Page 8 of Spearcrest Queen

A jarring mix of guilt and resentment stabs into my chest. I stare at his name until the screen fades to black.

3

Heavy Name

Evan

Summer drags joylessly on.Every morning, the first thing I do is reach for my phone, hoping for Sophie’s name to finally appear on my screen. Every morning, I wake up to nothing—no texts, no calls. It’s been a week since she left, and the silence carves away at me like slow starvation.

Part of me understands why she didn’t say goodbye. She’s always carried the weight of the world on her shoulders, doing everything she could to protect herself. And of all people, how couldIblame her for turning her back on me?

It’s not like I didn’t do the same to her, all those years ago.

All summer long, I’ve tried to make it up to her, to atone for years of pain. I thought she was happy, enjoying herself. I knew she’d have to leave for school eventually, I just don’t understand why she wouldn’t just tell me when. I wouldn’t have made it difficult for her.

The opposite. I would’ve helped her pack her bags, driven her to Cambridge, kissed her outside her dorm. But she didn’t ask for that—she didn’t even give me the chance to offer.

By Friday night, when I still haven’t heard from her, I switch tactics.

Evan: If you don’t have weekend plans, then I’m coming up to see you.

That works—sort of.

She replies twenty minutes later.

Sophie: No need. Everything’s okay, just busy with classes. Got too much on this weekend, sorry.

I read her text several times over, wincing at the formality. Sophie isn’t like this. She’s sharp-witted and dirty-mouthed. This isn’t her. But of course, she loves keeping me at arm’s length. I can’t blame her. It still hurts, though.

Evan: Next weekend?

Sophie: Maybe x

The “x” feels more like the crosshairs of a sniper rifle than a kiss. I lock my phone, tap it against my chin, think, then unlock it.

I stare at the screen, running my hand through my hair restlessly.

Fuck it.

I start typing—then my phone is yanked unceremoniously out of my hands by my father. He’s just walked in, fixing his cufflinks, and he walks to the opposite side of the kitchen to toss my phone into a random cupboard.

“Enough,” he says. “It’s been a week, Evan. Time to get yourself back up on your feet. I told you this job would be waiting for you, but I’m moving up the timeline. You’re starting next week.”

“What?” I blink at him, the spoon from my half-empty cereal bowl clattering onto the kitchen island. “Next week? I thought I’d have more time—”

“More time to do what exactly? Sit around eating cereal, playing video games, staring at your phone?” He leans back against the counter, arms crossed over his chest, his piercing blue eyes boring into me. “You’ve only got a few weeks of summer left, and what have you done with your time? I’ve had enough of watching you mope around like an abandoned dog. You’re not enjoying what’s left of the holiday anyway, so you might as well get a head start at KMG.”

I glare at him, pushing the cereal bowl away. “I’m just worried about Sophie.”

“Sophie’s not worried about you. You know why?”

Of course, I know why. But the question is clearly rhetorical; he doesn’t wait for an answer.

“Because she’s atHarvard. On a programme so selective only fifteen students in theworldgot accepted for.”

His blue eyes narrow. It’s the same look I imagine he gives employees when he’s telling them off.

“Do you think she’s sitting around waiting for life to hand her things?” He shakes his head in silent answer to his own question. “If I were you, I’d stop worrying about her and start worrying about becoming the kind of man who deserves the kind of woman she’s becoming.”

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