my suddenly wiped clean plate, “Oh, um, dessert.”

“Coming right up.”
He cleared the dishes and took out a tray of large, ripe strawberries, each glistening in a shell of dark chocolate.

“Wow.”

He gently stirred me to the couch. “Let’s enjoy them by the fire.”

Liam was a Romantic with a capital R. He definitely knew how to set the mood. He set down the plate before going back to the kitchen to refill our wine glasses. He took out a blanket and scanned the few movies he had in the drawer.

“Actually, if you don’t mind,” I started, continuing once he turned to give me his full and undivided attention, “I brought one of my favorite movies with me.”

“Oh?” he tilted his head, “Bring it out. We can watch the one you brought.”

“Well,” I hesitated, “it’s a love story, so I’m not sure if you feel up to watching another chick flick…actually, it’s not like a cheesy chick flick…I actually think you might like it.”

“Sophie, I’d love to watch it with you, especially if it’s one of your favorites.” By this time he was next to me with his hands holding mine, eyes gentle and fixed, unwavering in his decision. So, I dug around in my purse to get the DVD and handed it to him.

There we sat, like the previous time, his body wrapped around mine, the blanket covering my body and his, sipping on wine and indulging on strawberries dipped in dark chocolate, while watching, quite possibly, the greatest love story of all time:
The Notebook
.

A gentle stream of tears fell from our eyes near the final moments when it got to my favorite part, when the old couple danced, him loving her dearly, and her starting to forget him all over again…

“That’s the way I hope to die one day.”

“Huh?” he said, caught off guard, wiping a trailing tear with one hand while petting my hair with the other.

“If I die, I would hope it would be in my sleep with my true love lying there next to me…together…naturally, of course.”

He nodded slowly, “
Yes, that
would be the perfect way to go…”

“Sorry, I think about it sometimes.”

“Death?”

“Yes, well, I think about…everything.”

He smiled. “Yeah, I’ve noticed,” he said wistfully, sending shivers down my spine.

This time when the movie ended, I was prepared—mentally and physically. Leaning against his chest, I could feel his heart thump a little faster. Gently and easily he untwined his arms from mine and got up. He silently turned off the TV and VCR, blew out the candle, and turned off the lights. He reached for my hand, and I gave it willingly, as he led me to his room.

He took his time—closing the shades, turning down the comforter, reorganizing the pillows—keeping the lights on as he walked to my side. He put my hand over his heart so I could hear the pounding in his chest, feeling the quiver of his skin, and right before he held his mouth to mine, I finally felt right, like everything was just as it should be. And there he stood…loving me.

We lay there for a moment, sprawled out on his rumpled sheets, catching our haggard breath, allowing the sensation to meld in an intricate web of numbness, waiting to regain our strength.

Before our bodies cooled and the tingles faded, he asked, “Do you want to stay the night?”

I nodded. I felt like I was floating in a vivid dream.

“Okay. Follow me.”

He led me to the bathroom. Silently, he removed a new contact lens case, toothbrush, and towel from the linen cabinet, and placed them next to his. He started the shower, checking the temperature to make sure it wasn’t freezing cold or scalding hot. He led the way, stepping into the old cast iron tub, into the sprays of soothing warmth.

We took turns washing each other’s backs; this simple act filled me with tenderness. Suddenly, I felt
a closeness
, an unspeakable bond, between us.
This is it. It is the perfect moment. So, tell him.
He turned, handed me a towel, and as I opened my mouth, waiting for the words to flow effortlessly from my heart, he pulled a towel over his head, vigorously rubbing out the water that clung to his hair. I closed my mouth. The moment passed. He took out a clean white shirt and boxers for me to wear, turned off the lights, and we crawled into his cozy bed.

Turning my head toward the ceiling, I lay still and silent, quickly recapping the
night,
and I couldn’t hold it in any longer. I tried, once during dinner, once after, then once before the movie, again after that, while he
was loving
me, and while we were getting ready for bed. And each time the moment passed. Trying to find the perfect time to tell him and never finding it. The lump in my throat swelling with each failing attempt, until nothing but air came out. Here I was, lying in his arms, in his bed, after having the perfect night, and I still hadn’t told him.

“Liam?” I said faintly.

“Hmmm?”
He sounded like he was starting to fall into a deep sleep.

I was silent.

I felt him stir in response to my loud silence; he was starting to catch on to my every movement and breath. “What is it, Sophie?” He was sitting up now, turning to face me.

I sat up too, putting my arms around him, my chin resting on his left shoulder. I sat there for a few long seconds before I started to speak. At first, nothing came out—just air again—my heart beating wildly—and then, leaning toward his left ear, I all but choked out the words, ever so faintly, “I…love…you.”

There, I said it. My pulse calmed down and I felt relieved, as if I had lied and finally revealed the truth.

As my words hit his ears, he froze. His pulse quickened and his voice shook, as he replied, “I love you, too, Sophie.” He held my face in his hands and gently, lovingly, he kissed my lips. The warmth oozed like honey and I melted in his arms.

38

The next morning was like a daze. We both slept hard and long, as if we were recovering from an illness, drugged, or both. It was slightly past noon when we woke up, and we were both blissfully happy. We just lay there for a few more minutes, motionless in each other’s arms, trying to build up the stamina to walk or move.