“I’m only telling you this because she will find a way to make herself sound innocent if it benefits her. She’s under the illusion that she holds some kind of power over me. I care about her. And I want her to be happy. But I owe her nothing.”
Sophie works up some spunk, nodding real slow. “What do I need to know?”
Oliver didn’t expect her to respond so coolly. “Do you remember what I said about my time in juvenile detention?”
“Vividly. Assault charges. Your friend in the hospital. You said he was in a coma. Yes.”
“That was Luke.”
Sophie sighs forcefully.
“I was sleeping with his sister behind his back. Luke found out and confronted me. I admitted it. The rest, you already know.”
“Jesus, Oliver. Boundaries.”
“I’m sorry. I didn’t want you to find out from someone else.”
“Someone…else? Who knows about this?”
“Well, Madison. Luke…”
“Who else?”
“Their parents.”
“Who else?”
“Stacey.”
Ah, there it is. She’s quiet for a moment, then sort of chuckles. “Of course. Stacey. Nothing like friends that have your back, huh?”
“Let’s not play the blame game tonight, please. This was my own doing.”
“Why is it important all of a sudden?” she blurts out. “What difference does it make now?”
“It makes all the difference in the world to me. I trust you.”
“I don’t want to know about your sexual past, Oliver. If I know, I’ll make a judgment about it. You don’t want to know about mine, do you?”
His answer comes at once. “Absolutely not.”
No surprise there. She sighs once again, her patience waning. “Then what? What do you want me to say: I always knew something was up between you two? Well, okay, I knew. But don’t blame this on me when you’re all of a sudden suggesting we go for a ride and I’m thinking you did it in the car, with it running, in broad daylight!”
“Slow your roll, Soph. It was more than ten years ago. I promise, she means nothing.”
“Then why, pray tell, are you stressing over this so much?”
He looks at her carefully, his cerulean gaze pensive. “Because I’m ashamed, and I am angry. Because it needs to be said. Because I don’t want to keep anything from you.”
It’s quiet for a moment, then she asks, “What are you ashamed of?”
“Ever had something you wish you could do over again, forget, erase?”
“Hmm. Well, let’s see, should I write you a list?”
“Luke is a very good person, and he was a friend of mine. He still is, but it’s different. I was someone he could trust. My relationship with Madison was…complicated. It was built purely around sex.”
“You mean to tell me you had sex with a girl when you were a practically a child?”
“Yes, that’s exactly what I’m saying.”
“What kind of a teenager were you?”
He levels a look at her. “Do you have to ask?”
“Wow.” Sophie struggles to absorb this. The whole thing is nuts. “I’m really trying here, Oliver.”
“I know you are.”
She’s afraid to ask, but does so anyway, “So, what happened?”
“She wanted more. Madison wanted more.”
“More of what?”
“Everything. She wanted me. To know me as I am. She wanted us, together. Tell her brother. Tell her family. Tell the world.”
“And you didn’t?”
Oliver has to tell her things, be honest with her, otherwise there’s no trust. If there is no trust, there is no relationship, and he would only have himself to blame. After a moment, he says, “Sophie, I wasn’t always the man I am today. In fact, many would argue I’m an entirely different person. Drugs. Juvie. You name it and I was doing it. I made many mistakes. I wasn’t very fair to Madison. I broke her heart…”
A silence hits. Sophie stares at him for a heart-stopping moment. “I’m sorry, you said drugs?”
“Yes.” He half expects her to run. He just admitted to drug abuse.
“Why?” Her face is cold and stuck still. “Why?”
Oliver hesitates. “Coping mechanism. I have a mind that doesn’t rest. It is constantly revolving and evolving.”
Worry swims through her eyes. It’s correct to say she idolized him. The perfect man. Sophie naively entered his world having this idea of him on paper (handsome, funny, serene, great job), but when it comes down to it, life is messy. In the real world, no one is perfect and relationships are tough. Oliver is a special breed, complex, always thinking and questioning. Despite his outer air of calm, apparently inside he’s in a constant battle with himself.
Before she can think of anything to say, Oliver asks, “Do you trust me?”
Truly, she wants to answer him, but her mouth won’t cooperate.
“I haven’t used since 2002. I know it’s a lot to take in. I understand if you need to take some time.” Or leave, he thinks, but doesn’t dare say.
“Oliver, I, this…I don’t know. I’ve seen you drink a little too much.”
“I’m not an alcoholic. I work hard all day; I take care of us and see that things run as smoothly as they can. I live this way. At the end of the day, I like an evening scotch or a glass of red wine. If anything, I’m more adversely affected by lack of coffee.”
They stare at each other, Sophie breathing like she’s trying to hold on to the last of her clarity.
“You can depend on me, Sophie. To provide for you, ensure that you have the best of everything. To support your decisions and chocolate pudding addictions. I’ll be there when the sun won’t shine. When you need me most, I will be there. You can believe in me.”
“I do believe in you,” she replies softly. “I believe in us and what we have.” She looks at him in utter acceptance.
And he is overwhelmingly touched. “Getting to know me is a slow process. I have to be allowed to do it on my terms, at least to some degree. Those who are patient, eventually see me. I’m blindly loyal. Generous with my time and my possessions.”
“What about Madison?”
“It was never right with her. I knew it from the start, but continued anyway.”
“Because hormones are too powerful to be ignored?”
“I guess.”
“This is really not something you want to guess at.”
“You know I’m faithful. I don’t believe in cheating, never have.”
In some odd and disturbing way, it’s good to know. It’s mostly hard because no one ever wants to think about his or her partner with someone else, or having had a drug addiction. But hard is the foundation of all strong things. He isn’t perfect and neither is she, but they learn tolerance and love together, catch each other, and keep moving forward.
Sophie says, “I feel sorry for her, you know? Madison.”
“Why’s that?”
“To have you and not go all the way with you. Must hurt like a bitch.”
“We did have sex.”
“Will you stop repeating that already? You were never hers. Not for a second. She might’ve had your body, but she never had your heart. I know it’s cheesy, and I mean, don’t get me wrong, you’re all fly and sleek with your muscles and stuff, but when it comes to who you are as a man, nothing is better.”
E I G H T
* * *
Cheap, Cynical, and Ugly
DORITOS AND COCA-COLA mix well in the cauldron of tension brewing inside Sophie. As if on autopilot, she plucks a Dorito out of the bag, then takes a swig from the can. Eat, drink. Eat, drink. She’s zoned out, not thinking about the world. The hotel suite where Sophie is being dolled up has a 40-inch TV mounted on the wall, linked to the conference room on the fourteenth floor where a journalist is reporting live.
“A cold case was solved when twenty-five year old supermodel Amelia Sophia Cavall, the subject of an in
tense police hunt, was found after being taken from her apartment in Tribeca. There are so many questions. Why was Sophie kidnapped? What has she gone through? How did she survive? And that is only the beginning. Today is the day. Millions nationwide are set to watch her press conference at the Park Hyatt New York City. Tune in to watch as ABC news carries the exclusive live interview.”
“Supermodel. Hah!” Sophie shouts. “I’ve been modeling for more than a decade, not once I’m called a supermodel. I get kidnapped, and now suddenly I became one? Fucking press.”
“Ah yuh nervous?” Thea, Jamaican hair and makeup extraordinaire, works her skilled hands through Sophie’s hair, shaping her tresses into a glam ponytail.
Her eyes don’t leave the TV as she tilts her head a little to take a sip of the Cola. “Clearly I don’t know what I am.”
Thea says bluntly, “Mi a nervous fi yuh, doll.” She grabs a chunk of hair from the ponytail and wraps it around the hairband to hide it. “It’s scary. Suh many people ah here. Lass time I was dis nervous, I was cutting mi girl J-Lo’s hair.”
“Yeah, that definitely sounds scary, Thea.”
“Yuh shoulda seen mi. I made J-Lo laugh wid mi jokes.”
Sophie stops munching on a Dorito to consider the comment. “You never tell me any jokes.”
Thea runs a comb through her long, blonde ponytail and frowns as a clump of hair falls out. This was the second time that had happened so Thea decided to lay off the blow-drying and straightening, to keep from frying it. Putting her hair in a ponytail wasn’t such a hot choice either—the pressure from the elastic holder would wear on the cuticle of the hair—but Thea didn’t have any options. Her hair is sick, showing the stress Sophie is trying so hard to hide.
“Wen yuh life has been one hawd struggle afta anoda, I dun know if dere is somet’ing funny to laugh bout.”
Sophie smiles thinly, her eyes cast down. It’s that kind of sympathy that sickens and regresses her. She deserves to laugh and forget about her troubles for a little while.
When Thea is done beautifying her exterior, she moves on to Ronnie, who has a selection of outfits for her to try on. Simultaneously, Kim and Sophie go over responses to questions that are likely to be asked, and Sophie mentions a list (more like a book) of “off-limit” topics so that Kim, as moderator, can handle them if they come up.
Kim gives her a few tips: strike an emotional tone, convey honesty, and no matter what happens, stick to the story she wants to tell. “Nothing is off the record,” she says. “Every word you say will be judged.”
“What is this?” Sophie reads a note card. “‘I hope you comprehend, I cannot possibly describe the unimaginable abuse I endured at the hands of that deranged human.’”
“The perfect response for when you don’t want to answer a question.”
Ronnie passes a lint-roller up and down Sophie’s body. Annoyed by a perceptible and stubborn ball of lint on her chest, he puts his hand on her boob and tries to tap it off.
Sophie arches an eyebrow. “Having a good time?”
“What?”
“If you weren’t gay, I’d punch you right now.”
“Hah! Relax, sweet cheeks. If I weren’t gay, you still wouldn’t be my type.”
She rolls her eyes and waves the note card in the air. “Kim, don’t you think you’re overstretching the truth here? Plus, I don’t talk like a woman from a Jane Austen novel. I mean, what are we doing?”
“Telling a story,” she answers, helping herself to a cup of liquid energy from the coffee machine.
“I’m not going to go out there and straight-out lie, Kim.”
“Oh, it’s not a lie. It’s realistic fiction.”
“Realistic fiction?”
“It’s like a thing. Totally legit.”
“Kim.”
She blows into her coffee, then says, “I’m confused here. Were you, or were you not kidnapped?”
“Uh, yes.”
“You don’t sound so sure.”
“Yes,” she replies brasher.
“Did he or did he not tie you down to a chair and lock you up?”
“Yes. Well, sometimes he would untie me.”
“Do you, or do you not have to wear prescription glasses now after you were beaten and suffered vision loss in one eye?”
“Yes, but my vision is getting better.”
“For the love of Chanel, why are you trivializing the issue?”
“Because nothing happened!” Sophie walks around with her hands on her hips, wildly thinking. She stews in her shame. “Yes, I was held against my will,” she says softly, “but I wasn’t raped or abused or tortured. Yes, I was locked up for seven days, but all he did was feed me and ramble endlessly about philosophical things. Yes, I thought he would kill me and that I would never see my family again. But that didn’t happen.” Her lower lip trembles and tears threaten to spill down her cheeks. “Seriously, that’s it.”
“You just said he hit you.”
“Only once, because I tried to escape.”
“You say it like you deserved it.”
“No. What? No. I’m…I’m…I don’t…”
“Let me get this straight. You’re saying Bridges didn’t quite screw you up like you expected him to?”
She nods.
“Then why are you crying?”
Dere goes de mascara, wonders Thea.
“I don’t know.”
“What do you mean you don’t know?”
“Shit, I’m sorry. Thea, I’m sorry.”
“Dat ah okay, doll. Mi ago fix yuh makeup.”
Sophie doesn’t stop crying. For the life of Kim, she can’t understand why she’s upset. What to do? What to think? She looks at Ronnie for a lifeline. “Don’t look at me. Look at her,” he says.
Then Thea, all sagacious and reflective, says, “It does nah matta’ wah she is crying. Wat matta’s is she is.”
Kim frowns, desperately fretted. “Should I cancel the press conference?”
Sophie sniffles and tries to compose herself. “They’re tears. Not tuberculosis. Just give me a minute.”
A protective feeling suddenly comes over Kim. “Look, Sophie. You were not sort-of kidnapped. I’m not an expert, but a kidnapping is a kidnapping, however it goes down. So you weren’t raped, abused, or tortured. But, Sophie, how many people have been? How many don’t even recognize it? What’s more, how many don’t say anything because they’re ashamed to report it?”
She slowly sits on the bed, feeling like if her inner turmoil were music it would sound like a dark, angst-filled track mixed with screaming vocals and metal drumming.
“How am I supposed to tell those people that it’s going to be okay when my experience wasn’t anything like theirs? I don’t want to be a hypocrite.”
“Well, what do we have here?” Kim says like she’s discovered a sixth moon orbiting Pluto. “All this time I thought you were afraid to speak up.”
Sophie chuckles. “Afraid? I’m not afraid. I’m mouthy, rash, and always too willing to speak up.”
“Then what’s the problem?”
“I’m ashamed!”
“Why?”
“Because I’m all over the news like I’m Lindsay Lohan going to jail! And for what? A black eye and some stiches?”
“Goddamn it, Sophie! Suffering is not some wet t-shirt contest! Your lack of rape, abuse, or torture does not invalidate or weaken your experience.”
“You’re saying it counts?”
“Hell yeah! Anyone with two working brain cells can tell you that.”
“The other day, you basically told me to get over it. You made me feel worthless, Kim. Like I was selfish for having feelings. I will get over it, but not today.”
“I’m sorry. I realize now that was completely insensitive.”
Sophie lets out a breath she didn’t realize she was holding. “You said there are people who’ve had it worse than I have. People with cancer. People in prison. You’re right. I mean, how many breaking news
stories have been hidden from the feed just because somehow I’m more important? How about letting everyone know about Bessie Daniels?”
“Who?”
“Exactly my point! US journalist, fresh out of college, kidnapped and beheaded in Mali. I’m wasting everyone’s time, Kim. You don’t think I feel bad?”
“If you think there are more important stories out there, you’re right. But, like it or not, the spotlight is on you. So, make it count, Cavall. For Bessie Daniels.”
“For Bessie Daniels?”
“That’s right.”
Sophie undergoes a second beauty boost and afterward, trots to the stage wearing a charcoal cashmere sweater, gray hem skirt, and matching, pointy-toe pumps—as approved by Ronnie. Her eyes are open, focused at the five rows of media-related people and organizations in front of her. Everyone rushes to their seats. They shush themselves to whispers as Kim takes the stand.
“Hello, ladies and gentlemen of the press, my name is Kim Price. I’ll be your moderator this morning. Thank you for attending today’s press conference with Sophie Cavall. As you all know, Sophie was kidnapped and held hostage in a storage unit for a week. She was beaten by her captor and endured cold, exhaustion, pain, and mental torture. Let me remind you, we’re just going to open the floor for questions. There is no statement. If you have a question, just raise your hand. And now, Sophie Cavall.”
Kim steps to the side to let Sophie approach the podium. Sophie scans the room, searching for the least brutal reporter. She points to a bald man in a blue suit and glasses, signaling at him to start. “Yes.”
“Good morning. Andrew Lane, NBC New York. Can you tell us about how you’re coping? How are your family and friends? What are you feeling?”
“Well, Andrew…” Sophie takes a steadying breath. “It’s hard, obviously. You don’t want to think it happened. You don’t want to remember. It took days to recover from the bruises, and a few more to heal from surgery. Some days are good, and some days you just feel like an elk among coyotes.” Fucked. The crowd laughs. Her humor is her best armor. “Privacy and time off have definitely helped. My family has been my refuge. Oliver especially is very understanding. He’s been there for me since day one. I have no words for their love…it’s blown me over completely. Next question.”
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