SOPHIE
I read his text four times Thursday night, and I still haven't answered it.
*I'm not asking you to forgive me. I don't think I've earned that, and I'm not sure I ever will.*
I don't know what to do with a sentence like that from a boy who's spent two years making sure I knew exactly what I was to him. So I don't do anything. I leave it there, unanswered, sitting in my phone like a splinter I haven't decided whether to pull out.
By Saturday morning, I've built a wall so solid I can feel it in my shoulders as I walk into the community center. This is mine. Whatever he thinks he's doing, whatever guilt is chewing on him, he does not get to take this place from me too.
He's already there when I arrive, apron on, hands in the sink. He doesn't say good morning. He doesn't even really
