Free Something About Sophie by Mary Kay McComas Page B

chests. At first she tried to synchronize her own respiratory rate with Drew’s, but his chest was broader and deeper and she got light-headed. And Jesse’s breaths were rapid and erratic—like the increasing tremors in her hands. On an impulse that was as selfish as it was caring, Sophie reached out to stop them; she couldn’t handle someone else’s anxiety until she’d dealt with her own—and at the moment it was all she could do to simply take in air.
    Jesse stood and plumped all the sofa pillows she could get to.
    â€œMaybe a stiff drink . . . anyone else? I might have a shot of bourbon but I have wine and beer, too.” Her voice faltered when she muttered, “Not nearly stiff enough, if you ask me.” She flicked invisible dust off the end table and put her back to them while she straightened a level picture of an old-time watermill on the wall. “Anyone?”
    Swallowing presented itself as a more complicated concept than breathing, but she knew Jesse disliked drinking alone. “Sure. Water maybe? I’m not sure what my stomach can handle yet.”
    â€œI’ll pass, thanks. I should get going.”
    Yet he made no move to leave, which was fine by Sophie. No doubt, most any doctor would be clear thinking and self-possessed in a crisis. But it hadn’t been most any doctor out there beside the big blue truck with her. It was Drew, who knew what to do, who tried to protect her from seeing what no human should, who sent her to safety while he stayed, alone, until the police came. Self-centered, she knew it, but she was thinking he could stay as long as he wanted to. The longer the better.
    She could feel him studying her and looked up to see concern in his eyes. She bowed her lips a bit to abate his worries—it made him scowl and say, “What are you smiling about? So far this has been, hands down, my worst first date ever.”
    It surprised a giggle from her and then they both laughed softly.
    â€œAttagirl.” He bumped his shoulder against hers. “Sheriff’s right, you know. By breakfast, everyone in town will be looking sideways at everyone else. Someone will slip up, make a mistake and the truth about whatever happened here tonight will come out. And it won’t have anything to do with you.”
    â€œWhat about the pictures?”
    He shrugged. “So Cliff had an eye for beautiful women, and you happen to be one. I don’t think they can arrest you for that.”
    â€œJesse didn’t like him. She made him sound like a not-so-nice guy.”
    â€œMm. I think they went to school about the same time. Seems he was one of those popular jock-slash-bully types who left his game in high school and lost his popularity shortly after that. Stayed a bully, though. And guys like that all seem to have a special talent of picking the weakest person out of a crowd to torment.
    â€œCarla, his wife, is tiny and frail—a sweet, anxious woman who seems always to be sitting on the verge of a mental collapse. He also has two quiet, sullen teenage sons who seem well on their way to becoming just like him.” He paused. “Sometimes there are worse things a man can do to his family than beat them, you know?”
    She nodded, but she didn’t know. Not in truth. At the moment she was almost ashamed to admit that the cruelest her parents ever got was to refuse her a Canadian ski trip with a friend— and his family! —in seventh grade. Well, and saying no to extending her curfew all through high school . . . and, to letting her get her ears pierced, not until she was sixteen. Still, it was hard to be sorry your childhood was simple and happy and as close to perfect as it ever got—especially in the face of someone else’s misery.
    Another option occurred to her: “You don’t think . . . I mean, he probably wasn’t taking pictures of me to . . . you know, later on . . .”