What Happened to Sophie Wilder by Christopher Beha Page A

her in the face of a bad mistake.
    â€œYou might have picked anyone else.”

    â€œIt wasn’t like that,” she said. “It was late, and we were the last two left at the party. It wasn’t a big thing.”
    She offered no apology. She didn’t even allow that I might have expected one. Having followed her lead, I had no choice but to play along. Somehow I kept up conversation until we got to her office on Broadway. Then I went home.
    A few days later, Max came to the apartment while my mother was out at work. At first he spoke vaguely about how Sophie and I weren’t really together. He reminded me that I had told him about Sophie’s interludes with other guys. I had even told him that they didn’t bother me. But finally he recognized the thing for what it was, and he told me he was sorry. In the end, Max was Max. One couldn’t expect all that much of him. We both knew that I would forgive him eventually. I didn’t see either of them for the rest of that summer, and I don’t know how much they saw of each other.
    Back on campus for senior year, Sophie knocked on my door. When I answered, she started crying—something I’d never seen her do. I’d been waiting for her to come to me, to beg for my forgiveness.
    â€œWhat is it?” I asked.
    â€œI need your help.”
    â€œI’m sorry,” I said. “I can’t.”
    â€œIt’s not about Max,” she said. “It’s something else.” Then she corrected herself. “I mean, it’s not really about him.”
    â€œI don’t care what it’s about,” I said.
    â€œI’m pregnant.”
    The news took a moment to settle. It was plausible enough, but I wanted to think it was just another story, a rather conventional one, about the scared young girl who has gotten herself into trouble.
    â€œJesus Christ,” I said. “Were you two really that careless?”

    â€œYes,” she said. “We really were.”
    I think now of what might have been different in that moment. Even if I’d realized that this was my last chance with Sophie, I can’t be sure I would have taken it. Maybe I was ready to throw off the life that we’d had, which now seemed insupportable to me. And perhaps I was right to feel insulted that she should expect me to help her bear up to the consequences of what she’d done with Max.
    â€œI can’t help you anymore,” I said.
    She looked startled in a profound way, as though the outcome of our conversation had never been in doubt to her, and a great many things now had to be recalibrated to assimilate this unforeseen turn.
    â€œSo we’re not going to get over this?” she asked.
    I didn’t answer.
    â€œWell what am I supposed to do, then?”
    â€œWhat do you mean?”
    â€œI made you,” she whispered.
    She was right, even if it didn’t change anything to say it now. I asked her to repeat herself not because I thought I’d misheard but because I wanted to hear it again, wanted to take proper hold of the idea.
    â€œI need you,” she said.
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    We ran into each other on campus, but we didn’t speak much until I went to Sophie’s room in early winter. It was the beginning of December, almost exactly three years since Max’s visit to campus. Over the years, her single rooms had been almost indistinguishable, but this one was different from the others, mostly just cleaner. There weren’t papers and books all over the furniture and floor. There were no burning joints or cigarettes, no half-empty bottles.
    â€œIt looks nice,” I said.

    â€œWell, I can’t do as much damage by myself.”
    â€œI guess not.”
    â€œListen, Charlie. I’m so sorry.”
    â€œYou don’t have to,” I told her.
    â€œNo, really,” she said. “I’m sorry for all of it. I knew what I was doing. I’m sorry for pretending it didn’t