Page 64 of Spearcrest Knight

I still remember the present Evan gave me in Year 9: a silver necklace with a tiny bear on it. The present was too nicely packaged for him to have wrapped it, but he had remembered what my favourite animal was, which had touched me profoundly.

It’s one of my last good memories of him.

I glance away from Evan. As hurtful as the memory is now, it’s a much-needed reminder of the reality of a friendship with Evan. Just because we’ve reached a sort of friendly civility during my stay at his house doesn’t mean we’re friends, and there’s no chance I’m letting him hurt me again.

Still, when I go to town the next day to look for a present while Evan is out for a run, I can’t help but feel a strange pressure. Rationally, I know that it doesn’t matter what I get him. This whole thing isn’t real, it’s more of a play-acting between us. Despite that, I can’t help but want to get him something he’ll like.

I spend hours looking, ambling from one shop to the next. What do you get someone who can have anything he wants?

The answer is... anything.

In the end, I settle on a soft, oversized hoodie the same summer sky-blue as his eyes. I buy blue wrapping paper with silver stars, and a Christmas card with a mischievous looking snowman on it.

When I get home, Evan is nowhere to be found, and I’m guessing he’s either sweating away in his gym or out doing the same thing I’m doing. So I carefully wrap his present, place it under our little tree and amble into the kitchen to cook some dinner.

He returns a little before I finish cooking. To my surprise, he apologises for not being back in time to help. Then he sets the kitchen island with cutlery and pours two glasses of wine. He offers me wine with every meal, which I always decline. But since I don’t have work the following day, and either I’m tired, or his candour has managed to lower my defences somewhat: I end up accepting the glass he gives me.

We sit and eat, Evan regaling me with tales of American Christmas extravagance and overzealous house decorations. I take a slow sip of wine and watch him over the rim of my glass.

He’s animated, cheeks flushed, blue eyes bright. I never realised how much of a fan of Christmas he was, but maybe all Americans love Christmas this much. He pauses in his stories to shovel stew and bread into his mouth, and I take the opportunity to ask the question that’s been on my mind.

“Do you miss America?”

He shrugs. “Kind of. I have good memories there, especially my aunt’s house in New Haven when the whole family gets together. And New York is pretty cool too. Everything in America feels bigger and newer compared to here.”

“Would you ever move back?”

“I mean, yeah, I think I’m gonna have to. I’ll probably intern for my dad in one of his offices or something. Who knows.”

“Well, I might end up moving there before you,” I say.

Evan freezes with a spoonful of stew halfway between his bowl and his mouth.

“You want to move to America? I thought you were going to Oxford or Cambridge. That’s where most of the kids in our year seem to be planning on going.”

“Exactly.”

He smirks. “Oh, of course. I forget how much you hate being associated with the rest of us Spearcrest kids. Wouldn’t want anyone thinking you’ve been handed anything, right?”

It’s an odd comment from him, subtly pointed. Evan might be many things, but subtle’s not one of them.

“Nothing wrong with that,” I say drily, taking another sip of my drink. I don’t particularly like wine, but this is good wine, and it warms me up from the inside on its way down.

“No, nothing wrong with that,” Evan says with a sudden smile. “They’re going to love you in America, you know.”

That, I did not expect. “Really?”

“Yeah, really. You’ve got this sort of stuck-up British sophistication, but you’re also an underdog. It’s a winning combination. All the American boys are going to fall head over heels in love with you.”

I try to imagine it. Being noticed by tall, smart American boys at Harvard. After years of being poked at from a distance like a roadside show bear by the Spearcrest boys, I can’t honestly say it’s not a pleasant image. It would be quite nice to be wanted for once.

“I wouldn’t hate that,” I say with a little shrug.

Evan looks scandalised. “What are you talking about? You’d never date an American!”

“What areyoutalking about? Since when are you such an authority on who I would or wouldn’t date?”

“I’m not saying I’m an authority. You’ve made your opinions on us thick, bull-headed Americans pretty clear.”

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