Sophie
finality settles over me after my fight with Evan, like something between us is now irremediably broken. I don’t quite know why I feel this way, because things are no more broken than they have always been.
The added dimension of sex—or whatever happened in the study hall—might be the reason behind my heightened emotions. Arguing with Evan and making out with him both leave me with the same sense of mingled victory and loss.
Is that what sex always feels like? Like winning pleasure at the cost of losing a part of yourself?
That night, even though I try really hard not to, I cry myself to sleep.
The following day, I finally respond to Freddy’s text. I had forgotten about it until my argument with Evan, and guilt overwhelms me after I text him. But he texts back almost immediately, and we arrange to meet for dinner at the weekend.
The implication of meeting him for dinner is not lost on me. Instead of anticipation, all I feel is guilt. Would I have remembered to text Freddy back if I hadn’t been reminded of him by Evan’s unexpected outburst of jealousy? Would I have agreed to meet him if it wasn’t to prove to myself I don’t want Evan?
Am I just using Freddy as a weapon in my war against Evan?
I don’t want to beat Evan by becoming just like him. Someone selfish and self-serving, who uses others to get what they want and dismiss them as soon as they’re done.
Still, as I get ready to meet Freddy, I can’t shake the guilt clinging to my skin like a parasite. I wear a plain black dress, boots and red lipstick, but I don’t go overboard. The more effort I make, the more it’s going to feel like a date, and the more this feels like a date, the more nervous I’ll be.
No, this isn’t a date. This is me giving myself a chance to experience being with someone who doesn’t make me feel like shit, someone who is actually nice to me. Someone who doesn’t play games or treat emotions like chess pieces.
The air is icy and crisp when I arrive in Fernwell, and I spot Freddy as soon as I enter the restaurant. True to form, he’s on time and waiting for me at the front of the restaurant. He’s wearing jeans, a thick jumper and a woolly coat. His dark hair is ruffled by the wind, his cheeks and nose are red from the cold. I rush over to him and he greets me with open arms and a wide smile.
His hug is warm and comforting, and he leads me into the restaurant with a friendly arm around my shoulders. It’s lovely—like being with the girls. I shake the thought away.
“How’s the Little Garden?” I ask as we sit at our table. I expected to be nervous, but Freddy’s presence is so calm and warm I can’t help but feel comfortable.
“It’s a little chaotic, I must admit.” Freddy grins. “With you gone and Jess focusing on her studies, it’s pretty much me riding solo at the moment.”
“I’m sure the old ladies of Fernwell don’t mind.”
Freddy laughs. “No, I’m sure they don’t. I just don’t know that there’s enough of me to go around.”
“Mm… so many old ladies, so little time.”
“Right!” Freddy chuckles then shakes his head. “I mean I’m definitely the consolation prize, because they keep asking about you. Seems you made quite an impression on them.”
I’m sure he’s saying this to be nice, because those old ladies worship the ground he walks on. And as we sit and eat and chat and laugh together, it’s so easy to see why. Freddy is everything one would want in a person: well-spoken, compassionate, friendly. Nothing he ever says feels forced, strategic or calculated.
But the more time passes, the more restless I become.
Because I’m not blind, or deluded, or naive. Freddy is warm and comforting like a warm cup of tea—but a cup of tea has never set my heart racing, or made my blood pump through my veins, and made me so painfully turned on I would have done anything for it.
Everything about Freddy is the opposite of Evan.
Where Freddy is a safe harbour, Evan is a dangerous storm. Where Freddy makes me feel like nothing bad could happen to me, Evan makes me feel like I’m constantly on the verge of having to fight for my life. Where Freddy makes me feel soft and comforted, Evan makes every part of my body pulse with adrenaline, with tension, with anticipation.
Am I broken? Am I so used to the insane pressure and pain of battling Evan Knight I can no longer get excited by kindness and affection? Everything I’ve done with Evan has been reckless—every time we touch feels perilous, precarious, volatile. Handling him is like cupping gunpowder in your bare hands while you’re on fire.
I remember his words the last time I saw him. “He’ll never make you feel the way I do.” I had been so desperate to prove him wrong.
But meeting with Freddy only did the complete opposite.
After dinner, Freddy walks me all the way to the bus stop. We walk shoulder to shoulder, talking about exams, trading study tips, discussing the books we’ve read this year, a new exhibition at the National Gallery he wants to check out. When we get to the bus stop, he hugs me again and I swallow nervously, wondering if he expects something more, wondering what I’m going to do if he tries something.
But Freddy breaks the hug and says, “I’ve had a great evening. I’m honestly so glad I got to see you, Sophe. I was a little worried about you.”
I shrug and smile. “Don’t worry about me. I’m tough—you know that.”
“Mm, yes, that’s true.” He tilts his head. “But even tough girls deserve to be cared for and looked after sometimes.”
Freddy looks past my exterior and sees somebody he wants to protect and care for.
What does Evan see when he looks past my exterior?
Someone he wants to challenge, battle, conquer?
I laugh and give Freddy’s arm a little smack. “Whoa, your parents really raised a gentleman, huh?”
He laughs. “What can I say.” He hesitates, takes a deep breath, then speaks quickly. “You know, Sophe, I had a great time tonight and I… well, I like you, I’m sure that’s not a massively shocking surprise because you’re literally gorgeous and must have guys embarrass themselves trying to ask you out all the time, but… well, I like you, so would you like to go on a date, sometime—not just dinner, but a proper date?”
My heart sinks.
Anger and sadness rise inside of me. Anger at myself for being so broken I’m about to turn down the first guy to have properly asked me out. And sadness, sadness for Freddy, but also for myself, for being so caught up in the storm of Evan to even want the safe harbour of Freddy.
“I’m really sorry, Freddy, I don’t want to give you false hopes or mess you around.” I hesitate, because I did mess him around a little. “But I don’t think we should go on a date. I…” I don’t want to lie to Freddy, but I can’t exactly tell him the truth, because I hardly even know what the truth is. “I need to focus on my studies right now, and I’ll be leaving Spearcrest soon, so… um…”
He raises a hand and smiles. “You don’t have to explain yourself to me, Sophe. A simple no is fair enough. You’re too good for me anyway!” He laughs and shoves his hands in his pockets with a tiny shrug. “Well, I’m not going to inflict any more awkwardness on either of us, so I’m going to head home. You’re going to be alright?”
I nod, thankful for his understanding, his patience, his compassion. “Yes, my bus should be here soon.”
“Good. But also, are you going to be alright, in general?”
It’s a complex question. I don’t know the answer.
“I hope so,” I say.
“Me too,” he answers. “I’m always around if you ever want to chat or vent. Take care, Sophe, alright?”
“You too.”
He waves, and walks away. I watch him until he disappears around the street corner. I let out a long, shuddering sigh when he does, unsure whether I am devastated or relieved.
Luckily, the weekend is over and there isn’t much time for melancholy or introspection. There are exams to prepare for, coursework to complete, and plenty of extracurriculars to keep me busy.
And if I thought tutoring Zachary Blackwood instead of Evan was going to be easier, that only winds up true in the way there isn’t any tension between Zachary and me, but only in that way.
On our first session, he’s there first, bent over a book. We’re meeting in an empty English classroom, and his organisation is enough to rival mine: his notes are filed away in a folder, grouped and tabbed by texts, then characters, themes and context. His notebook is full of notes and essays, the mark schemes stapled to the last pages.
After I’ve taken my seat next to him I have a look through his stuff, and then I put everything down.
“How on earth do you need tutoring?” I ask. “You seem to be on top of everything.”
Zachary shrugs. “Lit is the only subject I’m not getting full marks for.”
“I mean…” I raise my eyebrows at him. “Do you have to get full marks?”
Zachary observes me in silence for a moment. It’s crazy how different from Evan he looks: slim, dark, almost aristocratic. His uniform is impeccable, and his black curls are cropped short, exposing a tall forehead and intelligent honey-brown eyes. Even the way he speaks is different, his posh, clipped British accent a stark contrast to Evan’s soft American lilt.
“Do you know Theodora Dorokhova?” he asks.
I nod. “Of course. Head girl.”
Theodora is more than just head girl: since I arrived at Spearcrest, she’s always topped every grade ranking in every subject. Where I need to work hard to achieve my grades, Theodora doesn’t just work hard—she has this insane natural intelligence that’s just impressive to witness. Anytime she falls short of being number one for grades in the year or in a specific subject, she doesn’t rest until she gets there.
I admire that about her, but could never dream of a friendship with Theodora. Amongst the elite of Spearcrest, she’s in the stratosphere, a Young Queen in her own right. Her parents are descended from both British and Russian nobility and probably own more land than the queen of England.
Theodora is the kind of rich and posh even other Spearcrest kids are in awe of.
“What about her?”
Zachary sighs. “She’s getting full marks in all her essays in Lit.”
“Right?”
I stare at him.
“It’s just a point of honour,” Zachary says with dignity. “Every class we’ve ever shared we’ve tied in. We’re tying in Mr Ambrose’s programme. But now she’s beating me in English.”
“Oh.”
I stare at him. He seems almost too mature and old-beyond-his-years for this kind of rivalry, but I can tell he’s not joking. And I can sort of understand why you’d want to go toe-to-toe with Theodora—Zachary certainly seems like he would enjoy the challenge.
“Alright, “ I say, “well, I’ll do my best to help you. I’ve only ever got full marks in one essay, so I’ll bring a copy of that next time, but for now, I’d say we should focus on critical theory for the Austen unit. Are you doing Persuasion too?”
Zachary picks up his copy of Persuasion and hands it to me. I flip through it to see highlighted passages, tabs and exquisitely handwritten notes in the margins.
“Alright, this is a good start. Should we start by swapping notes? I might have some stuff you don’t and vice versa.”
Zachary nods and we swap copies, both opening our notebooks. We work in silence: like me, Zachary doesn’t seem much interested in making conversation and we only talk to clarify points. At the end of the two hours, Zachary is the first to close his books and stand.
“That was helpful,” he says solemnly. “Thank you.”
“Right, you’re welcome. See you Thursday.”
He gives a nod, grabs his stuff and leaves. I marvel at his stark professionalism and earnest solemnity. Why can’t every student here be like that? It’s easy to forget he’s one of the so-called Young Kings when his behaviour is so mature and polite.
Instead of following him out of the classroom, I fold my arms on the table and rest my head on my forearms. How did Beatrice get on with Evan? Did he let her teach him, or did he distract her with his big blue eyes and flirty smile? That sounds like something he would do.
And didn’t I tell him he was welcome to all the girls he wanted? I’m sure he doesn’t need my encouragement to do that.
But instead of thinking about Evan and Beatrice, my mind ventures into muddy, murky territory, straight into the memory of Evan’s vivid blue eyes and intense look while he worked me with his fingers. The aggression and hunger in his voice. His face between my legs, his lips gleaming with the wetness from my own orgasm.
His hoarse voice when he said, “You’re all I fucking think about, all the time.”
After all the lies Evan has spoken over the years, this didn’t sound like one. It sounded like the raw, painful truth. Even thinking about it now, it makes my heart beat faster and heat rises in my cheeks and chest.
Would anybody else ever make me feel the way he does? Would anybody else ever turn me on as intensely, as devastatingly as he can? What if my curse is that even though I hate Evan with every fibre of my being, he is also the only person who can make me feel the way he does?
That sounds like the sort of Greek tragedy stuff that would happen to me.
I shake my head vigorously and stand up.
I need to get a grip. To distract myself, I go for a swim. Except that when I get to the pool, it, too, is full of memories of Evan. Evan’s crooked grin in the bluish lights, Evan’s wicked laughter when he pulled me into the water, Evan pinning me to him by my waist, his hard muscles rippling against me.
I dive into the cold water, trying to shock the memories out of my head. I swim fast laps, hoping I can somehow outswim those stupid memories. My breath burns in my lungs as I force myself to keep going.
By the time I emerge from the pool, my eyes are aching with chlorine, my heart is hammering and my muscles are trembling, but I feel much better. Until I get to the diving board I’ve left my towel on. Because when I pick up the towel I grabbed randomly from my wardrobe, I spot the letters EAK monogrammed in gold in the corner.
I stare at the towel for a moment and then bury my face in it with a long sigh of despair.
