Sophie
days, it becomes painfully obvious how empty Evan’s life is. All he does is go for runs, work out in his massive home gym, walk around the kitchen looking for snacks and play video games.
Nobody visits him, since his friends, like mine, are all home with their families or holidaying abroad. He doesn’t seem bothered about university applications or homework or revision—or about much at all, actually. He just ambles aimlessly through his days, looking for stuff to do.
Whenever I return home from the café , he comes bounding down the stairs like an eager puppy. We get into the habit of cooking together, which mostly involves me doing the cooking and Evan looking over my shoulder and asking a million questions. I give him tasks, and he does them without complaint: washing up, peeling veggies, emptying the bins.
We eat together at his kitchen island and then watch TV for a bit in his fancy living room. Sometimes, we’ll play some video games, but I’m not very good at them, and Evan isn’t the best teacher, so I always end up giving up.
Other times, we’ll play some music and I’ll sit and chip away at my homework while Evan lies on his back on the floor with his legs on the sofa, playing games on his phone.
On Friday evening, I come home exhausted after five consecutive days at the café . I have Saturday and Sunday off, so I put away my coat and backpack and go find Evan. Although we never talked about the kiss at the party, it no longer feels like a phantom haunting us every time we’re together, so most of the awkwardness has dissipated by now.
He’s perched on a stool in the kitchen, watching something on his phone and sipping a massive protein shake. His blue eyes light up when I enter the room and he holds up his glass.
“Want some?”
“After I’m done working out in your basement, maybe.’
“You’re going to work out?” he asks with honest surprise.
I give him a look. “No, Evan. No, I’m not going to work out. But there is something I want us to do.”
He stares at me wide-eyed, and his phone slips from his hand, landing on the marble tabletop with a thud. A dull flush colours his cheeks. Immediately, the ghost of the kiss rises between us. I have to intervene quickly if I don’t want this to become unbearably awkward.
“Not whatever it is you’re imagining,” I snap.
“Oh.” He blinks at me with a slight frown. “What, then?”
I raise my eyebrows. “Do you remember the decorations we bought at the beginning of the week?”
He sits up. “Fuck off. Yes. Yes, I remember! What about them? Is it time?”
I nod solemnly. “It’s time.”
He runs from the kitchen, abandoning both his phone and his protein shake. The decorations are in bags and boxes in the hallway. I walk over to find Evan flitting around them like a giddy kid.
“Where do we start?”
Decorating takes us the rest of the afternoon and most of the evening. But when we finally finish and walk around to admire our handiwork, it doesn’t feel like we wasted our time. The austere elegance of the rooms is transformed by the soft glow of coloured fairy lights, the strings of tinsel, the garlands and wreaths.
Even our small Christmas tree, tucked by the ornate fireplace in the living room, looks pretty good now it’s decorated.
“Does that mean we’re doing presents, then?” Evan asks as we both stand admiring the tree.
“I mean, it’s a little late now. Do you want to?”
“Yeah! It would be weird to have a tree with no presents under it.”
I shrug. “Alright. We’ll do presents.”
I still remember the present Evan gave me in Year 9: a silver necklace with a tiny bear on it. The present was too nicely packaged for him to have wrapped it, but he had remembered what my favourite animal was, which had touched me profoundly.
It’s one of my last good memories of him.
I glance away from Evan. As hurtful as the memory is now, it’s a much-needed reminder of the reality of a friendship with Evan. Just because we’ve reached a sort of friendly civility during my stay at his house doesn’t mean we’re friends, and there’s no chance I’m letting him hurt me again.
Still, when I go to town the next day to look for a present while Evan is out for a run, I can’t help but feel a strange pressure. Rationally, I know that it doesn’t matter what I get him. This whole thing isn’t real, it’s more of a play-acting between us. Despite that, I can’t help but want to get him something he’ll like.
I spend hours looking, ambling from one shop to the next. What do you get someone who can have anything he wants?
The answer is… anything.
In the end, I settle on a soft, oversized hoodie the same summer sky-blue as his eyes. I buy blue wrapping paper with silver stars, and a Christmas card with a mischievous looking snowman on it.
When I get home, Evan is nowhere to be found, and I’m guessing he’s either sweating away in his gym or out doing the same thing I’m doing. So I carefully wrap his present, place it under our little tree and amble into the kitchen to cook some dinner.
He returns a little before I finish cooking. To my surprise, he apologises for not being back in time to help. Then he sets the kitchen island with cutlery and pours two glasses of wine. He offers me wine with every meal, which I always decline. But since I don’t have work the following day, and either I’m tired, or his candour has managed to lower my defences somewhat: I end up accepting the glass he gives me.
We sit and eat, Evan regaling me with tales of American Christmas extravagance and overzealous house decorations. I take a slow sip of wine and watch him over the rim of my glass.
He’s animated, cheeks flushed, blue eyes bright. I never realised how much of a fan of Christmas he was, but maybe all Americans love Christmas this much. He pauses in his stories to shovel stew and bread into his mouth, and I take the opportunity to ask the question that’s been on my mind.
“Do you miss America?”
He shrugs. “Kind of. I have good memories there, especially my aunt’s house in New Haven when the whole family gets together. And New York is pretty cool too. Everything in America feels bigger and newer compared to here.”
“Would you ever move back?”
“I mean, yeah, I think I’m gonna have to. I’ll probably intern for my dad in one of his offices or something. Who knows.”
“Well, I might end up moving there before you,” I say.
Evan freezes with a spoonful of stew halfway between his bowl and his mouth.
“You want to move to America? I thought you were going to Oxford or Cambridge. That’s where most of the kids in our year seem to be planning on going.”
“Exactly.”
He smirks. “Oh, of course. I forget how much you hate being associated with the rest of us Spearcrest kids. Wouldn’t want anyone thinking you’ve been handed anything, right?”
It’s an odd comment from him, subtly pointed. Evan might be many things, but subtle’s not one of them.
“Nothing wrong with that,” I say drily, taking another sip of my drink. I don’t particularly like wine, but this is good wine, and it warms me up from the inside on its way down.
“No, nothing wrong with that,” Evan says with a sudden smile. “They’re going to love you in America, you know.”
That, I did not expect. “Really?”
“Yeah, really. You’ve got this sort of stuck-up British sophistication, but you’re also an underdog. It’s a winning combination. All the American boys are going to fall head over heels in love with you.”
I try to imagine it. Being noticed by tall, smart American boys at Harvard. After years of being poked at from a distance like a roadside show bear by the Spearcrest boys, I can’t honestly say it’s not a pleasant image. It would be quite nice to be wanted for once.
“I wouldn’t hate that,” I say with a little shrug.
Evan looks scandalised. “What are you talking about? You’d never date an American!”
“What are you talking about? Since when are you such an authority on who I would or wouldn’t date?”
“I’m not saying I’m an authority. You’ve made your opinions on us thick, bull-headed Americans pretty clear.”
“I don’t think all Americans are thick and bull-headed. Americans have plenty of qualities too.”
He stares at me with his mouth open in an expression of incredulity. “What? Like what?”
“They can be friendly, optimistic, full of hope. There’s something kind of romantic about the American Dream, the belief that anyone can make it if they work hard enough. It might not be realistic, but it’s idealistic. I like that.”
Evan narrows his eyes and leans forward. “So what about me?”
“What about you?” I laugh. “You don’t count.”
“I don’t count? What do you mean, I don’t count? I’m American, aren’t I?”
“Yes, but,” I shake my hands, trying to think of the best way to explain what I mean, “you’re not an American boy, you’re a… a Spearcrest boy.”
I laugh and realise at exactly that moment that even though I’m not quite tipsy yet, the wine has definitely loosened my tongue a little. I make a mental note to reel myself in, because I’m not about to have another repeat of the party disaster. But there’s something about talking with Evan without a filter that’s somehow more intoxicating than the wine itself.
“So what you’re saying is that you wouldn’t refuse to date me on the grounds that I’m American, but rather on the grounds that I go to Spearcrest?”
I shake my head, then realise he’s not completely wrong. “Right, yeah.”
“You realise you go to Spearcrest too, right?”
I nod. “I wouldn’t date me either, if that’s what you’re asking.”
He sits back. “Oh my god, Sutton. You’re drunk.”
“I’m not drunk. I’m not even tipsy. I’m just being honest.”
“Okay. Alright. Then how about this: what if a guy asked you out, and you liked him, but he was from Spearcrest?”
“Don’t be stupid,” I say, pushing aside my empty bowl and grabbing some more bread. “That would never happen.”
“Because you’d never like a guy from Spearcrest?”
“Because nobody in Spearcrest would ever ask me out. You made sure of that.”
“Oh.” Evan looks away for a moment. His cheeks go several shades redder, as if he’s blushing. I narrow my eyes at this unexpected reaction, but then he turns back to look at me. “Isn’t that what you want, though?”
I let out a bark of laughter. “What, to be a social pariah because you and your shitty friends picked me out to be your personal pinata for the last few years? No, that’s not really what I want, Evan.”
He frowns. “We didn’t—come on, we never went too far. Mostly it was just teasing.”
“Teasing? You insulted me every chance you got, made my life a fucking nightmare for years and somehow made me out to be both a freak weirdo loner and an attention-starved social climber.”
“Well, you didn’t help yourself, did you?”
It’s my turn to blush and stumble. “What are you talking about?”
“Sucking up to the teachers, being a prefect and ratting everybody out, acting stuck-up all the time just because your parents work at the school.”
“It’s almost as if I was putting in the effort to make sure I would leave Spearcrest with excellent grades and references, something you and your millionaire mates clearly don’t worry about. And—and stop saying I’m stuck-up, I’m not stuck-up!”
Evan raises his eyebrows. “You think you’re better than the rest of us because our parents make our lives easy and we don’t ever have to do anything for ourselves or face consequences.”
“But that’s the truth!” I protest angrily.
My face is hot and I’m no longer laughing. Even though I don’t want to be, I can’t help but be offended that Evan thinks I’m stuck-up.
There’s a difference between having dignity and self-worth and being stuck-up, and Evan doesn’t seem to be understanding that.
“Sometimes, yes,” Evan admits. “But it doesn’t mean you’re better than us just because your life is more difficult.”
“I don’t think I’m better than you.”
That’s definitely a lie, and I hope Evan doesn’t realise. He leans forward again and speaks in a low, serious tone. “Fine. Then let me rephrase my question from before. If I asked you out, on a date, would you say yes?”
“Absolutely not.”
“Why not? It’s not because I’m American, and it’s not because I go to Spearcrest, right? So why not?”
“Because—” I stare at him, astounded that I even have to explain my answer after everything that’s happened between us all these years. “Because it’s not—this whole scenario isn’t real, you’re obviously not going to ask me out. We’re barely even friends. Why are you even asking? To prove your stupid point?”
“I’m asking. Go on, Sutton. Let me take you on a date. It can be your practice run at dating an American boy.”
His blue eyes are fixed on mine, intense and unyielding, daring me to look away. A smile plays on his lips, impossible to read.
It’s hard to tell how sincere he’s being, or even what point he’s trying to make anymore. But I’m completely out of my depth, like I’ve waded too far into the surf and am now being pulled under by a powerful, treacherous current.
A current alive with memories of cold night air and alcohol and Evan’s tongue sliding against mine.
Time for some evasive manoeuvering.
“Fine, I’ll make you a deal.” I lean toward him and meet his gaze. “If I get accepted into the US universities I’m applying to, then I’ll go on a date with you and you can tutor me on how to date an American.”
He tilts his head and narrows his eyes. “What universities are you applying to?”
“Harvard, Yale and Stanford.”
“Fuck me, Sutton.” He glares at me and then extends his hand out to me. “But fine. If anybody can do it, it’s you. Shake on it.”
I shake his hand, relieved that he’s fallen for my distraction tactic and more than a little triumphant at my trick. Except that when I try to pull my hand away, his fingers tighten around it, pulling me closer across the countertop.
“But we’re making out on the first date.”
I glare at him.
“Absolutely not.”
“Too late,” he says with a wicked grin. “We shook on it.”
And he releases my hand. My triumph vanishes as quickly as it appeared. Instead of tricking him, I think I might have just tricked myself.
