Page 27 of Spearcrest Queen

And I’m so pissed off I just hang up and go to bed.

The week before winterbreak, my mother sends me a text inviting me home for Christmas. I decline, telling her I’ll be visiting Zachary instead. It’s a blatant lie, and she probably knows it, but I’d rather spend the entire holiday alone in my apartment than spend time with my family while we all pretend I’m not a walking talking disappointment.

On Wednesday, I step out of the shower after a brutal gym session to find a text waiting for me.

It’s from Sophie. My heart lurches, and I almost drop my phone in the bathroom sink. I have to force myself to calm down, finish towelling off, and go sit on the couch, AC blasting despite the cold outside because I’m already sweating with nerves.

Sophie never texts first, and my gut tells me it can’t possibly be a good sign that she has.

Hand shaking, I swipe open the text.

Sophie: Bought a new dress.Do you like it?

For a moment, I stare at my phone, blinking. Water drips from my still-wet hair, rolling down my neck and chest. Is this some sort of test? She’s not sent anything besides the text. Did she mean to message somebody else?

Fuck it.

Evan: Send a picture.

Sophie: No.

Sophie:It looks better in person.

My breath catches. I bite hard into my lower lip. My fingers hover over my phone as I try to think of something to say.

A second text pops up.

Sophie: What are the odds of you making it to my bedroom without anybody noticing?

My heart pounds with violent urgency as I reread her words three times over; my mind races, conjuring up every possible scenario that involves me sneaking into her room. The silence stretches, thick and electric. This time, I don’t hesitate, fingers typing out my reply quickly.

Evan: High.

She sends only one word back.

Sophie: Hurry.

13

Guilty Pleasure

Sophie

Texting Evan is partweakness, part hunger. Like eating a thick slice of sweet sugary cake: you know it’s going to rot your teeth and clog your arteries eventually, but you crave the satisfaction enough in the moment that you don’t care about the future damage.

Texting Evan is part revenge, too. Max and Anthony haven’t let a single day pass without some sly implication, and somehow their words have served only to fray away at my resolve.They already think the worst of you, sneers the angry voice in my head,so why should you deprive yourself? You’ve already been condemned—why not commit the crime?

And maybe texting Evan is just the truth of what’s inside my heart. All that loneliness and pressure bearing down on me, and in the middle of it, the hard diamond truth is that IwantEvan. I don’t want my friends or my parents. I don’t want casual chatter and polite conversation. I want the solid mass of his body on mine, his laughing blue eyes, his hands, his affection, his attention. I want to let all the dark hardness of me melt in the sunshine softness of him.

Why shouldn’t I have what I want?

It’s not like I haven’t earned it.

I text him to hurry, but I know I don’t need to. Evan could be home or out partying or halfway across the world—he’ll come if I ask him to. And that certainty is a balm, too. It soothes the loneliness and dread crouched on my chest. It allows me to spend my evening in my bedroom, reading through cases and typing essays. It gives me the patience to not keep checking my watch or my phone.

I almost jump out of my skin when I hear a tap at my window.

My pen drops from my fingers; I stand up from the bed, where I’m sitting with a dozen books, an essay bibliography half-drafted on my laptop. I cross my room in the dim light cast by my desk lamp and roll up the blinds to find a grinning face staring back at me from behind the glass.

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