The Hole in the Middle

Chapter 12: DECEMBER 1994

“Right back against the wall,” instructs Lil. She’s been doling out instructions all day in preparation for her annual Christmas Party, and is presently occupied with moving various pieces of heavy Victorian furniture to improve ‘flow’ on the main floor. Or rather, directing: Will and A.J. are on the implementation end of things, sweating over a velvet settee that must weigh several hundred pounds. “Sophie, roll up the carpet,” says Lil. “I’m so pleased I remembered this year! Every year, some pretty young nymph catches her heel and flies headlong into just the wrong person and I think: I must remember to roll up the carpet. Gentlemen, you can take the carpet down to the basement when Sophie’s done.” Obediently, the boys release the arms of the settee, shoulder the mammoth carpet and convey it downstairs.

Lil beckons. “Be a dear, Sophie, and read me the list? The light is dreadful in here.”

“Do you want me to run up and get your glasses?”

Lil looks scandalized. “I never wear those hideous things in the presence of gentlemen,” she says. “No matter how unformed they may yet be.” I suppress the fleeting thought that Will looks rather well-formed lifting furniture, and focus on the list.

“We’re about done with the moving,” I say. “The caterer is coming at four-thirty. The glasses and plates have been delivered, but we still need to set up the bar.”

“Another job for the boys,” says Lil. “What else?”

“I think that’s it,” I say. “We’re completely organized.”

“Perfect. Thank you, Sophie. Now, what are you wearing?”

“I haven’t decided yet,” I say. I’ve learned that this is the correct answer. Lil takes excessive pleasure in dressing me for parties, and I’ve resolved not to interpret her interventions as a comment on the paucity of my wardrobe, which it undoubtedly is. Harder to admit to myself, but equally true, is that there are unexpected benefits to being Lil’s project. I’ve always adhered strongly to the belief that the right guy would have to prove that he was drawn to my fire and strength and intellect, and not my appearance, and that it would adulterate the purity of the test if I were to abandon my peasant dresses and bare face for cleavage and mascara; how then would I know that he loved me for the right reasons? But in fact, my theory has netted only a handful of prospects over the past three years, all relatively charmless and screamingly earnest. I’d rather sleep alone than with someone who thinks he needs permission for every stage: May I touch you here? Is it alright if I touch you there? I haven’t been able to sort out why sensitivity and enlightenment can be such a huge turn-off in bed, or why I like the way men look at me when I’m playing Cinderella to Lil’s fairy godmother. I know I shouldn’t, but I do.

“Excellent,” says Lil. “I’ve got just the thing. You’ll like it. It’s black.”



At one o’clock in the morning, I’m standing in bare feet in the kitchen, taking stock of the damage and wondering how I let Lil bully me into wearing a skin-tight beaded cocktail dress with a plunging neckline to a party where most people were wearing jeans. I’ve just retrieved the last half-empty glasses from the last side-table and piled them onto the kitchen island. The full overhead lights are piercingly harsh in the opening act of my champagne hangover, so I pour another glass, bring down the dimmer and rest my elbows on the island countertop. Lil has long since retired, and the guests are gone but for a handful of stragglers watching old movies in the den. Will wanders in, yawning, catches sight of me and waves, then freezes; Lil’s dress wasn’t cut for slouching, and he’s just taken in a lot more of me than he was expecting. My annoyance at Lil’s dress selection melts away.

“Hey,” I say. “Any ideas on how we get rid of the guys in there?” I point to the den.

“We don’t,” says Will, averting his gaze. “They’ll pass out, if they haven’t already.”

“Lil won’t mind?”

“On the contrary,” he says, “She’ll regard it as the sign of a successful party. Hopefully there’s still some couch space.”

“Why?”

“A couple of A.J.’s engineering pals took a nap in my room. We’ve been trying to wake them up for the last half hour, but it looks like they’re staying put.”

“You should sleep in A.J.’s room, then. He can sleep on the couch,” I say, offended on Will’s behalf that A.J. would be so careless with his guests.

“Easy, there,” he says. “He offered. I refused.” He looks sheepish. “I was planning on using Lillian’s spare room. Then I looked at the time and changed my mind about knocking on her door. So here I am.” He takes in my feet. “Shoes?”

“Search me,” I say. “I vaguely remember kicking them off when we were jumping around to Smells Like Teen Spirit, but that was hours ago and I was way more wasted then.” I like the way the word ‘wasted’ rolls off my tongue; like the dress, it fits, but belongs to a modified version of myself that I’m taking out for the occasional test-drive.

“You peaked early tonight,” he says, laughing.

I take another sip of champagne. “I’m trying to catch a second wind while I clean up a bit. It’s going to be a lot nastier if I try to do it hung-over tomorrow.”

He looks around the kitchen as if seeing it for the first time. “I see your point. I can help you fill a few garbage bags before we call it a night if you want.”

“Aren’t they coming to pick up the rental glasses in the morning?”

“Right.” He yawns again. “OK, Little Miss Responsible, give me my marching orders.”

I balk at the totally justified but deeply unwelcome moniker, so at odds with the sophisticated persona I’ve been cultivating, clearly less successfully than I thought. But I really want some help, so I instruct him to bring the empty storage boxes for the glasses from underneath the bar. “I’ll hand them to you and you can box them,” I say, and he bows theatrically.

“As you wish,” he says.

“I love that movie,” I say, carefully. This amounts to a big confession for me. My public film preferences weigh heavily in the foreign-language camp, with an emphasis on injustice and tragedy, but I don’t love them the way I love The Princess Bride.

He laughs. “There’s a shocker,” he says, and holds out his hands for a pair of wineglasses.

For the next twenty minutes, we don’t speak much as our small but efficient assembly-line does its work and the counter begins to emerge from the wreckage. It’s been weeks since I had an excuse to be this close to Will, and I try not to stare as I memorize new details that only add to his physical perfection: a tiny scar above his left eyebrow; a small dimple in the corner of his mouth where his smile always begins; a tan line encircling his powerful left wrist. It’s hard to believe that he can be completely oblivious to my reaction whenever his fingers brush up against mine, since from my perspective it feels like an acute episode; the hairs rise on my arms, my breath catches and my hands start to shake. But there are no visible signs as he powers through the last box and grabs a handful of garbage bags. “One circuit, then bed,” he says, and I nod. We do a loop through the living and dining rooms, sweeping paper plates and napkins and beer cans into the bags. We end up in the den, where we fill one last bag with trash and discover three full-sized engineers dead to the world. Will sighs, rubbing a hand through his hair so that it sticks up. “No room at the inn,” he says ruefully. “I guess I’m waking Lillian up after all.”

“Don’t do that,” I say. “You can stay with me.” His eyes widen in surprise. “On the floor,” I say hastily. “I have a sleeping bag.”

“Thanks, Sophie,” he says. “That’s the best offer I’m likely to get tonight. I’ll take it.”

My mind is working furiously as we turn out the lights and head upstairs. The air between us is heavy and I wonder if any of the tension I feel is being generated by him. I hope so. I’ve never been as attracted to anyone as I am to Will Shannon at this moment, and it would be mortifying to be in it alone. I open the door to my room, make a beeline for my dresser and pull out the first pair of pajamas I see. I’m so nervous, I’m afraid I’m about to start giggling hysterically; it’s the opposite of the breezy, nonchalant and utterly non-threatening image I’m shooting for. “The sleeping bag is in the closet,” I say. “I’m just going to go and change in the bathroom. I’ll be right back.”

In the bathroom, I wriggle out of my dress, brush my teeth and remove my makeup. I stare long and hard at my reflection, regretting my pajama selection. I could not look less like an object of lust, in an oversized pink tee and loose pants covered in rosebuds and butterflies. I groan. I’m off to a bad beginning if I want to make Will see me in a different light. “You can do this,” I tell my reflection sternly.

When I return, Will is already lying on the floor in the sleeping bag, eyes half-closed, one arm bent behind his head. His eyes flicker open as I come in. “I hope you don’t mind,” he says. “I borrowed one of your pillows.”

I stand over him, trying to figure out my next move. I had anticipated at least one additional opportunity to brush up against him accidentally-on-purpose. But now I am at a loss. “Of course not,” I say lightly, turning off the overhead light and climbing into bed. I hear Will’s breathing become more rhythmic as he starts to fall asleep, and know that the window of seduction is rapidly closing. Don’t be a coward, I think. I clear my throat. “There’s room in the bed,” I say. I hear him shift in the sleeping bag and then sit up. There is a long silence.

“Are you sure?” he says.

“Absolutely,” I say.

There is a metallic purr as he slides the zipper down, and the old floor creaks and he crosses over to the bed. I remain on my side, curled away from him, and I feel a puff of air as he throws the pillow down next to me. The mattress dips and rocks as he adjusts his weight, and it’s only when I sense that he’s settled that I risk rolling onto my back. I keep my eyes closed, feigning half-sleep, but when I get up the nerve to peek, I find him lying on his side with his head resting on his hand, eyes wide open, staring down at me.

“Hi,” he says.

“Hi,” I manage, grateful that it’s too dark for him to see the sudden rush of blood to my cheeks. With his free hand, he reaches over and brushes a loose strand of hair from my face, and then very slowly and deliberately traces the line of my jawbone from ear to chin with his index finger. I bite my lower lip.

“What are we doing here, Sophie?” His tone is conversational, but his finger continues its steady journey down my neck to the hollow at the base of my throat where it hovers, waiting for an answer. I don’t say anything, but I roll my hips towards him so that we are only a few inches apart. His hand moves lower, and his thumb skims over my nipple. I shudder. “This could turn into a situation,” he says and from the way he says situation, I can tell he doesn’t mean that we could fall in love, have babies and live happily ever after.

Guys don’t have a lot of cardinal rules, but I know which one he’s worried about. As usual, Zoe filled me in when I expressed mild concern about living in the Abernathy house, understanding – largely from television and not from experience – that unwelcome sexual tension could arise between men and women living in close proximity. “You don’t need to worry about that,” she’d said. “You aren’t their type anyway, but even if you were, there’s a code. Guys like Will and A.J. don’t mess with girls they live with. They’re too freaked out about it turning all weird on them. They’re like dogs. They never shit where they sleep.”

“It doesn’t have to mean anything,” I say, reaching over and running my thumb over his lower lip. He expels a long breath, snakes his arm behind my back and slides me toward him, closing the gap.

“You know this is a bad idea,” he says, bending his head to mine.

I slip my hand under the hem of his tee shirt and slide my palm all the way up his spine. “I do,” I say, as his mouth meets mine. My lips part under his, and his arms tighten around me, and I’m swept away in a rush of sensation so intense that I wonder, fleetingly, how I’ll find my way back. And then we don’t speak again for a long time.



The morning is almost gone when I wake up. I’m alone, and it’s not until I bury my face in the pillow next to me and breathe in Will’s scent that I’m wholly convinced I haven’t been dreaming. The head rush when I sit up is crushing, and I lie back down panting and nauseated, happy that no one is here to see my hangover in full bloom. After several further attempts, I manage to get myself to the bathroom, where I swallow a couple of Advil and step into the shower. I let the hot water course over me and consider my options. Little has been said between us so far, although much has been done, and Will’s early exit tells me everything I need to know about the extent of his interest in a morning-after analysis. I know that the next few days are critical, and the safest course is to let him set the tone. You will not be weird about this, I tell myself. You will not rehash. You will not scare him off. You will not f*ck this up.

I repeat this mantra to myself as I follow the smell of coffee down to the kitchen, and prepare to greet Will with a friendly but completely non-stalker-like smile. But I find only A.J., pale and moving slowly, nursing a huge mug of coffee. “Hey, Sophie,” he says, as I pour myself some coffee and join him at the breakfast table. “I’m sorry I left you with the clean up last night. Things got a little out of hand.”

He looks so ill that it’s hard to be angry at him. “Did you get rid of your guests?”

“The guys in the den are gone. There’s still a couple upstairs.”

“Did you have fun?”

“Way too much,” he says. “You?”

I feel a blush rising and take a long sip of coffee. “Same,” I say. “Is Will up?”

“Up and gone,” says A.J.

“Gone where?” I ask, trying to sound casual.

“He said he was spending a couple of days at his parents’ house. He’s getting stressed about his first exams, I guess. He said he wanted to eliminate distractions.”

“He said that?”

“’Eliminate distractions’,” he repeats. “His exact words.” He takes a long drink. “I’ve never known him to be so serious about exams before, but maybe the pressure of law school is finally getting to him.” He stands, stretches. “Bacon and eggs?” he asks. “It’s the least I can do.”

“Sure,” I say. “Thanks.”



Will doesn’t come back in a couple of days. The week passes, with no word other than the occasional bulletin from A.J.: His exams are going well; he says it’s easier to focus up there; he’s going to stay a few more days. I go about my business as if nothing is out of the ordinary, but every nerve is on high alert. Every time the phone rings or the front door opens, I prepare a face for him. But he never comes. I convince myself that I need to check a resource at the law library and look for Will there, but there’s no sign of him. I lie awake at night trying to concoct a convincing reason to call him at his parents’ house, and testing theories for his absence. My favorite theory is that Will is rocked to his core by the depth of his feelings for me, previously suppressed but now unlocked, and needs time to come to terms with them. There are other, less desirable theories, of course, which is why I don’t give in to my desperate desire to call him. I hand in my last few papers, register for next term’s courses, clean the house from top to bottom, do all of my Christmas shopping and eventually acknowledge that there’s nothing left to do but to pack up for Port Alice.

A.J. drops me at the bus station on his way to the airport. He’s meeting his family in Barbados – his brother is flying from Los Angeles, where he’s at medical school, and his mother and step-father from New York, where they moved after they got married. “Two weeks in the sun,” I say enviously. “Do you have room for me in your suitcase?”

“I don’t know,” he says. “I’m not complaining, but if I could choose? Two weeks in the house where I grew up, with a Christmas tree, and snow, and turkey leftovers – that’s a real Christmas to me.”

I’ve never thought of A.J. as a sentimentalist, but I still don’t know him that well, and in truth, he surprises me more often than he conforms to a stereotype. As if to prove this point, he gets out of the car at the bus depot to help me with my bags. “You don’t have to do that,” I say.

“My mother would never forgive me if I didn’t,” he says, carrying the heaviest bag into the terminal. He waits while I buy my ticket, and then carries it to the gate.

“You don’t have to wait with me, really,” I say. “Your mother will never forgive me if you miss your flight.”

He laughs. “That’s probably true,” he says. He reaches inside his jacket and pulls out a brown paper bag. “This is for you. For Christmas. I’m sorry I didn’t have a chance to wrap it.”

“A.J., that’s so nice of you,” I say. “I feel terrible. I don’t have anything for you.”

He shakes his head. “It’s nothing much,” he says. “I just wanted to say…it’s been great having you in the house. And not just because of the food. Merry Christmas.” He takes a step closer, enfolds me in a tight bear hug and then turns and strides off before I can say anything.

It’s three hours to Port Alice, and I settle into a window seat with my Walkman. I’m too embarrassed to play Enya in the house where the boys can hear it, but now I indulge, and the lush, romantic layers of sound are an ideal soundtrack to the short film, looping over and over again in my mind, of My Night With Will. I barely notice the mostly undistinguished landscape of flat, snow-covered fields, broken by the occasional rest-stop and the looming statue of the World’s Biggest Woodchuck, one town’s failed attempt to create a tourist attraction. Instead I see the planes of Will’s chest, the wide slopes of his shoulders, the arch of his back and the exquisite geometry of his face moving above me.

I wish, more than I have ever wished for anything, that he were here with me now. I want to hold his hand. I want to tell him my secrets. I want to know everything about him – the first girl he ever kissed, and what scares him, and his happiest childhood memory, and what kind of man he wants to be. I have enough self-awareness to know that I wouldn’t be an obvious candidate for a fling with Will even without the intervening issue of cohabitation. Whatever happens between us will be fraught with complications. Naturally, Will wants to be sure of me before we embark on this path together. But he would not have run away so abruptly if he were indifferent to me, if he really believed that what happened between us meant nothing, and this suggests that it means something to him, perhaps even as much as it means to me.

Quiet tears roll down my cheeks and I rummage in my bag for a tissue, unearthing instead the brown paper bag from A.J. I rub at the tears with my sleeve, and slide a notebook from the bag. It has lovely thick, creamy paper, a ribbon to mark the pages, and a hard cover with a delicate pattern of watermarks in alternating shades of blue and purple. I’ve been meaning to keep a journal for a while now, but until this moment, my life seemed empty of any drama worthy of recording. I uncap a pen, ready to bleed my longing for Will onto the crisp pages, but then I think of A.J. He is a mystery to me, but it feels disrespectful to turn his gift into a monument to my relationship, such as it is, with Will. So I turn back to the window until the bus pulls into the parking lot of the roadside hotel in Port Alice.

And there, standing next to a battered pick-up truck that he loves more than he ever loved the luxury cars he owned in the city, stands the man against whom all competitors for my affection will always be measured. “There’s my girl,” says my dad, and puts an arm around my shoulder. “How was your trip?”

“The roads were clear,” I say, surrendering to the easy routine of our traditional greeting.

“Glad to hear it,” he says, loading my bags into the back of the truck. “Your mother is beside herself. She was expecting you a few days ago.” He pulls out of the parking lot and turns onto the main road.

“I had to finish a couple of papers,” I say. “They took longer than I’d planned.”

“Don’t worry,” he says, patting my knee. “She’ll settle down when she has you back in the nest for a day or so.”

“Isn’t Mike home?”

Dad laughs. “He’s driving her crazy, as usual. She wants to bond; he wants to sleep late, watch football and go out drinking with his buddies. She’s pinned all her hopes on you.”

“Yay,” I say.

Dad looks serious. “I’m counting on you, sweetheart. Your mom looks forward to having you home for Christmas all year. It’s been lonely for her since you went away to school.”

His tone alarms me. “Is mom OK?”

“Of course,” he says. “I didn’t mean to worry you. She’s been a little blue lately, that’s all. The wedding business is quieter this time of year, and with you guys gone, the country life is a bit isolating for her. I’ve been wondering if we should get an apartment in the city so she could spend more time down there.”

This is an unsettling window into a marriage that has always seemed rock-solid in comparison to those of my friends’ parents. I look out at the familiar streets and houses, and wish that I could show them to Will; or rather, I wish that Will wanted to know every mundane detail of my history the way I do about him. I wonder what my dad would make of Will. However generous my interpretation of Will’s actions, I suspect that my dad isn’t the sort of man who runs from consequences; what passes for vulnerability in my eyes would undoubtedly be weakness in his.

“Mom says that she knew the moment she met you that she’d follow you to the ends of the earth,” I say, trying to make both of us feel better.

Dad smiles. “I think Port Alice feels like the end of the earth to her some days,” he says. “It’s a good thing she’s an incurable romantic.”

“Didn’t you know that she was the right person as soon as you met her?” My mother has told me this story so many times that it feels like my own. But suddenly I’m interested in his version of events. Maybe men are slower to perceive that they are in the presence of The One. Maybe the awareness of true love dawns more gradually for them.

“I think that events in the past benefit from hindsight in the retelling,” he says, too judiciously for my liking.

“Which means?”

“Which means, when you know the ending already, it’s easier to interpret a series of events in a way that makes the ending seem inevitable, whether or not it actually is.”

Dad may be the lawyer in the family, but he’s not the only one who can cross-examine.

“Are you saying that love at first sight doesn’t exist?”

Dad pulls into the long driveway, and Mom rushes out of the house, waving frantically as the truck pulls up. “It may,” he says. “Whether it does or not is largely a function of personality, and your mother has the right personality for falling in love at first sight, or at least believing that she fell in love at first sight.”

“And you?”

“I believe that there is only one major factor that determines whether or not a relationship will succeed, and it’s not very romantic.” He puts the car into park and cuts the engine.

“Which is?”

“Timing,” he says. “It’s all about timing.”