Page 29 of Spearcrest Queen

At some point, Sophie wakes up and tries pulling free. I tighten my arms around her waist, nestling my face into her neck.

“Not yet.”

She huffs. “Need to shower.”

“What time is it?”

“Almost two a.m.”

I let her go reluctantly and follow suit. Together, we clear her books from her bed, and then I follow her into the shower, dropping my clothes on her desk chair. The shower stall is cramped with the two of us in it, but we squeeze in, giggling sleepily. I wash her hair; she scrubs my back. Her soapy fingers gliding over my wet skin sends my blood rushing south. Sophie feelsthe bump against her hip and turns to me with an imperious glare.

“Absolutely not.”

I laugh, kiss her naked shoulder under the hot water. We rinse off, dry ourselves, turn off the lights, and crawl naked into her bed. It’s too narrow for the two of us: I lie on my back with Sophie draped half across me, one thigh thrown over me. I fall asleep quickly, warm despite the cold creeping from the window, heart full.

When we wake up, it’s late in the morning, the grey clouds bright with snow. Sophie’s lying on her side with a fist tucked under her chin, and I’m wrapped around her like the curls of a quotation mark.

I’m half-hard, so I roll onto my back, but Sophie’s the one who ends up turning sleepily around, dragging me on top of her and smearing lazy kisses up my neck. Sex this time is warm and slow and sleepy, and so good I could fucking die. We lie skin-to-skin afterwards and fall back asleep for an hour or two.

A little before midday, Sophie finally climbs out of bed. Lying on my stomach, sated as a well-fed dog, I watch her blearily as she pulls on a pair of jeans, a thick black woollen jumper and her boots. Her hair is still in a messy topknot from her shower, and she smells like vanilla and cedarwood and sex when she leans down to kiss me before she goes.

She returns sometime later with coffees and cream cheese bagels. Her cheeks and nose are red from the cold, snowflakes crowning her head like tiny white gemstones.

We eat, a growing dread slowly creeping on me as I wait for the moment when Sophie kicks me out. I’m not naïve: I know she already got what she summoned me to give her. It’s only a matter of time before she finds the courage to kick me out.

“Wanna come stay at mine over Christmas?” I ask in between mouthfuls.

If I ask her via text, she’ll definitely say no, and this might be my only chance to ask in person.

Sophie sighs. “I can’t. I have so much work to do you wouldn’t believe it.”

“I can tell.” I jab my chin in the direction of her desk, which is covered with books, folders, printed stacks and Post-its. “Thought you might need a break.”

“Idoneed a break.” She sighs. “I just can’t afford one.”

Her tired eyes make me realise she’s telling me the truth. The movement of her mouth tells me she wants to say more, so I watch her, waiting.

“I’m just… No matter how hard I work, it’s like I’m barely keeping my head above water. I’m keeping up, but that’s not what I came here for. Harvard is so far from home, so bloodyexpensive. I didn’t come here to be good enough. I came here to make something of myself.”

I listen, breath held tight in my chest. This is her first time opening up to me like that, and I’m mortally scared of doing anything that might break the moment, send her scuttling back away from me.

Sophie picks at the edge of her blanket, her brows furrowed as though she’s searching for the right words. The silence stretches, fragile and full of emotions.

“It’d be fine if it was just the work,” she finally says, her voice quieter now, almost tentative. “I’m not scared of hard work. Ilikehard work. But it’s not just about the work. It’s everything else. How different I am from everyone else. How out of place I am, not just because I’m not American, but because I’m not likethem.”

She glances at me, her lips twitching like she’s debating whether to go on. My throat is too tight to speak. I remember how Sophie felt in Spearcrest, how she was treated, like a pauper amongst royals. Isn’t this why she came here: the great American dream? The idea that anybody can make it if they work hard enough?

She worked so hard to come here, and now her life is the same as it was in Spearcrest, like some kind of curse. I nod mutely, encouraging her, and she continues.

“Everyone’s always talking about their families, their parents’ firms, their connections. And I think about my parents, their job at Spearcrest, their house, their friends. I’m not ashamed of them, but I feel almost as if Ishouldbe.”

She leans forward, her hair falling around her face like a dark curtain.

“My parents raised me to work hard, to earn the things I want in life. I’m not ashamed of that. I’m not ashamed of not being rich. But I can’t help it, I hate the way they look at me, like I’m some sort of curiosity, some shiny little insect—” She cuts herself off, shaking her head. “I’m not even apersonto them. I’m just this scrappy girl from nowhere who doesn’t know when to quit.”

I can’t stand the thought that she’s been suffering in silence like this, carrying this weight all alone. I hate that she thinks she has to, because I never made her feel safe enough that she ever considered leaning on me.

“That’s not true,” I say firmly. “You’re not some ‘scrappy girl from nowhere.’ You’ve never been.” I set my coffee aside, sit next to her, taking her face in my hands. “You’re Sophie fucking Sutton. You’ve fought for everything you’ve ever had, and you never backed down, not even when you’re outnumbered oroverwhelmed. You’re not a curiosity, or a shiny insect. You’re a one-woman army, and you don’t stop fighting until you win.”

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