Page 80 of Spearcrest Queen

Instead, I stand in the middle of the quiet street, staring down at my phone.

Sophie’s message is still there, waiting for me every time I unlock my screen. Sophie out on Valentine’s Day, drunk, messy, unbearably gorgeous. She’s dressed like that, she’s out at some Boston club with that deadly combination of dark beauty and those haughty, commanding eyes.

I’m not stupid. Sophie could have anybody she wanted. She could snap her fingers and any man or woman with a pair of eyes would follow her home on their hands and knees if she wanted them to.

But that’s not what she wants.

Because if that’s what she wanted, Sophie would never have texted me. She’d never have allowed the wound to her pride dealt by being the first one to text the other after almost a year of silence.

If she texted me, then it’s because she wants me.

And fuck if I don’t want her.

And it would be so fuckingeasy. I could be at the airport in twenty minutes, on a plane in an hour, in her bed before dawn. I could give her exactly what she wanted, what she always wants from me, my needy, gorgeous girl. I could make her squirm and whimper and beg with all the ways she likes being made to submit, with her hand still firmly around my leash because sheknows she only needed to send me one text for me to come running.

And in the morning, nothing would have changed.

She’d wake up, sober and untouchable, peeling herself off my heart to retreat behind an iron fortress of composure, the careful distance that only ever means one thing:I want you, but not enough.

I shake my head, lock my phone, and climb into my car.

I’m going home. It’s the right decision—it’s thesmartdecision. Sophie and I have spent years orbiting each other, crashing and burning and trying again, and every single time, we’ve only ended up more ruined than before. I’m not going to allow it to happen again, not when I know how it ends.

My phone buzzes just as I’m starting my car, as if it knows. I know it’s her before I even look. My fingers, stiff from the cold, shake as I unlock my screen and open the text.

Sophie: Sorry. Wrong number.

I pull up outsideSophie’s apartment building several hours later, still in my work clothes, sleeves rolled back, car full of empty cups of gas station coffee. I’ve been keeping an eye on her location since I left Inkspill. She’s been home for about an hour. She’s probably in bed, asleep, blacked out after a night of partying in Boston.

My heart is an erratic fucking mess in my chest when I walk up to the door. I push my hair nervously back, swallow hard before raising my hand to knock. I hear a feminine voice I don’t recognise—thedoor opens.

A girl stands in the doorway, wrapped in a fluffy white bathrobe, blonde hair gathered on top of her head in a massive red scrunchy. She looks me up and down, eyes wide, mouth open, and then she finally focuses on my face.

“Evan?” she says.

I nod.

She lets out a small giggle.

“You know what? I get it now.”

And then she holds the door open, and I step inside, and the first thing I notice is a sweet perfume, caramel and vanilla, drifting in the air like the shimmering trail in a video game that leads you to the magical item at the end of a quest.

38

Pavlovian Response

Sophie

“I’m never drinking again.”

My voice is small and pathetic in the silence of the flat. The only light that’s on is the silver lights underneath the kitchen cupboards, and I’m leaning against the counter, nursing a huge mug of green tea.

The glamour and festivities of the night have faded like fairy godmother magic post-midnight. My black blazer is draped over the back of a chair, and I’ve traded in my dress and heels for boxers and Evan’s black sweatshirt, hood hiding my hair, which is crinkled from being up all night, sleeves so long I’ve had to roll them back three times. My phone sits at my side, screen dark and blank, no text, no call—it might as well be dead.

“I know, baby.”

Elle, freshly showered and wrapped in a bathrobe, curls an arm around my shoulders. She catches me looking at my phone and says, “Maybe he’s busy with work or something. Or in bed.”

---