When Girlfriends Chase Dreams (32 page)

“Still liking it?” Sophie asks me.

“Yup. Should’ve discovered yoga ages ago.” I adjust the ends of my tightly fitted, spandex workout pants. “You heading out for the day? Or are you going to double-up, you crazy girl?”

Sometimes Sophie will find herself doing back-to-back sessions or hit the studio twice in one day. That usually only happens if she’s flustered by something (or someone), and with her putting in almost every waking hour at The Cup and the Cake, I can’t imagine where she would find the time or energy.

“Nah,” she says, wiping the sweat from her brow. “Got to get back to the bakery. Emily said we’re low on scones, so guess what that means?” She flings her towel over one shoulder.

“A little easier to manage when your mom was here, eh?”

“Tell me about it. I was spoiled having her here to help.” Sophie gives a short, friendly wave to my class’s instructor as she enters the studio. “But Emily’s fab. She’s a real sport. I’m
sooo
glad she offered to lend a hand.”

“And you’re still going to eventually hire on some help?”

“Eventually, when I see some nice profit coming in.” Sophie waves at an older lady, then looks at me with wide eyes. “Oh! I’ve got some girly gossip for you.”

Before I can answer, my class instructor announces that she’s about to begin and that we need to be at a seated position for some meditative breathing.

Dangit
, I think, almost saying it out loud.
Not a great time to be pulled away from Sophie.

So I rush out under my breath, “Quick. Can you tell me now?”

Sophie twists her mouth to the side, looking disappointed. “Shoot. How about you swing on by the café when you’re done here? That work?”

“Is it juicy-juicy?” I say with a smirk. “Like we need to sit down and talk?” I fold my legs as I take a seated position.

Sophie bends down and pats me on the back. “Two things, actually, so yeah…” She looks briefly up at the instructor. “Yeah. Swing by when you’re done, kay?”

I fleetingly run through my agenda for the evening. Conner can just order in something for dinner. I mean, I can’t miss out on girl gossip that Sophie is suggesting needs
time
to relay. I blurt out quietly that I’ll see her later. Oh, I wonder what she has to share…
 

***

“What is it?” I say to Sophie the instant after I greet a bustling Emily, who is moving from one corner of the busy café to the next. I’ve darted into the kitchen in the back and almost startle an aproned Sophie. “Sorry,” I tell her. “Okay, so what’s up? What’s the scoop?” I’m practically about to burst from anticipation!

“Slip on an apron over there and wash up,” she commands, nodding her head in the direction of the hanging aprons. “I’ll tell you while you help out with the baking.”

“Oh, hang on a sec.” I suddenly remember I need to let Conner know that I’ll be coming home late. Oops. I kind of forgot about the poor guy. I hastily type out a text, then suit up.

“What exactly am I helping you out with, by the way?” I glance around the room, and when I spot the mass of dough lying in a clump on a large, wooden cutting board on top of a flour-covered table, I arrive at my answer. “Scones! Right.” I roll my eyes at my forgetfulness.

“They’re the hot item right now,” Sophie says. “You know how to form them, right?”

I give her a knowing look. Seriously, how long have we known each other? And how long have I been doing this routine with her? I may not form the scones as artistically as Sophie, but I know the gist.

“Just make them as usual,” she says. “We’re doing regulars at palm’s width, not minis.”

I tie back my hair and wash my hands. “Okay, how long are you going to make me wait, Sophie? Give me gossip already!”

She smiles and says slyly, “You want interesting or, well—”

“Anything!” I almost shout, all agog. “Either bit of gossip. Come on, what’s up? It has to do with Chad, doesn’t it?”

Sophie’s face almost drops. She stops what she’s doing, the small round of dough in her palm falling clumsily onto the table. “Claire,” she says slowly, “what is with you being so obsessed with him?”

“All right, all right. Sorry.”

Sophie picks up the piece of dough and sighs.
 

“I’ll stop. Promise.”

“Thank you,” she says.

I smile, not able to contain my amusement. Yet I can’t help myself, so I throw in, “It’s just a little weird, him being here sometimes to help and all.”

“Claire.” Sophie gives me the semi-evil eye. “
Stooop
.”

“All right. That was the last jab. But given that, you can’t blame for me ask—”

“Claire, this news has nothing to do with Chad. Nothing whatsoever.” She places her freshly shaped scone onto the baking sheet. “As for bringing him up… Yes, he’s helping me. Yes, he still drives me nuts. Yes, he’s a nice guy.
No
, nothing’s going on. You’ve got to stop harping about it, dear.”

“Okay, okay.”

“But there
is
something going on with Henri,” she says in a coquettish note.

“What?” I gasp, dropping my own scone-shaping work onto the table. “What? What?
What?
” I scoot closer to her. “Sophie, what are you saying?”

She doesn’t look up from her fixed gaze on the dough in her hands. “This is the scarf guy, right?” I query. “And that was a Hermès scarf, wasn’t it?”

She’s smiling. “Yes.”

“Yes to what? Scarf guy? Hermès?” I’m completely ignoring my scone-making duties and staring at Sophie, wide-eyed and filled with wonder. Oh how I love a good romance story or juicy bit of gossip!

“Both.” She neatly places another scone onto the baking sheet, now making that three to my…I look down…none.

“Before you pass out from hyperventilation,” she says with a throaty laugh, “let me tell you straight up that it’s only a
change
that I’m talking about here. It’s not some big throw-you-for-a-loop kind of gossip.” I nod fervently. “But Henri and I—one of the guys from Paris I’ve been chatting with—”

“Yeah, I know.” Oh, could she get to the good part already? She’s killing me!
 

“Henri sent me the scarf, and it wasn’t really supposed to be indicative of anything. Nothing too flirtatious—only a good luck scarf, you know? For opening the café. It was nothing. Really, nothing.”

“Girl,” I have to interrupt, “Hermès is nothing?”

“He’s Parisian. I don’t know,” she says laxly. “It’s a thing. Anyway. He sent a little card with it, wishing me luck and all that on the opening.
Well
…just this week, during one of our usual Skype chats—”

“Usual?”

“Every week or so. When we can. Yeah, it’s about once a week. Anyway,” shaking her head, “he tells me during our call that he hopes the scarf has brought me lots of business and good luck and all that. Sweet, huh?” I nod in agreement, and Sophie points at my baking sheet. “Your scones?”

“Bossy-bossy,” I sing. I carefully roll a piece of dough in between my palms, still more intent on Sophie’s story than helping in the kitchen.

“So Henri tells me all that, and then,” pausing for effect, “he tells me that he misses me. That he hopes I can steal some time away from my café to visit him. And then—get this—he tells me that he’s single.”

I guffaw, assuming that Henri
would
be single. I mean, he’s flirting with Sophie, right?

“Isn’t that crazy?” She looks at me, incredulous, and I’m pretty sure the only expression I’m wearing is a confused one.

“Claire?” Her voice has taken on a whiny tone. “What do you think?”

“Let me get this straight.” I abandon my scone-making duties once again. “You and this Henri guy, you’ve been flirting? Like, wait, you dated a bit in Paris, right?”
 

She confirms this with a nod.
 

“And you two aren’t technically dating now…” Another confirmation. “So…he’s single? And? I’m lost, Sophie. What are you trying to say?”

She tells me that upon her return to Seattle, she and Henri had agreed that they would still see other people—there was to be no exclusivity, simply because of the ridiculousness of maintaining something from such a far distance. And, she adds, since they were never really exclusive before in Paris, they figured why start now? Something about her being flirty-nice with another Frenchie and maybe another and another…I really don’t know. It was all so casual over there. As Sophie put it, it was a “keep the lines open kind of thing with Henri when I came home. No strings attached. Still just as open to see other people.”

I can’t say I completely understand it; you’re either with someone or you’re not. Still baffled, Sophie tells me to just look at it as dating. Friday night with one guy, Saturday with another. There was never real commitment when she was over in Paris. Still, I can’t say I totally understand that, either, although in theory I guess I get it. When it comes to dating and love and relationships, though, I have Conner and, well, I have Conner.

“The thing is, Claire,” Sophie says while she puts her baking sheet into the oven, “Henri’s never made a
point
to tell me he’s single. Not since we first met. He gave the slyest smile on the camera when he said it, too. And when I told him that I, too, am still single, he was all smiley, and that’s when he said he missed me, that he wants me to come back to Paris for a visit.” She starts work on more scones, using my empty baking sheet to lay out the perfectly shaped treats.

“That’s crazy,” I say, now understanding the slight gravity of the situation. “If you’ve never really talked about it before…about being single or not…why bring it up now?”

“
Exactly
. I mean, like I said, we talked about it only when we were back in Paris, to make things clear, you know?” she says pragmatically. “We were both open to date others, and we did. Simple. And since then it’s just been casual chats online. A little flirty, but nothing serious.”

She peeks at me from the corner of her eye. “I think he might be smitten or something now,” she says. “To bring it up all of a sudden? Telling me that he’s not seeing anybody. Implying, I guess, that he wants to see
me
.” She raises her eyebrows. “After all this time being away from each other and only chatting on the web cam…emails…you know? And now he’s like, ‘You should come here.’ All super flirty and whatnot.”

“And I take it you’re smitten, too?”

A grin tugs at her lips. “A little. Nothing serious.” She throws in the last part in a very last minute, rushed kind of way.

“Of course,” I say teasingly. “Of course not.”

“I mean, let’s be realistic here, Claire. He won’t move to Seattle and I won’t move to Paris.”

“Although how awesome would that be?” I interject. “
Briefly
, of course.”

“True. But moving all the way over there? Leaving this place?” She casts about the room rapidly filling with the aroma of oranges and raspberry since Sophie put the recent batch of scones into the oven. “Leaving you and the girls?”

“All right, no need to convince me,” I say. “You’re not going anywhere.”

“I’m being realistic about it. In the meantime, though,” she places another scone onto the sheet, “I can have some fun. Maybe actually consider a trip over there—a short one—or
 
him here…”

“And in the meantime you’re still open to dating other guys?” I ask. “Say, someone who isn’t a zillion miles away?”

“Yeah, I’m open,” she says with a vibrato in her voice. “Not really ready for anything major, but I’m open.”

“Well, that is some happy news there,” I say. I press at the sides of my almost fully formed scone. “Good gossip, indeed. Not exactly really juicy news…like say if he wanted to marry you.” We have a quick laugh together. “But still a nice piece of gossip.”

“And that’s not even the good stuff.”

I, at last, place my first scone of the night onto the baking sheet and admire it. It doesn’t look half bad. “Oh yeah?” I nudge the sheet towards Sophie so she can put the last scone on it.

“John,” she replies.

“John?”

And with a plop of the final scone, Sophie dusts her floury hands on top of the table and says, “I’m fairly sure you’re right.”

I furrow my brow. “About?”

Sophie tears off a piece of dough from the remaining ball on the table and offers me a piece. As I toss the savory sweet into my mouth she says, “He’s gay.”

***

“Claire, how have you and Sophie come up with the notion that John’s gay?” Conner asks.

We’re in the middle of registering for wedding gifts at Target. We’ve already hit up Macy’s for those guests with cash to spare (those older, wealthier, family friend guests who are constantly being added to the list, thanks to Mom and Dad). We couldn’t really find all that much there—so much of their stuff is so stuffy and upper class.

Don’t get me wrong, I
love
intricate China patterns and crystal champagne flutes with really neat cuts and designs. But imagining that I can really own that stuff…right now with a jalopy in the drive whose trunk has
finally
dried…is difficult to do.

Not to mention trying to choose between Masons chartreuse and gold leaf China dinner plates and the Royal Albert bone China lavender and rose serving dishes was
not
a walk in the park with Conner by my side. It didn’t take more than fifteen minutes of wandering Macy’s dining and entertainment department before I knew that I’d have to make this stop a quick one before Conner mentally checked out.

Target’s turning out to be a much better and far more successful experience, though, and how can it not be? I mean, what can you
not
get at Target?

Conner seems to prefer this registry jaunt, too, judging from the fact that he’s only shared the scanner gun with me twice so far during the past hour. A small price to pay for him to cooperate with me and go on a quasi-shopping trip.

“Conner, I’m serious,” I say. “I thought it was wacky, too, and so did Sophie. But that’s what she said. Gay. John is gay.” I push the red cart that’s filled with some last minute groceries down the bedding aisle, and Conner pretends to fire the scanner at puffy bags of comforters like he’s a cowboy in the Wild West shooting threatening coyotes.