Sophie (The Boss 8)

Then, as I tucked her Olaf the snowman comforter around her wriggly little body, she went still and serious and asked, “Sophie, do you want to know what the lady asked me?”

I tried to remember my effective child communication strategies. I couldn’t ask her what she talked about with the social worker; it seemed wrong to interrogate her about the interview. I settled on, “Is there something you wanted to share about that?”

“She asked me what I liked the most about my family. You know what I said?” Her eyes glittered with joy.

“What?”

“I said Sophie!” Olivia slapped her hands on the blankets on either side of her knees. “Sophie is my favorite part of my whole family because she’s pretty, and she smells good when she hugs me.”

My throat closed up, and tears sprang to my eyes. I smiled to hide them, like limping on a twisted ankle to downplay an embarrassing stumble. “Oh, Olivia, that’s wonderful. You’re my very favorite...ward.”

Her little forehead wrinkled in puzzlement.

“It’s a fancy princess word. Get some sleep.” I kissed her forehead and stood, my chest tight with rapidly expanding emotion.

“I love you, Sophie,” Olivia said softly.

I turned, one hand resting against the doorframe. “I love you, too, precious girl.”

I managed to hold my smile up until I got to the hallway. I stumbled a few steps, then leaned on the wall for support.

El-Mudad lingered outside the door, only steps away. He put his arms around me and tried to soothe me with shushing sounds. “Don’t do this, my love. Come on. We’ll find something to occupy ourselves while we wait for Neil. He will come home tonight.”

It was too painful to try to hold up my hope, but I had to fake it for him.

The only thing we could think of to distract ourselves was playing cards. We set up at the kitchen table for a game of Rummy. El-Mudad put some soothing piano music over the sound system to break up the background tension, but neither of us was super invested in the game. We kept checking our phones. At one point, I put on coffee to stay awake. But all we could do, ultimately, was wait.

“Sophie?” El-Mudad asked quietly.

I glanced up from my hand. “Hmm?”

He tapped the eight of diamonds I’d just discarded.

A run of diamonds ending in seven sat in front of him on the table.

“Fuck.” I sighed and dropped my cards as he picked up my eight and added it to his run.

I checked my phone. It was three-thirty.

The alarm box by the door beeped.

I got to my feet. So did El-Mudad.

The silence prickled across my skin, knitting a shroud of dread around me. I knew Neil would be drunk. Maybe fucked up on something. I knew every line of what his facial expression would be when our eyes met, and the shame that had been building with every step consuming him in an instant. And I knew that’s what he’d be feeling because we’d talked about it so many times.

We would talk about it this time. But not tonight.

Neil came through the door, blood-shot eyes fixed on the floor, taking a few steps before finally looking at us. And there was that damn expression that pierced my heart. Even from a few feet away, I could smell the alcohol on his breath, in his sweat. He swayed on his feet.

“I, uh…” He paused and squeezed his eyes shut, a single tear escaping as his face crumpled. “You must be so disappointed in me.”

I bit my lips to hold back my own tears. It didn’t work. “No. No, baby. Not at all.”

El-Mudad and I both went to Neil, enfolding him in our arms. He held my cheek to his shoulder and wept against me while El-Mudad hugged us both tight.

That was the last we spoke of it. We were mostly silent while El-Mudad and I took Neil to the bedroom and helped him undress, apart from an occasional “thank you” on his part. We took him to a cool shower to sober him up a little and to get the stink of vomit off him; he’d gotten sick on the ride home. He brushed his teeth and drank some water, and took a few ibuprofen tablets. “I think I should skip my usual meds tonight.”

“I think that might be wise,” El-Mudad agreed. Neil took a cocktail of meds for his depression and while skipping pills was never a great option, it seemed unsafe to mix them with a bender after a few years of sobriety.

“I’ll call Dr. Harris in the morning,” I said softly as Neil climbed into bed.

“And call Jason about a B-12 injection,” he added. “And cancel our morning session. In fact, cancel indefinitely.”

That wasn’t a great idea. Exercise helped Neil manage a lot of his anxiety. But now wasn’t the time to discuss it. “I will. First thing.”