3. Heavy Name
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 could I blame 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 at Harvard . On a programme so selective only fifteen students in the world got 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.”
The words stab straight into me.
I didn’t even get to be the boy she deserved, because let’s be honest, she deserved so much more.
And she’s only going to get better, while I’m still here.
Waiting. Wasting time.
Doing nothing.
Maybe that’s why she didn’t tell me she was leaving.
Why she hasn’t been texting me back.
Maybe she’s arrived at Harvard and realised she can do so much better than me .
“Alright,” I say, nodding.
“You’re right. I need to figure my shit out. I don’t mind getting to work, I just thought…” I trail off, unsure how to articulate the mess in my head.
“You thought wrong,” he says firmly.
“And I don’t say that to punish you, Evan. I say it because this is your chance. You want to prove yourself? Great. This is the way to do it. Show me—and yourself—that you’ve got what it takes.”
“You’re right, Dad. I’ll start next week, maybe I could shadow you for—”
“Hah!” He bursts out into laughter, slapping his hand over his mouth to stifle the sound, his shoulders bouncing.
“Did you hear that, sweetheart?”
My mother appears in the doorway, holding a golden compact mirror and patting powder onto her cheekbones.
She’s in a long, structured dress in champagne satin, a tiny purse tucked under her arm, and she looks up, mouth rounded into a little ‘o’.
“Hear what?” she says, patting my shoulder as she passes me, then reaching up to kiss my father quickly on the lips.
“We’re running late.”
“Our son thinks he’ll be shadowing me next week,” Dad says, and I can already tell he’s done with the pep talk because he’s pushed off the kitchen island and is following Mom out into the hall.
And it’s not just because they’re late for the theatre or the opera or wherever it is they’re going tonight.
It’s because he’s got that look in his eyes as he watches Mom lean towards the hallway mirror to fix her lipstick, a look I probably inherited, because something tells me that’s exactly how I look at Sophie.
I follow them, catching Mom’s reply.
“I thought he was shadowing Gilbert?”
I frown.
“Gilbert? Who the fuck’s Gilbert?”
“Language!” Mom hits my arm with a glare and then looks back at Dad, eyes warming immediately.
“Ready, sweetheart? Car’s here.”
He nods at her, pecking her forehead, and then he speaks at me over Mom’s head as she fixes his tie and brushes invisible specks of dust from his shoulders.
“You really thought you’d be shadowing me? Earn your title by sitting in my office watching the clock? Come on, son. No chance. You’ll start at the bottom, in Operations, with Gilbert Coulter.”
“Operations?” I follow them out towards the door, frowning.
“What, like… logistics?”
Dad nods, grabbing his coat and folding it neatly over one arm.
“Like grunt work, Evan, yes. Schedules, reports, calls. If you think it’s beneath you, that’s your problem. You want to inherit this company someday? Prove you can hold down a desk first.”
“When was this decided exactly?” I ask, glaring at him.
Clearly he’s given this some thought.
“When you brought home a paltry handful of middling grades from one of the world’s top academic establishments and still had the audacity to be dating a future Harvard grad.”
Monday morning dawns cloudless and bright.
If I were to analyse the pathetic fallacy like Sophie taught me when she used to tutor me for English lit, then I would guess I’m about to have a good first day at my new job.
It doesn’t stop me from feeling jittery and anxious, though.
In the car on the way there, I scroll resentfully through my friends’ lives on social media.
Sev posting photos of his fiancée Ana?s, all sunny smiles and picturesque chateaus in the French countryside.
Zach and Theo lounging in Oxford libraries, posing with marble busts like the insufferable academics they are.
Even Luca—still the same cold-blooded snake I once beat to a pulp—seems to be thriving, grinning smugly in exclusive gentlemen’s clubs.
Iakov’s bleak snapshots of concrete apartments and empty liquor bottles are the only posts I can stomach.
At least his life seems about as hollow, loveless and miserable as mine.
I text him on impulse.
Evan : Life good, bro?
Iakov : Life a sack of shit, bro.
I shut my phone off and rest my head back against the seat, feeling vaguely vindicated by Iakov’s reply.
The car finally emerges out of New York traffic to pull up in front of KMG’s office in Manhattan.
The building is a sleek skyscraper near midtown, not so different from any other—aside from the fact that it bears my name.
The driver pulls up to the kerb, but I don’t move.
My fingers tighten around my phone, pressing against the edge until it leaves a red dent in my skin.
For a second, I debate telling him to circle the block—just once, just for a minute, just until my stomach stops twisting itself into knots.
But what would be the point in stalling?
I step out onto the kerb, tugging at my collar.
I thought wearing a suit wouldn’t feel so different from wearing my Spearcrest uniform, but I was wrong.
Despite the tailored fit, my blazer feels too stiff, my tie too tight, closing about my neck like a noose .
A concierge greets me and ushers me inside.
The double-height lobby, with its marble flooring and floor-to-ceiling windows and its rich shades of cream and brown, exudes importance, elegance, luxury.
The lights are glossy yet muted; the clicking of heels on marble echo like multiplied heartbeats beneath the busy murmur of voices.
Above the reception desk, the KMG logo dominates the wall, backlit in gold.
Knight Media Group .
Seeing my name up there, presiding over the impeccably dressed reception staff, the security guards, the streams of people trickling in and out of the row of elevators past the three arches of the atrium, should fill me with power, with pride.
But if anything it makes me feel small.
And really fucking scared.