The phone yanked Sophie away from her meagre supper. She rarely cooked for herself—breakfast was black coffee, lunch grabbed at a café near work, and dinner usually just a glass of milk with biscuits. If hunger gnawed too insistently, she fried an egg. Weekends meant trips to her parents’, where her mother foisted Tupperware upon her—resistance was futile, tantamount to declaring war.
Sophie was finishing her milk when the shrill, annoyingly cheerful ringtone pierced the air. She’d been meaning to change it for something less grating, something that didn’t drill into her skull. Huffing, she set down the glass and shuffled to her room. Unknown number. But persistence meant urgency. She answered.
“Hello. Didn’t think you’d pick up.” The voice on the other end was achingly familiar. Years had passed, yet she knew it instantly. *Hang up*, a voice inside hissed.
“Please don’t. I need to talk to you,” the caller rushed, as if sensing her hesitation. Silence stretched.
“I’ve got no one else to turn to. Only you can help. Give me your address. I’ll come to you. It’s important,” added Emily after a pause.
Something was wrong. Emily wouldn’t call otherwise. Once, they’d been inseparable. In another life.
“Fine. I’ll text it,” Sophie said curtly, then hung up.
Her heart hammered. Why now? Her fingers trembled as she typed the address. Emily replied instantly: *Wait for me.*
Sophie returned to the kitchen, washed her glass, and sat.
For years, she’d banished all thoughts of her old friend. Convinced herself she’d moved on. But this call unleashed a landslide of buried memories.
***
Her mother adored *The School Waltz*. The film outlived the empire that birthed it, its themes still sharp. Sophie was named after the heroine—a fact people never failed to mention.
Unlike the actress who played her, Sophie was no beauty. Dishwater-blonde hair, pale lashes, small grey eyes. Her figure, too, was a sore point. “It’ll come,” her mother assured when Sophie fretted over her flat chest.
Emily, though—Emily had curves. She carried them like a banner. Boys’ eyes stuck to her like flies to honey.
Every summer, Sophie was shipped off to her gran’s in the countryside—a place slowly giving way to holiday homes. Only four houses remained occupied year-round: gran’s, old Mrs. Bevan’s, and two elderly couples. Mrs. Bevan’s grandson, Tom, was her summer companion.
One year, everything changed. Tom wasn’t the scruffy boy she remembered but a lanky teenager. Suddenly shy, she hesitated before barrelling into him as she once had. Tom, unfazed, dragged her to the river.
They chatted all the way, but when they reached the bank, Sophie balked at stripping to her swimsuit in front of him. She waited until he waded in, then yanked her dress off and plunged into the water before he could notice how little she’d grown where it mattered.
Summer always ended with unspoken rules: no addresses exchanged, no promises to write. The country was one world; the city, another.
The summer before sixth form, Tom didn’t come. Mrs. Bevan said he’d gone south with his mum. Bored and lonely, Sophie wrote to Emily, inviting her down for a weekend. Emily, who’d never known grandparents or countryside, leapt at the chance.
Two weeks later, Tom appeared—taller, broader, unfairly handsome with thick lashes Sophie envied. Instantly, she regretted inviting Emily, whose eyes lit up the moment she saw him.
That night, Emily whispered, “Have you ever kissed him?”
“God, no! We’ve been friends since we were kids,” Sophie scoffed. Soon, she’d regret those words.
Now they were a trio. Sophie, the spare wheel. For the first time, she counted the days until summer’s end.
Tom faded from her thoughts. Emily remained her friend, though they saw less of each other—different universities, different lives. Conversations grew strained, hurried. Then Emily invited her to a wedding.
“*What?* First year? Isn’t it too soon? Did your mum even agree?” Sophie pressed.
“What’s she going to do? She’ll be a grandma soon,” Emily grinned. “Be my bridesmaid?”
The wedding was days before New Year’s. Sophie’s breath seized when she saw Tom on her doorstep. She wanted to scream, vanish, die—anything to avoid watching them gaze at each other. But she was the bridesmaid. She couldn’t run.
In every photo, Sophie looked wretched—the only guest not smiling. She left halfway through.
Emily never apologised. *You said you were just friends*, she’d shrug. Calls grew sparse, then stopped entirely after the baby came. Sophie forced herself to forget them both.
Yet dating never stuck. Every boy was measured against Tom—and found wanting.
***
How long had it been? A decade? Mum mentioned Mrs. Bevan’s death, the old house sold to strangers. And now this call. Emily was coming. *Why did I agree?* Sophie cursed herself.
When the door opened, she barely recognised the woman on the threshold. Could ten years do *this*? The vibrant Emily of memory was gone, replaced by a gaunt spectre—sunken eyes, pallid skin, collarbones sharp as blades.
“Hello. Changed much?” Emily’s voice was the same, though brittle. “May I?”
Sophie led her to the kitchen. “Tea?”
The kettle hissed. Silence yawned.
“You haven’t changed at all,” Emily said flatly. “I’m dying. They’re offering surgery, but I won’t survive it.”
“Cancer?” Sophie whispered.
Emily nodded. “Thought I’d cheat it. Didn’t. Look after Jamie when I’m gone.”
“Em, don’t say that—”
“Stop. Jamie’s nine. Tom can’t do it alone.”
“His parents?”
“His mum remarried. Mine—well, you know her. She’s hopeless.” Emily’s eyes locked onto hers. “Sophie, please. There’s no one else.”
“But I—I don’t know kids. I can’t—”
The kettle screamed. Sophie seized the distraction, blinking back tears.
“This your place?” Emily asked.
“Yeah. Dad’s colleague sold it cheap when he moved abroad. Thought it’d help me ‘settle down.’” She busied herself with teacups, avoiding Emily’s stare.
“I knew you liked him. You’ve every right to hate me. Just help. I’m checking in tomorrow. Don’t visit. They’ll call you when—” Emily stood abruptly. The movement emphasised her frailty.
“Your tea—” Sophie gestured to the untouched cup.
Emily ignored her, heading for the door.
“Let me walk you out.” Sophie scrambled after her.
“Don’t pity me,” Emily snapped, freezing her with a glare.
The door clicked shut. Sophie slumped at the table, unable to process that vibrant, infuriating Emily could just… cease to exist.
***
A week passed. Then two. No calls. Sophie bit back the urge to ring the hospital. *No news is good news*, she told herself.
Then Tom called. Emily was gone.
The flat reeked of despair. Tom sat numb on the sofa, staring at nothing. Jamie curled silently by the TV.
“Tom, Emily asked—how can I help?”
“Take Jamie. Just till the funeral,” he grated.
“No!” Jamie jerked upright, tears blazing. “I’m not a baby!”
Sophie understood—this argument had already happened. “Let him say goodbye,” she said softly.
Tom said nothing. Jamie shot her a grateful look.
“Have you eaten?” She rummaged the barren kitchen, scrounging potatoes, pickles. Jamie devoured the meal; Tom just pushed food around.
Later, alone with Jamie, she asked, “Is he always like this?”
“Since Mum got sick,” the boy muttered.
Sophie hauled Tom to the shower, forced coffee into him, arranged the funeral. He moved like a ghost through it all.
At the wake, Jamie clung to her. Tom drank silently in a corner.
“Universe gave you grief, huh? What about Jamie? You lost a wife—he lost his *mother*!” she finally snapped. “I’m done watching you rot. Maybe this’ll remind you you’re still a father!”
She stormed out. Jamie called that night—Tom was drunk again.
Six months blurred by. Then Jamie mentioned a woman.
“She’s vile. If he marries her, do I have to call her Mum?” He scowled. “Wish it was you.”
“Your dad and I are just friends,” Sophie sighed. “He’s lonely.”
“What about *me*?”
“You’ll grow up. If it gets bad, come to me.”
Jamie started staying over often. Tom, increasingly sousedBy the time spring melted into summer, Sophie found herself standing beside a man who wasn’t Tom—a quiet, steady presence who looked at her like she was enough, just as she was, while Jamie grinned between them like he’d planned it all along.
