The Hole in the Middle

Chapter 25: MONDAY, DECEMBER 12, 2011

Monday morning finds me sitting at the breakfast bar in the kitchen with a pencil and paper, scribbling a set of calculations.

Jesse watches me for a few minutes over the rim of his coffee mug, and then says, “I can’t help noticing that you appear to be doing math.”

“I’m trying to get rid of the noise in my life, as per your instructions.”

“You’re taking my advice? There’s a positive improvement already.” I throw a strawberry at him, which he catches with the precision of a natural athlete. He takes a bite and grins at me. “You were talking in your sleep last night. I figured you were fretting.”

“What was I saying?”

“I couldn’t really understand it. I heard the word selfishness, and something about behaving like a grown-up. Were you dreaming about me, by any chance?”

“Believe it or not, I was solving a complex algorithm that assigns numeric values to the necessity of performing specific tasks.”

“Do tell,” he says, “That kind of thing is a major turn-on for an engineer.”

I laugh. “Don’t mock me.”

“I wouldn’t dream of it.”

“I’ve created an equation that I call the Requirement Of Action Rating, or ROAR for short,” I say. Jesse raises his eyebrows. “You take your desire to perform an activity, expressed as a number between zero and ten, add a number representing the amount of guilt that would result in your failure to perform the activity, then add a number representing the extent of your need to behave like a grown-up, and then subtract any points that you think you deserve, which I call ‘allowable selfishness’. In the end, you get a number that tells you how urgent the priority is. I’m trying to plan my day.”

To his credit, Jesse nods seriously. “And what have you concluded?” he asks.

“That the things I want to do least are also the things that I need to do most in order to preserve my self-identity as a mature and responsible adult.”

“I appreciate that this is new math for me, but shouldn’t ‘extreme lack of desire to perform an action’ lower the overall score?”

“Not when you start with the proposition that your desire to do any of it is zero. You can’t use negative numbers. That’s cheating.”

Now he laughs. “Would you like me to continue humoring you?”

“Yes, please.”

“What’s on the list for today?”

“Five things. Performance reviews for Erica and Geoff; a phone call to my mother to explain why I dropped out of family yoga; a discussion with Janelle Moss, in which I present a fresh and compelling theme for the Gala, which to be clear, I have not yet invented; and, if I can find the inner strength, a conversation with Joy in which I assert my authority and reclaim the balance of power in our relationship.”

“And how are the priorities shaking out?”

“Well, my mother is obviously at the top of the list with sixteen, in recognition of the exceptional level of guilt that she inspires as well as my pathological need to show her, however futilely, that I’m an adult. Geoff’s next with thirteen, because I feel incredibly guilty that I didn’t notice his feelings for me and then hurt him a lot, and because I need to demonstrate to myself that I can be a grown-up about the situation. Joy is an eight because I can’t even take myself seriously as a grown-up if I can’t get my own assistant to do what I want. Janelle’s a seven, which is low considering how behind I am on the Gala, and how correspondingly high my guilt factor should be, but I’m allowing myself extra selfishness as a result of the family dinner episode. And Erica gets a score of five, mostly because I gave her a big opportunity this week, so for once I don’t feel that guilty about her.” Jesse looks skeptical. “What do you think?”

“I think that your system reminds me oddly of the theories of birth control that I learned at Catholic school, but if it works for you, carry on.” He kisses the top of my head. “I’ve got to run. I’ve got a horrible day ahead myself. I’m meeting with our lawyer to talk about lay-off notices for the staff.”

I squirm inwardly, and remind myself that I am very, very lucky to be married to a man without a flair for the dramatic. “Are you sure you don’t want me to do some ROAR calculations for you?”

He laughs. “Thanks for the offer, but I think I’ll stick with what I know: sports metaphors.”

“Go for the flag,” I say. “I’ll drop the kids.” Jesse waves and heads out the door.

Two packed lunches, two parking lot traffic jams and two reluctant goodbyes later, I’m back at the germ checkpoint, struggling to dredge up a modicum of optimism for the day ahead. It could just be the depression talking; on the other hand, studies show that depressed people predict outcomes more accurately than their mentally healthy counterparts. So if I can’t come up with a scenario for the day that doesn’t make me want to run screaming from the building, I probably have good reasons. Not that I’m completely incapable of finding a bright side: thanks to antibiotics and the ministrations of Beverley Chen, for the first time in what feels like weeks, I’m not sick.

I step up to the front of the line and brace myself for my daily dose of Nigel. But what I find instead is a miracle, nothing less than concrete evidence of the power of prayer: Nigel is gone, and Max is back in his place.

“Sophie!” says Max. “Great to see you!”

“Max! Where’s Nigel?” I ask.

“Oh, he was just filling in for me while I was on vacation. He’s probably back in the Records Department.”

“You were on vacation?”

“You bet. Went to see the grandchildren.”

“Vacation,” I repeat. I’m having trouble processing.

Max is puzzled. “Didn’t I tell you before I left? Hey, I brought some pictures. Want to see them?”

“I’d love to Max,” I say, “but I’m late for a meeting upstairs.”

“Too bad,” he says, looking disappointed. “Maybe tomorrow?”

“I’m counting on it,” I say falsely, fingering the medical note in my pocket. I’m not sure how my relationship with Max developed to the point where he expects me not only to remember his vacations but also to feign interest in them. I have to give Nigel credit: even though he’s been steadily draining my will to live for the past week, he has never made me look at photos of his grandchildren. I don’t know if he even has grandchildren; in fact, at the moment I wish I could say the same about Max. The pursuit of human connection can be taxing, and it might not be the worst thing if I learned to be more selective in my intimacies.

I shake off this unsettling moment of nostalgia for Nigel and refocus on my plan of attack. I’m going to ease in, starting with the least dreadful task on my list and working up to the truly horrific. I’m silently rehearsing my constructive criticism for Erica as I pass Joy’s desk; she glowers and waves a pink message slip at me. Will, I think immediately, which begins a mental conversation that swings between guilt (You owe your excellent husband better than this) and self-justification (I’m just anxious because I haven’t made a decision about the Foundation job), until Joy puts a stop to it.

“Urgent message,” she says. “Janelle Moss wanted to speak to you as soon as you came in.”

“That may be,” I say, giving myself a mental kick. I cannot get thrown off my plan within fifteen minutes of entering the building. “But I need to see Erica first thing this morning. Could you call her for me?”

While I’m waiting, I jot down a few notes to limber up for the big event. I’m aiming for a tone of restrained praise: firm but fair, kind but constructive, and friendly without suggesting for a moment that we are friends. I know my own proclivities only too well, and I’m determined not to leave Erica with the mistaken impression that she is the most talented person in this or any department in the history of professional communications. There’s a knock at the door.

“Are you ready for me?” Erica says expectantly.

“Come in,” I say. “Have a seat.” She does.

“I’m sorry for taking so long to do your annual performance review,” I say, inwardly cursing myself for opening with an apology. “First, I want to take a few minutes to hear from you before I give you my comments. What do you think have been the highlights of your work here this year?”

Erica launches into a lengthy recitation of her greatest hits, culminating in the ADHD press conference last week. It’s fascinating to have a window into Erica’s psyche; in her overweening confidence, I see a photo negative of myself. Where my satisfaction in a project is always diminished by the recollection of missteps and false starts along the way, Erica’s pleasure in a good result appears to obliterate the memory of any and all past errors. It is striking to hear her describe an assignment from last summer as a success, when I recall the anxiety attack that ensued when I realized, almost too late, that her draft was completely off the mark and I had to pull Geoff in to do emergency triage. In her shoes, the mere thought of that assignment would still make me blush with shame, but Erica is not similarly burdened. In her mind, the end result was positive, and therefore should be celebrated as yet another example of her indispensable value to our team.

Erica is prepared to continue enumerating her triumphs for longer than I would have thought possible, so I wait for her to draw a breath and offer some comments of my own. “You have lots of energy and ambition,” I tell her, “and those are important. But at your level, you need to be working more independently. You still require a lot of direction from me at the beginning of a project, and Geoff usually does a heavy edit at the end. There’s no doubt that you are a talented writer, and I’d like to see you moving in a direction where your work needs very little oversight. I thought your work last week on the press conference was excellent, and it demonstrated to me that you can be self-sufficient when you’re motivated. I’d like to see that kind of focus on all of your projects. That’s how you’re going to get to the next level.”

Erica nods enthusiastically, and I’m relieved. I was prepared for an argument, but Erica seems to agree with everything I’ve said. Perhaps I’ve been uncharitable. “It’s important to me that you continue to develop your skills and that you feel challenged and supported here. Is there anything that I can do to help you achieve your goals?” I ask.

I’m not really expecting anything other than a pitch for money to attend a conference, but Erica says: “Absolutely. I agree that my performance this year has been outstanding, and I’d like to work with you on a timeline for moving up in the organization.”

“OK,” I say, although I’m a little confused. I thought I’d been clear that my feelings were in the range of somewhat satisfied to occasionally pleased, but it appears that something has been lost in translation. “Tell me what you have in mind.”

“I feel that I’ve been playing an increasingly important role on the team, and it’s great to see that you recognize my talent,” says Erica. “I’m glad you see that it’s time for me to move to the next level. I’d like you to consider promoting me now, but I’d be prepared to settle for a pay increase as long as I had your assurance that I could expect a title jump within the year.”

I look at Erica with a mixture of envy and incredulity. What would my life be, I wonder, if I had even a modicum of Erica’s confidence in her own talent, and in the inexorability of her success in the world? I can’t even imagine. Is everyone in Erica’s generation as sure of herself as she is? Is everyone in mine as afflicted with crippling imposter syndrome?

I clear my throat. “It may be that I wasn’t as clear as I could have been just now,” I say. “You are doing some very good work. But I’m not going to reward you with a promotion and a raise just because you are starting to perform at the level that I expect for someone in your position. You’re still learning. Keep up the good work and we’ll talk in a year about whether it’s time for you to move.”

Erica looks surprised but not particularly offended. “Oh, well,” she says, nonchalantly, “You’ll never get what you want if you don’t ask for it.”

“So I hear,” I say. “But just because you ask for it doesn’t mean that you’ll get it.”

“Touché,” she says, and we sit in silence for a moment while I fantasize about a workplace where no one says things like “touché”.

“So, have you decided on a theme for the Gala yet?” she asks.

“We have, and it’s very exciting,” I lie. “But it’s under wraps for now while we run the details to ground.” I put my hand over the telephone and affect my best expression of managerial authority. “I’m going to have to get back to it now, but I’ll share the details with you as soon as I can.”

“Can’t wait,” says Erica, rising to go.

“Me neither,” I say.

“You have a message,” Joy says, walking in and handing me a pink slip. “He didn’t want to be put through to voicemail.” She rolls her eyes, marveling at the sheer laziness of a caller who would put her to the trouble of penning a message, and stalks out. I glance at it and catch my breath. WHAT IS YOUR ANSWER? reads the message from caller Will Shannon.

I don’t have an answer yet, but I have questions. I know that when you choose a path in life, you can’t go back. You can undo the choices you’ve made, but the undoing won’t take you back to the place where you started. I’m not reckless enough to consider throwing my life away – my kind husband, my beautiful children – but even if I were, there no longer exists a path to an uncomplicated requited love with Will. I want to know if it ever existed at all.

I log into my email, which seems less immediately threatening today, still dangerous, but more in the nature of slow rising flood waters than a rampaging army thirsty for enemy blood; it’s a good sign, so I seize my courage and start typing.



J. Sophie Whelan

To: [email protected]

Sent: Monday, December 12, 2011, 10:08 AM

Subject: Answer



I’ll answer your question when you answer mine. What do you regret?



My trigger finger hovers as I contemplate hitting ‘send,’ but it doesn’t feel quite right. Maybe he needs a little more guidance on what I’m looking for here. I add a couple of sentences and delete them. Then I copy the whole thing and paste it into an email to Zoe.

J. Sophie Whelan

To: [email protected]

Sent: Monday, December 12, 2011, 10:20 AM

Subject: More advice



See draft email below. Any edits?



While I wait for her reply, I review my ROAR list, which is sitting in the middle of my desk, reproaching me for my lack of focus. But now that I’ve knocked off the one easy thing on the list, my options are all relatively unattractive. Should I start with my mother or with Joy? With love, however complicated, or with hate, however pale a version of it? Put that way, the choice is clear, so I pick up the phone and call my mother, who may be demanding and intrusive and crazy-making, but who loves me with an elemental force that will expire only when one of us passes from the earth, and probably not even then.

“Hi Mom,” I say, bracing myself for a tidal wave of admonishments.

“Oh, honey,” she says. “Are you alright? I’ve been so worried about you. Leo told me that you quit family yoga the other night.”

“I’m sorry, Mom. I should have called. Leo and I had a disagreement, and I lost my temper. I should have told you before that it’s been too stressful for me to try to get to yoga during the week, but I didn’t want to disappoint you.”

“Well,” she says. “I gave Leo a piece of my mind. I don’t know who he thinks he is. Pretty affected if you ask me! Dana and I quit in solidarity.”

I’m both stunned and unexpectedly touched. Although I’m unlikely to disagree that Leo is precious, I have some sympathy for his position. My mother, on the other hand, is indifferent to my confession that I tainted Leo’s sanctuary with hateful, karma-destroying technology. She instead blasts Leo with a stream of vitriol that reminds me she has always been much tougher than I give her credit for, and an amazing person to have in your corner. Why is my default memory of her that of a broken widow in the months following my dad’s death? I imagine that my mother is incapable of astonishing me, but in truth, she has been doing just that for years: moving back to the city after burying my dad, growing her business, rebuilding her life. Why do I cast her as someone who wants far more from me than I can possibly give, when she wants so little?

I’m reminded again of her many emails about Christmas, and press on. “I’m so sorry, Mom,” I say, “I know I’ve been dismissive lately. It’s not that I don’t care about Christmas; I’ve been under a huge amount of pressure and I’ve been struggling to stay above water.”

“I know, sweetie,” she says. And I truly believe she does know. I continue:

“I think Jamie would love to have a robot kit for Christmas. And you should forget the turducken. Let’s go with tradition this year. I’m trying to simplify.”

“Done,” says my mother. She sounds a little choked up. “I’m very, very proud of you. Your dad would be too. Now go back to work and stop worrying about me.”

“OK,” I say, “I’ll talk you to you later.”

I shed a few quiet tears at my desk, then blow my nose, pull out my compact and get rid of the evidence. “Joy,” I call. She takes her time coming in.

“Could you get Geoff for me?” I ask.

Joy looks sullen. “Why don’t you call him?” she says, pointing at my phone. “I’m in the middle of some work.”

I should be furious, but instead feel strangely cool. Is this a side effect of my whole-hearted embrace of the ROAR system? If you commit to organizing your day around the systemic eradication of dreaded tasks, can you trade roiling emotions for clinical detachment at will? I’ve been reluctant to initiate a confrontation with Joy, but it seems that the moment has arrived without any impetus from me.

“No you’re not,” I say. “Because, as we both know, I don’t give you any work.” Joy blinks. “That’s going to change starting today. I need an assistant who views it as an occupational requirement to make my life easier. That can be you or it can be someone else.”

We stare at each other for a long moment, and then Joy nods stiffly. “I’ll get Geoff,” she says and walks out.

And just like that, I see the world as I imagine men see it, a giant map of relationships about which strategic decisions must be made, like a game of Risk. The decisions you make might bring happiness or unhappiness, but the strategy should be selected in a state of essential coolness and rationality. I’ve always secretly wanted to be cool – really cool, as in not caring about what others think, as opposed to self-consciously cool and caring desperately about what others think – and maybe, for the first time in my life, I’m in striking distance.

A few minutes later, Geoff appears in the doorway.

“I’m supposed to give you a performance review today,” I say.

He lingers at the door, and then takes a couple of steps into the office, keeping his distance. “I’m still working through the feedback you gave me on Friday,” he says, and then catches himself. “I’m sorry. That was rude. Let’s hold off until next week. It’s going to be a busy day getting the holiday ad out the door.”

“You’re missing out,” I say brightly. “I was planning to put a rave review together for HR and tell them that you are perfectly capable of doing my job and that we’re lucky we’ve managed to keep you this long. With any luck, they’ll decide to give you the raise that you should have had last year. But we don’t have to meet about it today if it’s too awkward for you.”

“I think it is,” he says.

“Fair enough,” I say, but then I find that there is something that can’t wait after all. “You’ve been an amazing colleague and a friend, and I’ve absolutely loved working with you,” I say. Geoff stiffens and I take a deep breath and forge ahead. “I feel sick that I’ve made you miserable. It was completely unintentional and I’m sorry.” I stop myself from saying that I wish things could be different for us; it’s the easy way out, and it’s not true.

“I know you are,” he says. “I’m sure you understand that I can’t keep working for you. I’m going to be looking for a fresh start.”

“If you need to leave, I’ll give you the best reference in the world,” I say. “But can you hold off, just for a couple of weeks? Take some vacation if you need to? There may be an opportunity here and I wouldn’t want you to miss out.”

“I’ll consider it,” he says. And then his face lifts in a wan smile, a pale shadow of his old one, but progress all the same. “What did you say to Joy?”

“We had a meeting of the minds,” I say.

“Lucky Joy,” says Geoff, and walks out.

I turn to my computer screen and see that I have an email from Claudio. It’s the final cut of the holiday ad. I’m just about to play it when I notice that Joy is back in the doorway, looking oddly sheepish. “I should probably have mentioned this before,” she says. “Your senior management meeting started half an hour ago.”



Everyone turns to stare as I slink into the boardroom, and I realize with a sinking heart that Margaret Anderson is at the head of the table.

“I’m so sorry,” I say, mortified. “I got caught up in a performance review. We usually meet on Tuesdays, and I didn’t know that the schedule had changed.”

“Not to worry, Sophie,” says Margaret. “It’s not a formal meeting. I was in the office today and thought I’d take the opportunity to learn about the organization from the people running it. We were just wrapping up, although now that you’re here, maybe you could give us an update on the annual appeal? I understand that you did some emergency filming this weekend.”

“Actually, I have the final cut right here,” I say. “I haven’t seen it yet. Give me minute to boot up my laptop and we can all watch it together.”

“While we’re waiting, Margaret,” says Marni, “I just want to say how excited we all are to be working under your leadership. The selection committee made an inspired choice. We stand ready to help you execute your vision.”

“Thanks,” says Margaret, not looking at Marni.

“Here we go,” I say, as I pull up the file and run it. From the opening frame, I can tell that it’s absolutely perfect. The music is stirring, Carolyn is the epitome of caring and professionalism, and Taylor is so heartbreakingly brave that I want to leap out of my chair and write a check.

“You did this on how many days’ notice?” asks Margaret.

“Not many,” I say.

“Five,” says Bill, the Director of the Annual Fund. “Honestly, I don’t know how you did it. You’re kind of my new hero.”

“When is it going to air?” asks Margaret.

“That’s the really, really good news,” I say. “We got two stations to donate time in exchange for interviews with Dr. Viggars, our star ADHD researcher, so it’s airing all week, starting tonight.”

“Remarkable,” says Margaret. “Sounds like you pulled off a miracle.”

“It was my staff, really,” I say. “And our filmmaker, Claudio. They deserve the credit.”

“All the same,” says Margaret, “This is a job very well done.” She turns to the rest of the group. “That’s all for today, everyone. I’m looking forward to working with you.” Everyone stands up to leave, except for Marni, who lingers expectantly for the post meeting debrief, ready to mark her territory in the inner circle of the new regime. Alas, poor Barry, I think. The King is dead; long live the Queen.

“Sophie, would you mind staying for a few minutes?” asks Margaret. She turns to Marni. “Was there something else you wanted to ask me?”

“Uh, no,” says Marni. “I just thought we could talk for a few minutes about my business plan.”

“I’ll look forward to that discussion,” says Margaret, “But I won’t be able to have it today. I’ll have my assistant book one-on-one meetings with all of the managers over the next few weeks. Would you excuse us?” Margaret closes the door behind Marni’s unwilling back and takes a seat across from me.

“Truly, Sophie, congratulations,” she says. “I couldn’t believe my ears when Barry told me about the ridiculous deadline he imposed on you.”

“We’ve got a great team,” I say.

“You’re too modest,” says Margaret. “But that’s not what I want to talk to you about. I understand that Lillian Parker has made you a job offer.”

I feel myself flushing. “I’m sorry that you had to hear about it from someone other than me,” I say stiffly, conscious of the poor impression I must be making on my new boss. “I haven’t made any decisions.”

“Relax, Sophie,” says Margaret. “There’s nothing to be embarrassed about. I wanted you to know my position, and to know that you can discuss it with me if you want to. It’s entirely your decision. Everyone I’ve spoken to here – with one exception – says that you are a huge asset to the hospital. But Lillian’s foundation is our biggest donor, and it would be good for us to have you there. If you want to go we can talk about how to manage without you. I understand that your second-in-command – Geoff, is it? – is excellent, so that might be a solution. The only advice I’ll give you – and this is advice not as your future boss but as a professional woman who got into the game a few years ahead of you – is this: do what you want to do, not what Lillian wants you to do, or what you think I want you to do. It’s easy to make decisions to please other people, especially when they are as persuasive as our friend Lillian. It’s often easier than figuring out how to please ourselves.”

“I really appreciate that, Margaret,” I say. “Thanks. I don’t know what I’m going to do yet. There are a lot of things to consider.”

“Of course there are,” she says. “I remember your stage of life so vividly.” I wait for the usual refrain: These are the best years of your life. Enjoy every minute. You won’t believe how quickly it goes. But Margaret surprises me. “I’ll never forget the sheer relentlessness of it! Everyone tells you to enjoy it, but most of the time it’s too much of a grind – not to mention the constant noise. I was exhausted for years.”

I nod, and she smiles her wonderful smile at me.

“It gets easier,” she says. “I promise. But in the meantime, you should try to remember that it’s your life too, and have a little fun when you can.” She gets up. “It’s not always possible – I have a meeting now, for example, which has zero prospect of being fun – but there’s honor in the striving.” She winks.

“Margaret?” I ask, as she prepares to leave. “Can I ask who the exception is?”

“Oh, it wouldn’t be appropriate for me to tell you that,” she says. “Let’s just say that he lost his day job recently and his name rhymes with ‘hairy’. And I’m on my way to meet with him now. But you shouldn’t give it any thought, because no one, least of all me, is listening.”

My BlackBerry hums on the table. “Go ahead and answer that,” says Margaret. “We’ll speak again soon.”

I recognize the number. “Hi Lil,” I say.

“Sophie!” Lil shouts over the noise of a busy restaurant. “I’m at the Four Seasons with the Gala gals.”

“Who?”

“Addie, Katrina, Jane and Janelle. We’ve come up with the most divine idea for the Gala. Did you know that the eighties are back in vogue? Absurd, really, since that time period seems like last week to me and wasn’t all that fabulous the first time around.”

“I did know that,” I say.

“Do you remember Janelle’s daughter, Chelsea?”

“I met her at your party,” I say. “Doesn’t she have a band that does eighties’ covers?”

“Exactly, you clever girl.” Her voice fades slightly. “Don’t be silly, Janelle, you’re too modest. Chelsea is a major talent. This could be her big breakthrough. Imagine how proud you’ll be!”

I hear the buzzing of voices in the background, and Lil says, “Yes, Jane, Chelsea’s band would be an excellent choice from a budgetary perspective.” More buzzing, and then Lil again, “Costumes! What a marvelous idea, Addie.” The volume cranks up as Lil yells into the phone again. “Sophie, are you there? What do you think of costumes?”

“Why not?” I say. “Tell her she can wear as little as she likes.” Lil snickers and says, “Sophie says it will be very fashionable, very now. Just the theme we were looking for, Katrina.”

“Do we have your blessing, Sophie?” Lil shouts. I picture Janelle being berated by Lil over Cobb salad, hoisted with the petard of her own maternal pride, silently calculating the social cost of a failed event featuring her daughter in place of an aging rock star. It makes me smile.

“You do,” I say. “Actually, I love it.”

“I knew you would,” says Lil, and hangs up.

I shake my head and cross one more item off my mental ROAR list. Really, it’s been a remarkable day, and I feel stronger and more in control of my life than I have in weeks, maybe even years. I scroll lazily through my email, safe in the conviction that today, there’s nothing the universe can dish out that I can’t handle. And then the phone rings.

“What are you doing?” says Zoe.

“What do you mean?” I ask.

“I mean, Sophie,” she says, “What are you doing with Will Shannon? You can’t send this email.”

“Why not?” I ask. “Don’t I deserve an answer after all these years?”

“It’s not a question of what you deserve,” says Zoe. “It’s a question of what it will cost to get the answer – an answer, I might add, that doesn’t actually matter.”

“How can you say that?”

“Sophie,” she says. “You have to let go of the idea that there’s some alternative reality out there in which you and Will live happily ever after. It was never going to happen. You keep picking at this old scab and it’s going to bleed. You’re better than this.”

I start to cry. I know she’s right. Her voice softens. “Every woman has a ‘what if’ guy somewhere in her past, Sophie. But that’s where he belongs – in the past. You can’t let him mess with your future.”

“Alright,” I say, sniffling. “I won’t send it.”

“Good,” she says. “Because I don’t think you even know what you want from him.”

But for once, Zoe’s dead wrong. I know exactly what I want from Will. I want to know that he regrets Paris.