Page 14 of Spearcrest Queen

“We’re friends,” Max continues smugly, “didn’t she tell you?”

Sophie’s shoulders are rigid beneath Maximilian’s arm, her body giving nothing away, her face a stone mask, her blank eyes trained on the horizon as though she’s willing herself a thousand miles away.

For a split second, a confused, irrational thought worms its way into my mind. Why isn’t she putting him in his place? She’d never let anyone get away with pushing her around before. At Spearcrest, she would have cut him down in seconds.

But she’s out of Spearcrest; she shouldn’t need to fight back. And she’s gotmenow.Ishould be the one defending her. I should be physically ripping Maximilian off her, kicking him down the stairs and roaring at him to never put his hands on Sophie ever again.

The only thing that stops me from doing so is Sophie herself, the way she stands motionless, like a rabbit trapped between a wolf’s jaws.

“Sophie,” I say, addressing her in a lower voice, gentle. “You ready to go?”

Her unfocused eyes brush over me like she barely sees me. She nods, and then Maximilian moves them both towards me, descending the steps, pushing Sophie forward with his arm still draped around her shoulders. His friends stay where they are, exhaling obnoxious billows of smoke, watching the scene unfold.

“How did you two meet, anyway?” Maximilian asks casually, like we’re all good friends. He doesn’t wait for an answer. “Didn’t think he’d be your type,” he says, giving Sophie a conspiratorial wink.

I clench my jaw, weighing up the satisfaction of punching Maximilian against Sophie’s anger if I did. Her straight back and empty eyes keep me in check.

“There’s a line,” I tell Maximilian instead. “You seem to be headed straight for it, Fitzpatrick. Better not.”

For a moment, there’s nothing but the sound of the rain, the distant rumble of traffic, the low growl of the wind. Now Maximilian’s the one weighing his options: the satisfaction ofneedling Sophie against the humiliation of getting his nose smashed in by a former rugby captain.

“Oh no,” he says quickly to Sophie, eyes widening with pretend shock. “I didn’t mean to imply you’re climbing the ladder on your knees. But hey—” He winks, and Sophie flinches ever so slightly, her shoulders squaring like she’s bracing for impact. “There’s no shame in knowing how to play the game.”

Satisfaction gleams in his eyes when she reacts. And then, finally, he releases her.

“Well, have a nice weekend, Sophie,” he says, blowing her a kiss before retreating back to his friends at the top of the steps. “See you Tuesday!”

It rings like a threat. The boy and girl flanking him smirk, watching in silence as I pull Sophie under the shelter of my umbrella, wrapping an arm around her shoulders, shielding her.

She feels cold all over, like the rain’s made its way deep inside her, soaking all the way into her bones. Her face is expressionless, her dark hair wet, raindrops streaking down her cheeks like tears.

I hold her all the way to the car.

She doesn’t say a word.

She’s pale and quietin the car, her entire body angled away from me, her forehead resting against the window. Her breath mists faintly against the glass. The bouquet of roses lies forgotten in the back seat.

She doesn’t say much on the drive to her dorm, telling me she’s tired, that it’s been a long day. I offer to grab us some coffees, but shedeclines.

“Let’s just get my stuff and go,” she says with an empty, perfunctory smile.

I don’t need to be told that she wants me to wait while she runs in to grab her suitcase. My leg bounces nervously as I wait, and not a minute passes that I don’t expect a text from her to pop up, cancelling our weekend.

Sophie has cowardly tendencies when it comes to breaking my heart: she’s only ever confrontational when she has the upper hand. When emotions are involved, though, when we’re both down in the messy dirt of our own feelings, then she’ll choose evasion and avoidance over anything else.

I’m almost shocked when she returns fifteen minutes later with a small suitcase. I hurry out of the car to get her suitcase for her, placing it carefully in the trunk. Back in the car, I glance at her. Her coat is folded on her lap, her hair is down and she’s wearing a fresh coat of plum lip gloss.

The rims of her eyes are puffy and red.

She’s been crying.

It hits me like a punch straight to the gut. Sophie’s clearly taken great pains to hide it: she’s put on a light coat of concealer and fresh eyeliner. But she must have cried hard and long, because she can’t quite disguise the redness, the puffiness of her lips and eyelids.

Her fingers tighten around the hem of her skirt; she knows I’ve noticed. But she doesn’t acknowledge it. She just keeps staring out the window because she thinks that if she can just ignore it, it won’t be real.

I tighten my hand around the steering wheel, knuckles going white, jaw clenched with powerless anger, with the gutting despair of not being allowed to protect her the way I want to, the way I could.

“Hey.” My voice sounds rough and awkward in the silence of the car. I almost wish I’d turned on some music just to make that silence less suffocating. “Are you alright?”

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