Sophie
November, life has become a blur of work, the stress of Evan replaced by the stress of academia. Despite my organisational skill, schoolwork piles up. Maths is easy enough if I put in the practice work, but History and Lit are back-to-back essays. Every teacher behaves as if theirs is the only subject you’re studying. And since I’m not willing to accept anything less than top marks, it means more reading, researching and writing.
It quickly becomes obvious that there are only so many plates I can juggle. So I’ve handed the reins of the book club to one of the Year 12 girls who’s been running it with me. I still run every morning, but my night-time swims have been cut in half. I’ve not even had time for chess club, which now clashes with the days I’m working.
When I’m not at the café or in classes, I’m in the study hall or the library.
The last thing I need is a full-blown fight, but this is basically what I get when the taxi drops me off outside Evan’s house on the last Tuesday of November.
The incessant rain has finally relented, giving way to a frosty cold that encases every blade of grass on the manicured lawn. Even though it’s cold and the ground is slippery, it’s still better than having to rely on Evan for a lift.
Alas, think of the devil and he shall appear.
Or, to be exact, he shall jog up the drive, in shorts and a hoodie, his sandy hair dark with sweat. The devil’s been running, and his cheeks and nose are red from the cold.
When he sees me, he pops out his earphones and greets me with a bright grin, his friendliness a glass mask for the tension thrumming through him.
“Well, hey Sutton. Just the person I was hoping to run into.”
He is up for a fight today. I can tell. His thinly-disguised aggression radiates from his strut, the crooked tilt of his grin, the directness of his gaze. His eyes are violently blue, challenging the colour of the sky.
I should have been ready for this. It was obvious last time we spoke that he’s been having second thoughts about our so-called alliance. I should have seen it coming, really. And since I got away from him last time, I doubt he’s going to drop the matter this time.
Still, evasive manoeuvres are worth a try.
“As always, it’s been a pleasure,” I say drily, “but I have somewhere to be. So unless you have some work you need me to do, I’ll be off.”
“Mm,” he walks up to me and stands the way he always does: right in front of me, too close for comfort. My heart starts beating faster. “Not today, Sutton. We need to talk.”
“Then make it quick,” I say, stifling back my annoyance. “I need to go.”
“Whatever plans you have, you’re going to have to cancel,” he says, tilting his head and speaking with disturbing gentleness. “I’m not joking around, Sutton. I wanna talk.”
This does not bode well. A sinking feeling pits through my guts. I glance up into Evan’s eyes, gauging him. He’s not going to budge on this. I’m going to have to weigh my options quickly.
If I go to work at the risk of pissing him off, he might renege on our deal altogether and break our tenuous alliance. If I cancel on work and keep him sweet, I risk letting down Freddy but might salvage my deal with Evan. Christmas is coming up, and there’ll be a lot of shifts I can pick up over the holidays, lots of money to tuck away into my university jar.
I’m going to have to take a loss now in exchange for a victory down the line.
“Fine,” I say, trying to keep the resentment out of my voice. “Go on inside, I need to make a call.”
He doesn’t budge, and I add with a sigh. “I’m not going to run away, Evan. I’ll be inside in a second.”
He watches me, his gaze as physical as a caress as it moves slowly over my face. Heat rises in my cheeks; I’m almost disturbed by the intensity of his gaze. He reaches for me and I flinch. His fingers brush my jaw and chin in a feather-light touch, his skin surprisingly warm.
“Don’t be too long,” he says, gentle and threatening all at once.
I swallow and glare at him. “You’re the one slowing me down.”
His fingers brush up my jaw and over my hair. He takes a strand and yanks. Then he grins, steps aside and saunters off into his house. I watch him go inside, and then still make sure to stand far enough from the house that Evan couldn’t hear me even if he stood right behind the door, which he probably is.
Freddy answers the phone after a few rings. Anxiety strangles me when I tell him I can’t come today, but to my surprise, he doesn’t even question me.
“Alright Sophie, don’t worry about it,” he says. “Can you still make Thursday?”
“I hope so,” I say quickly. “I’ll let you know as soon as I can. I’m so sorry, Freddy.”
He tells me not to apologise and that he’ll see me soon. Before he hangs up, he says, “Take care, Sophie. We’ll miss you here today!”
When I hang up, my heart is still beating fast, but not so much from fear this time. I press my cold hands against my cheeks, which are red-hot. No chance am I going inside the house with a blush.
God knows what Evan would make of that.
I push the door open and step slowly inside. Evan’s house never fails to fill me with awe: opulent décor, pale marble, light pouring in from the windows in abundance.
The house feels modern and new, yet it’s full of antique statues, paintings and chandeliers. It has a sort of timeless aristocratic elegance that is in stark contrast to Evan’s all-American youthfulness.
Noises lead me into the kitchen. There, Evan is breaking frozen bananas into pieces and dropping them into a blender. He’s still in his shorts and baggy sweatshirt, and I can’t help but notice his legs, the tan skin taught with muscles.
I’m almost irrationally annoyed by the way he wears shorts even in the dead of winter. Everything else about him becomes annoying too, by association. The way his sandy hair, pale and buttery-soft, has grown a little too long, curling around his ears and against the nape of his neck. The pale eyelashes that frame his too-blue eyes, the curl of his grin, his unnaturally white teeth.
Evan’s always been beautiful, but now his handsomeness is just another aspect of what makes him so hateful.
He drops two scoops of protein powder into the blender and pours in almond milk. His eyes flick to me while he blends, and he dances a little as if the noise is music to his ears. I perch myself on one of the kitchen stools, watching him with annoyance.
“Banana milkshake?” he asks once he’s finished.
“I’m alright. Just say what you need to say.”
He pours his milkshake into a tall glass and sighs. “All business as always, huh?”
“Unlike you, I value my time too much to waste it.”
He pauses and glances at the glass in his hand. “This isn’t a waste of time. Protein is important, you know. It’s the building block of muscles.”
“Wow, so at least you listened in science class.”
“Mm,” he takes a sip and licks some milkshake from the corner of his lips. “I’m more than just my good looks.”
Hardly, I want to say, but I keep my mouth shut. His blue eyes are still fixed on me as he walks over to the kitchen island in slow, relaxed steps. To my relief, he stays on the other side, propping both elbows on the marble countertop. He takes a deep drink of his milkshake, wipes his mouth on the back of his hand, taking his sweet time.
Making me wait. Testing my patience.
“I need us to put our deal on hold for now,” he says finally.
“Absolutely not.”
“Hear me out, Sutton.”
I clench my fists but stay quiet, waiting for him to carry on.
“We have a literature exam coming up the week before winter break. You know I’m not lying; I’m guessing you have an exam too.”
I do. I’ve been revising for it for several weeks now. It’s an exam I have every intention of getting full marks on.
I doubt Evan has even read the books for it.
“So?”
“So, Sutton, I’m going to be sitting that exam, same as you. Except I’m not ready for that exam.”
“It’s not my fault you refuse to study for your own A-Levels.”
“No, but you are the one who’s meant to tutor me for this particular A-Level. So how do you think it’s going to go down if I fuck up the exam?”
Anger flares in my chest. “You wanted out of those tutoring sessions as much as I did!”
“I’m not saying I didn’t. Jesus, Sutton, quit being so defensive. I’m just saying, if we want to carry on our little arrangement, it would work out in both our favours if you help me get at least a passing grade on this paper.”
“If that’s what you wanted, then why not ask earlier?” I exclaim, this time unable to suppress the anger from rising in my voice. “The exam is in less than two weeks!”
“Honestly? I had no idea we had an exam because sometimes I just don’t listen to Mr Houghton at all.”
“Sometimes?” I ask in derision. “When do you listen to him, then?”
“Hey! I actually know that Hamlet is set in Denmark, so get off my case.”
I sigh, pressing my fingers to my temple. The headache throbbing there has been brewing for a few days now, but it’s really hammering into life through this conversation. I’m so furious my hands are shaking. Evan has been fucking about all term, he’s even blackmailed me into doing his homework for him. Now he wants me to actually tutor him?
“I’m not going to do it,” I say, sliding off the stool to stand. “Forget it, Evan. If you want to do well in the exam, then do what the rest of us are doing and study for it.”
Evan narrows his eyes then slowly sets his glass aside. Wiping his hand on the back of his mouth, he skirts the kitchen island to stand in front of me.
If he’s hoping to intimidate me with his height, his broad shoulders and big arms, then he’s wrong. I cross my arms, waiting for him to make his move.
“Have I not been covering for you this whole time?” he asks. He speaks with that low voice, that half-smirk. Amiable and threatening all at once. “The least you can do is help me pass a fucking exam.”
“How much of a difference do you think a couple of tutoring sessions are going to make?” I meet his gaze and hold it, even though I have to step back and tilt my head up to do it.
“Then give me more sessions,” he says, and his smile unfurls, widens, becomes full of self-assurance.
“You really think I’m going to waste my free time so I can help you pass an exam?” I say, incensed. “You’re not just stupid, you’re delusional.”
Now his smile grows dangerous. He steps closer. Heat emanates from his skin, brushing against me. My heart is hammering, but not the way it did when I talked to Freddy. It knocks against my ribs, my pulse pounding in my throat. My gut squirms and heat burns in my cheeks.
It’s crazy how similar adrenaline can feel to lust sometimes.
“Anything else you want to say, Sutton?” Evan’s voice drips with arrogance. “Get it off your chest. Go on. I can take it.”
He’s goading me. But he’s so close, and even though I’m forever cold, I’m running too hot under my coat and scarf. I want to grab him by his stupid baggy sweatshirt, shove him, punch his chest and slap the smirk off his face.
“Step back,” I snap. “You’re standing too close.”
“Too close?” he asks, his voice rough. “Too close for what? What is it you’re afraid of, Sutton?”
“Certainly not you.”
“Are you sure?”
He reaches for me and I resist the urge to stumble back. I stand my ground as his hand closes around my thick scarf. With slow movements, he unwinds it from around my neck and pulls it off.
“Let me help you with that,” he murmurs. “You look like you’re too warm. Your cheeks are very red right now, Sutton.”
I try to grab the scarf from him but he tosses it behind his back.
“I would love to know what you’re so afraid of, Sutton.” His hands slide down the lapels of my coat. “What could possibly frighten someone as brave and strong and tough as you?”
He unbuttons my coat, pulls it off my shoulders. Underneath it, I’m wearing a white shirt, an oversized jumper, a skirt, black tights—enough layers that he gets nowhere near my skin—and yet the way he slides my coat off me is so intimate it sends a strange, gliding heat deep into my belly. My breath is short, and I have to swallow hard before I speak.
“Why don’t you just stop playing games and tell me what you want?” I ask, imbuing my voice with all the disdain I have for him.
“Want?” he repeats in a soft murmur. He leans down until his face is inches from mine, and I can smell him: banana milkshake and fresh sweat, cedarwood and frost. He’s close enough for his breath to ghost across my lips. For a terrifying, tantalising moment, I’m sure he’s going to kiss me. “I want you,” he continues, his voice low and rough, “to prepare me for that stupid fucking exam.”
Then he steps away from me and strides out of the kitchen.
I stumble back and almost collapse onto a stool, my legs buckling underneath me. Whatever mind games Evan is playing, he must be getting better at them, because I’m definitely more shaken than usual.
I’m trembling, blushing and panting, absolutely furious, and utterly humiliated.
He comes back with a shit-eating grin, carrying a pile of books, notebooks and papers, asking in a bright tone, “Where do we start, then?”
I glare at him, but he settles himself on a stool across the kitchen island. The space he’s ceding is about as much as I’m going to get from him in terms of victory. So I swallow back my anger, my confusion, my resentment—and whatever strange other feeling is lurking deep inside me.
“Since the exam is about Hamlet,” I say, trying to keep my voice from betraying how shaken I am. “I guess we should start with that.”
It’s a capitulation.
But the war’s barely starting.
