Page 20 of Spearcrest Queen

“No.”

He finishes lathering my hair, the bathroom so quiet the sound of the splashing water and his slippery hands in my hair feels deafeningin comparison.

“So… you remember?” I ask.

“Uh-huh.”

“And it was… alright?”

He’s silent for ages, and I’m overwhelmed with the feeling that something happened, and he’s trying to decide whether or not to tell me. He must come to a decision because he ends up saying, “It was good, Sophie. It’s always good. So don’t worry about it.”

I try to turn, but his fingers press gently against my scalp, keeping me still. My stomach clenches; he won’t even let me look at him.

“Lie back,” he says, soft but firm. “I need to rinse your hair.”

I obey him, closing my eyes as he rinses my hair in the warm water. His hands are steady but light, like he’s wielding something that’s already been shattered once and could not be repaired if it shattered again.

“I’m sorry,” I whisper, safe in the darkness behind my closed eyes. “I think I just… I think maybe I just missed you.”

“Yeah. Maybe.”

He laughs, low and soft and not quite sincere, and I can’t tell if it’s because he forgives me or because he’s giving up on me. I couldn’t even blame him if he did, when all I do is push him away.

The water’s still warm, but I’m cold all over.

9

Worthless People

Sophie

Evan, it turns out,put a lot of thought into this weekend: finding museums and galleries he thought I’d enjoy, cosy cafés and cute restaurants where we have our meals. Nowhere fancy, nowhere too expensive, either. Did he notice my discomfort in New Haven? Is this him trying to prove something to me? Trying to stop me from running away again?

There can be no question of running this time. This time, I need to do the right thing. I need to talk to him. Properly.

The thought of it weighs over me, casting a shadow over the entire weekend. There are brief shadowless pockets when I’m enjoying myself enough to forget, but the clouds always return to remind me of what I have to do.

On Monday, our last day together, we venture out into a pale winter morning. The trees are cloaked in the remnants of last night’s mist, the gravel paths gleaming wet beneath our feet. The crisp bite of autumn is in the air, mingled with the earthy scent of waterlogged grass and decaying leaves. Evan walks beside me, one arm wrapped around my shoulders, staring upat the brown building at the top of the hill: the last museum we’re visiting.

“I’ve saved the best for last,” he says.

Inside, the museum is quiet, the air smelling faintly of old wood and varnish. Evan leads me through several antechambers to an exhibit he’d mentioned to me: a room dedicated to a local poet whose tragic love letters have been bound and are currently displayed in glass cases beneath the soft glow of halo lights.

“Look at this,” he says, pointing to one of the letters. The ink is faded to a ghostly grey, but the words are still legible, etched into the fragile paper as if by a strong and emotive hand. “Imagine loving someone so much you’d write them letters like this.”

I lean in to read the delicate script. An uncomfortable clenching around my heart makes me pull away almost instinctively.

“Sounds exhausting,” I say, my voice weak and lacking conviction in the consecrated silence of the exhibition room. “It’s a whole lot of effort.”

“Maybe the person was worth it. The effort—the exhaustion. Maybe it was all worth it.” Evan clears his throat. “To the poet, I mean.”

I step away, suddenly too warm in my woollen jumper and skirt. I hug my coat, which is draped over my arms, to my chest and let my gaze drift to the worn spines of the poet’s collected works.

“Or maybe the poet just liked torturing himself.” I shake my head with a tired laugh. “Let’s be honest, nobody’s worth all this.”

He answers with a tired laugh of his own.

“Come on, Sutton, don’t be so cynical,” he says. His smile doesn’t quite reach his eyes. “Even worthless people deserve love.”

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