Page 91 of Spearcrest Knight

Tutoring Evan is just like everything in my life: I don’t have to enjoy it, I simply have to endure it and use it as another stepping stone to the life I want.

Deadlines for university applications are fast approaching, and my applications are strong because of everything I’ve done here. And that includes my participation in Miss Bailey's tutoring programme. Once it secures me some offers, once Spearcrest is in my past and I can finally live the life I want, Evan will become nothing more than a distant memory.

The pain he inflicted on me will be forgotten over time; his presence in my life will fade like a scar.

The strength and comfort of this thought are enough to allow me to turn up for our session today. This half-term, we are both studying the same text, Jane Austen'sPersuasion,and I’ve brought enough work that there shouldn’t be any opportunities to talk.

But of course, Evan doesn’t get the memo. He keeps sneaking glances at me even though he’s meant to be reading the extract in front of him. I ignore his attempts to make eye contact.

“I’m sorry,” he says finally, his voice catching. He clears his throat, and repeats more clearly, “I’m so sorry, Sutton.”

I clench my jaw. What I was to tell him is to shove his apology down his own throat and choke on it. What I say instead is, “Have you finished reading the extract?”

“Did you hear me? I said I’m sorry.”

I finally look up. I try to look right past his handsome features and sky-blue eyes at the ugliness inside and give it a polite smile.

“I heard you. I accept your apology. Have you finished reading the extract?”

He sighs. “Yeah.”

I hand him another sheet. “Right, then let’s work through these questions.”

He listens as I talk him through character analysis and key themes. He nods when I tell him what to do, and when I hand him a sheet of questions, he takes it and, to my relief, gets to work.

He works in perfect silence for several minutes, but the respite is short-lived. With a loud sigh, he puts his pen down and looks up.

“You can’t just say you accept my apology if you don’t mean it.”

“I mean it,” I say without looking at him, keeping my eyes on the book of critical analysis I’m taking notes from. “So get back to work.”

“You’re just saying that to shut me up.”

I clench my jaw, forcing myself to calm down. After the humiliation he’s put me through, I’ve decided to never let him get another rise out of me. I count down from ten in my head. Then I say, “What would you like me to tell you, Evan?”

“I don’t know! Tell me the truth.”

“The truth is that I forgive you and I want to move on, which is why I’m here to help you with Lit. So could you please do your work?”

He’s quiet for a bit, but I can tell he’s still staring at me. I refuse to look at him, pointedly turning the pages of my book. My eyes burn, but I’d rather die than cry in front of him again.

I remind myself of why he can’t get to me: I don’t care what he says about me. I don’t care what the Spearcrest kids think about me. In a year, none of this will matter.

Evan gets back to work. He gets through the worksheet, then I give him some context notes to read and summarise. He does so without protest or comment.

This is the best way to get through all of this. In the bleak austerity of the study hall, in the sallow lamplight and the icy silence between us, the heat of his kisses, of his mouth between my legs or the quick and intense sex we had seems like some strange, fast-vanishing dream.

No, not a dream.

A nightmare.

I’m in the middle of making a bullet point list of key events when Evan speaks again, startling me slightly.

“I shouldn’t have told the school about your job, okay? It was a shitty thing for me to do.”

I bite the inside of my cheeks. Why won’t he let it go? I’m letting it go. I’m lettingeverythinggo. So why won’t he?

“Don’t worry about it,” I grind out.

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