Sophie (The Boss 8)

“No, that was totally off the top of my head!” Why did my voice sound so chipper?

“It was masterful!” He chuckled.

We were supposed to be emotionally exhausted, not exhilarated, but I felt lighter now that the dread had lifted. It had gone horribly, but it had, at least for a moment, gone.

When we reached the bedroom door, Neil turned grave. “In light of what this is going to mean for Olivia, perhaps I shouldn’t say it, but…”

“You’re relieved that they’re out of our lives?” I finished for him.

He took a deep breath of resignation. “It is. I know it’s evil of me. I never thought I would be happy to end my friendship with Valerie—”

“That hasn’t happened yet.”

“I’m afraid you’re wrong there.” He didn’t sound sad but resolved. “I’ll never be able to forgive her for this.”

“Even if—” I stopped myself, biting my lower lip to make sure my mouth stayed shut. Neil and I both needed time to calm down and address that situation in a way that didn’t center our resentments.

“No. Whatever you’re about to say…” He pinched the bridge of his nose. “I’m so sorry. I have taken her side in so many arguments—”

“You have,” I agreed, inwardly basking in the dopamine rush of finally being proven right.

“I have consistently put you through hell, made you doubt your place in my life and my affections–”

“Okay, Mr. Darcy. Let’s take it down a notch.” I went into the bathroom, opened the medicine cabinet, grabbed the Ibuprofen, and dry swallowed four of them. Neil had followed me in, so when I closed the cabinet door and caught sight of him, he scared the hell out of me.

“I’m not trying to be Mr. Darcy,” he went on, ignoring my shriek of alarm. “I just feel as though I’ve…well, I’ve rather had my head up my own ass about Valerie’s involvement in our life.”

“I hadn’t noticed,” I said, shimmying down my panties to sit on the toilet.

Neil leaned against the counter, trying to continue his penitence while I peed. “None of this would have happened if I’d just listened to you–”

“About what? I never once anticipated that she’d do anything to us about Olivia. It was you that she wanted,” I gestured to myself. “Do you need me for this conversation, or can you have it on your own while you take our bags to the car?”

He turned without a word and went back into the bedroom. I cursed and finished up my bathroom business as fast as I could. Of course, he’d think I didn’t want to listen to him if I kept snapping back.

“Hey,” I said, still drying my hands as I exited.

Neil sat on the end of the bed, elbows on his knees, forehead resting on his clasped hands. He looked up with a fleeting, tight, not-quite-smile.

“Look, I know you want to apologize to me for, I don’t know, the very existence of Valerie, but I’m not sure you’re listening to yourself.” I sat beside him and put my hand on his thigh. “I love you. But this apology needed to come a long, long time ago.”

He nodded and said quietly, “I know.”

“Mmm…do you?” I scrunched up my face, Thor-meme-style. “Because everything you’re apologizing for is stuff you’ve spent pretty much our entire relationship not listening to me about. It’s just that now, it’s affecting Olivia, not just me.”

“Just you?”

“You read my book. You know how I felt back in the memoir-worthy times.” Specifically, the memoir I’d written about those times. Neil had never liked the title I’m Just The Girlfriend, arguing that it devalued my role in his life.

He’d never really gotten the point: that he’d made me feel that way.

“Is this an ‘I told you so?’ Because you don’t seem to be enjoying it the way I assumed you would.” His voice held an edge of fully unearned annoyance.

I saw my shot, and I took it. “It’s not an ‘I told you so.’ It’s a ‘don’t make me tell you again.’ You have to promise me, right now, that the next time I tell you something about Valerie…you have to promise me that you’ll believe me.”

He hesitated. He knew I hid something from him, carefully omitted it from my Rumplestilskin style oath.

But finally, he said, “All right. I promise.”

I hoped it was one he would keep.

On Tuesday, El-Mudad, Neil, and I sat in expensive leather chairs in front of our attorney’s vast oak desk, waiting for the man to arrive.

“Look at how big that thing is,” I whispered, staring across what could have been a conference table in another life. “That’s even bigger than yours.”

Neil’s hand hovered above my knee as he barely held back something that would have sounded polite and reassuring but would have meant “do shut the fuck up, Sophie.” Instead, he just laid his hand on my thigh.