Evan
doesn’t turn up. It’s not exactly a surprise—far from it. I would have been pretty shocked if she’d turned up.
She made pretty clear her intention to avoid me. But if she really wanted me out of her life, she probably shouldn’t have let me fuck her from behind and come all over her. Because now, I don’t want anything else but to do it again.
Over and over again.
Whatever strategy was behind that move, I suppose I can sort of work out. I made her come with my mouth that night so she probably assumed I chased her down to claim the orgasm I was owed in return. It would be exactly like Sophie to assume sex works exactly like a chess match, with two opponents facing each other across the board and taking turns making moves against one another.
What did she say again?
“You won.”
Like having sex with her was a victory, a way of scoring a point against her.
If there’s one thing I’ve learned this year, it’s that for someone so smart, Sophie can be really fucking stupid sometimes.
Sex isn’t a game of chess where one person wins and one person loses. Sophie hasn’t ceded a victory to me the way she so clearly believes. She didn’t let me win the battle just so she could end the war.
Quite the opposite.
If I wanted Sophie before, fucking her only made me want her more. Because now, all I can think about is making Sophie pant and moan and arch against me. Sliding my fingers against her pussy, feeling how wet and ready she is for me. Rubbing my cock against her pussy, her breasts, sliding it between her arrogant lips. All I can think about is fucking her hard and punishingly, making her feel as broken as I did when she fucked me and refused to look at my face.
But I also want so much more than that.
In spite of how cruel she is, I still want to please her. I want Sophie squirming and moaning under my hands, my lips, my tongue. I want Sophie writhing on top of me, I want to fuck her long and slow, to dangle her off the edge of an orgasm for as long as I can, to make her come so hard she sees stars.
And I want to get under Sophie’s skin.
I’m sick of being the one to lose my composure around her, of being a fucking mess while she stands there with her impeccable uniform and her straight posture and her disdainful eyes. I want to be the one to make a mess of her for once. I want to crumble her like a sheet of paper, scribble myself all over her.
So on Tuesday, even though I completely expected her to be a no-show, I still can’t help peering out of the windows and pacing around, waiting for something that’s not going to happen. I clench and unclench my fists and grit my teeth so hard I give myself a headache.
I made a deal with myself to not text her, and I haven’t. Part of me doesn’t want to give her the satisfaction of ghosting my texts, which is exactly what she would do. Part of me wants Sophie to be on the other side of the phone, staring at her notifications, wondering why I’ve not texted her.
I want Sophie to be as restless as I am, I want her to sit and suffer like me.
But deep down, I know how unlikely that is. Sophie hasn’t been shy about telling me she likes somebody else. If it’s true, then what can I do with that? This isn’t a romantic film, it’s not like I’m going to chase Sophie to some airport and make her pick me over someone she actually likes.
If she’s telling the truth, then whoever Sophie likes is probably everything she wants in a guy. Whereas I symbolise everything she hates. So of course Sophie is never going to choose me.
If I was smart, I’d do exactly what she said and stay away from her.
Except.
Except except except.
The logical side of my brain and the hungry side crash into each other in deafening clangs of chaotic thoughts. Every thought rings with the word “except”.
Sophie didn’t want to kiss me, except she’s the one who drunkenly pulled me to her at that party and kissed me first.
Sophie fancies somebody else, except she kissed me on Christmas eve and let me go down on her and came so hard her thighs were still shaking even while she was rejecting me.
Sophie hates me, except she’s the one who initiated sex yesterday and let me fuck her against a discarded table in the assembly hall cupboard.
I should give up on Sophie, except I just fucking can’t bring myself to.
Because wanting Sophie is worse than thirst or hunger or desire. It’s a deep, devouring need, undeniable and all-consuming. Every night when I crawl into my bed and close my eyes, the darkness behind my eyelids fills up with images of her, of her hair in that strict centre parting, of her dark brown eyes, of her mouth opening against mine, of her raspy voice coming out in short gasps.
Thinking about Sophie used to feel good, but now it’s galvanising. I don’t even try to rein in my fantasies anymore. I put her in scenarios in my head that make me so hard I have no choice but to touch myself. But letting my head constantly fill with these images doesn’t help, it only makes me crave her more.
And that’s how I end up like this: my phone turned off so I’m not tempted to text her, pacing up and down my house still hoping she turns up. Of course, she doesn’t turn up, and of course, it hurts like hell.
I wait a whole hour before I finally accept that she’s not coming, but I still feel restless. The house both feels too big and too small, so I pull on a sweatshirt, swap my jeans for running leggings and shorts, and get out of the house.
Outside, it’s not snowing anymore, and the cold winter sun has already melted the remains of yesterday’s snowfall. The air is cool and crisp in my lungs. The pavement is wet, but no longer slippery, so I set off on a run.
Normally, I run around the residential streets and towards Atwood Heather Botanical Garden. It’s quiet there this time of year, the perfect place to get away from everything.
But today, my feet take me in another direction, and I don’t question it until I realise I’m jogging up Fernwell high street. It’s a Tuesday afternoon so it’s fairly quiet, and most of the shops still have their decorations up, the dark street bright with twinkling lights.
I know I’m making a huge mistake by being here, so I enter into a bargain with myself. I’m just going to jog past Sophie’s café, that’s it. I might glance inside. Just to see her, to see if she’s okay. Not even just to see if she’s okay. I’m allowing myself to just look at her—nothing else, nothing more.
A starving man should be allowed to look at a slice of cake even if he’s not allowed to touch it.
Nothing wrong with that.
Once I’ve rationalised my actions, I jog up the street. Even though my pace is fairly slow and my cardiovascular health is pretty good, my heart is beating like crazy. I draw closer to the green and gold facade of The Little Garden, a sense of impending doom crashing down on me.
What if she sees me? What if she thinks I’m stalking her? What if she hates me even more than she already does?
Well. It’s too late. I’m running past the shop front.
I’m slowing down.
I’m stopping.
And the impending doom actualises into brutal, painful reality.
Yes, Sophie is there. She has her hair tied back into a low bun, and she’s wearing an apron over her black turtleneck top. She looks good enough to eat, good enough to love, good enough to fucking worship.
The café is empty, and she’s sitting up on the countertop next to a girl with purple hair. She’s talking and laughing, transformed by her smile.
In front of her is a guy in a big sweater. He has a mop of dark hair and I can’t see his face because his back is to the window. But he’s holding up a cupcake in front of Sophie, and she leans down to smell it, and he bops the top of the cupcake to the tip of her nose and she pulls back in surprise and bursts out laughing.
Her cheeks are flushed as the guy hands her the cupcake and she takes it, and when he walks away from her, her eyes follow him to the doorway through which he disappears. Her smile dims slightly after he walks away—because he was the one making her laugh.
Something black and monstrous rises inside me, something which scrapes and claws its way up my gut, through my throat, inside my mind.
I spring away like I’ve been electrocuted. I sprint all the way back to my house, my steady, calming jog forgotten.
My lungs burn and my heart pounds. I’m sick to my stomach, acid burning inside me. I concentrate on the way my body feels, trying desperately to keep my mind empty, my thoughts safe.
When I get to the house, my hands are so cold I can barely grip my key, and my fingers shake as I try to get the key into the lock.
In a burst of frustration, I throw the key at the floor and slam both my fists against the door with a yell. The hoarse sound echoes through the courtyard and fades amongst the pine trees. Then it’s quiet again, and all I can hear are my panting breaths and the deafening pounding of my heartbeat drumming in my ears.
I sink down, sitting with my elbows resting on my knees, my head dangling down. My vision is obscured by my sweat-drenched hair, but that’s fine. The porchlight turns itself off, plunging everything into darkness anyway.
“Fuck.”
My voice is hoarse and pathetic in the darkness. The anger has seeped out of me, leaving me breathless, exhausted, completely empty.
Sophie didn’t lie. She does like someone else. And in a way, I’d already guessed this was the reason Sophie of all people would flaunt a school rule. This isn’t just any job. This is a job with the guy she likes. I couldn’t really make him out through the window, but I know I also correctly guessed she liked an older guy.
This one seemed in his twenties, with a similar carelessly elegant style to Sophie. Exactly the type I knew she would go for.
The exact opposite of me.
It hurts like I’ve been physically stabbed in the heart. I grip my chest with a groan. What a fucking idiot I’ve been. I’ve been so busy treating her like shit to make sure nobody at Spearcrest would covet her that I pushed her right into the arms of some random nobody out in the real world.
I’ve truly cut my nose to spite my face, and now I’ve got nothing left to do but cry into my own blood.
No.
Since when have I become the kind of guy to think like that? I’ve never backed down from a fight before. I’ve never accepted defeat just because it hurts. I’m Evan fucking Knight, and if there’s one thing the Knights aren’t, it’s a bunch of quitters.
So Sophie likes this other guy. So fucking what? Sophie hasn’t liked me ever since I turned my back on our friendship, but I’ve never let that get in my way before. She might like this random nobody, but I’m the one who gets under her skin.
She can hate me all she likes, but she can’t deny how good my kisses made her feel, or how hard I made her come.
So fuck it. If she wants this other guy, she can work for it. I’m not going to lie down and let her walk right over me on her way to this guy’s arms. She’s going to have to go through me to get to him, and if she wants to do that then she’s going to have to get her hands dirty and actually fight me.
And I’m ready to fight as dirty as I need to.
