6. Bruised Plum
6
Bruised Plum
Evan
All week, I imagined Sophie stepping into the light, her dauntless eyes and pretty smile washing away months of guilt and distance and loneliness.
And then I see her, and everything I pictured—the feast of the starving man’s imagination—fades away like a snuffed candle.
Sophie emerges through the open doors, standing for a moment to stare at the rain.
Her dark brown hair is tied back in a simple ponytail; she’s wearing plain black boots and a long coat and has no ornament aside from small gold hoops on her ears.
Her summer tan has faded; her skin is pale, her cheeks slightly flushed, her eyes sunk in a bed of shadows.
She looks tired, and worried, and so fucking sad.
All week, I built this up in my head, planned where I’d take her, what I’d say, how I’d make her laugh.
A hundred different versions of this moment, and not a single one looked like this.
All I can think of is how much I want to hold her, my chest a pillow for her tired head, my arms a shield against all the pressure and stress that’s making her look like this.
“Sophie. ”
But the moment her eyes meet mine, her expression changes.
Relief doesn’t bloom on her face—it shatters, crumbling away, her features sinking with dread.
I don’t even have time to react before a familiar face appears, pale and smug, crowned with reddish hair.
Maximilian Fitzpatrick, the youngest son of former US senator Maximilian Fitzpatrick Senior.
The world of the New York elite is a small one, and Maximilian is the kind of person that likes to be seen.
And the exact last kind of person Sophie Sutton would ever willingly associate with, so when he throws his arm around her shoulder and whispers into her ear, my fists clench on instinct.
I’d always dismissed Maximilian as a harmless brat, all money and no spine.
But seeing Sophie’s face when he hangs over her like a leech, the way her eyes are cold and far away, makes every muscle in my body tighten with protective tension.
“Fitzpatrick,” I greet him coldly.
Maximilian is about Sophie’s height, which is still over a head shorter than me.
He’d take his chances if he didn’t think I would put hands on him, but he doesn’t know me well enough to guarantee that I wouldn’t .
“Never heard of respecting personal space?”
“Sophie doesn’t mind,” Maximilian says, eyes flicking towards me.
Behind him, I spot Dahlia Lindenfeld, the daughter of some tech entrepreneur who made his wealth in Silicon Valley, and some guy I don’t know, sharing a vape pen.
They watch on with amusement, and I realise that Maximilian is in his element, because he’s got an audience.
“We’re friends,” Max continues smugly, “didn’t she tell you?”
Sophie’s shoulders are rigid beneath Maximilian’s arm, her body giving nothing away, her face a stone mask, her blank eyes trained on the horizon as though she’s willing herself a thousand miles away .
For a split second, a confused, irrational thought worms its way into my mind.
Why isn’t she putting him in his place?
She’d never let anyone get away with pushing her around before.
At Spearcrest, she would have cut him down in seconds.
But she’s out of Spearcrest; she shouldn’t need to fight back.
And she’s got me now.
I should be the one defending her.
I should be physically ripping Maximilian off her, kicking him down the stairs and roaring at him to never put his hands on Sophie ever again.
The only thing that stops me from doing so is Sophie herself, the way she stands motionless, like a rabbit trapped between a wolf’s jaws.
“Sophie,” I say, addressing her in a lower voice, gentle.
“You ready to go?”
Her unfocused eyes brush over me like she barely sees me.
She nods, and then Maximilian moves them both towards me, descending the steps, pushing Sophie forward with his arm still draped around her shoulders.
His friends stay where they are, exhaling obnoxious billows of smoke, watching the scene unfold.
“How did you two meet, anyway?” Maximilian asks casually, like we’re all good friends.
He doesn’t wait for an answer.
“Didn’t think he’d be your type,” he says, giving Sophie a conspiratorial wink.
I clench my jaw, weighing up the satisfaction of punching Maximilian against Sophie’s anger if I did.
Her straight back and empty eyes keep me in check.
“There’s a line,” I tell Maximilian instead.
“You seem to be headed straight for it, Fitzpatrick. Better not.”
For a moment, there’s nothing but the sound of the rain, the distant rumble of traffic, the low growl of the wind.
Now Maximilian’s the one weighing his options: the satisfaction of needling Sophie against the humiliation of getting his nose smashed in by a former rugby captain.
“Oh no,” he says quickly to Sophie, eyes widening with pretend shock.
“I didn’t mean to imply you’re climbing the ladder on your knees. But hey—” He winks, and Sophie flinches ever so slightly, her shoulders squaring like she’s bracing for impact.
“There’s no shame in knowing how to play the game.”
Satisfaction gleams in his eyes when she reacts.
And then, finally, he releases her.
“Well, have a nice weekend, Sophie,” he says, blowing her a kiss before retreating back to his friends at the top of the steps.
“See you Tuesday!”
It rings like a threat.
The boy and girl flanking him smirk, watching in silence as I pull Sophie under the shelter of my umbrella, wrapping an arm around her shoulders, shielding her.
She feels cold all over, like the rain’s made its way deep inside her, soaking all the way into her bones.
Her face is expressionless, her dark hair wet, raindrops streaking down her cheeks like tears.
I hold her all the way to the car.
She doesn’t say a word.
She’s pale and quiet in the car, her entire body angled away from me, her forehead resting against the window.
Her breath mists faintly against the glass.
The bouquet of roses lies forgotten in the back seat.
She doesn’t say much on the drive to her dorm, telling me she’s tired, that it’s been a long day.
I offer to grab us some coffees, but she declines.
“Let’s just get my stuff and go,” she says with an empty, perfunctory smile.
I don’t need to be told that she wants me to wait while she runs in to grab her suitcase.
My leg bounces nervously as I wait, and not a minute passes that I don’t expect a text from her to pop up, cancelling our weekend.
Sophie has cowardly tendencies when it comes to breaking my heart: she’s only ever confrontational when she has the upper hand.
When emotions are involved, though, when we’re both down in the messy dirt of our own feelings, then she’ll choose evasion and avoidance over anything else.
I’m almost shocked when she returns fifteen minutes later with a small suitcase.
I hurry out of the car to get her suitcase for her, placing it carefully in the trunk.
Back in the car, I glance at her.
Her coat is folded on her lap, her hair is down and she’s wearing a fresh coat of plum lip gloss.
The rims of her eyes are puffy and red.
She’s been crying.
It hits me like a punch straight to the gut.
Sophie’s clearly taken great pains to hide it: she’s put on a light coat of concealer and fresh eyeliner.
But she must have cried hard and long, because she can’t quite disguise the redness, the puffiness of her lips and eyelids.
Her fingers tighten around the hem of her skirt; she knows I’ve noticed.
But she doesn’t acknowledge it.
She just keeps staring out the window because she thinks that if she can just ignore it, it won’t be real.
I tighten my hand around the steering wheel, knuckles going white, jaw clenched with powerless anger, with the gutting despair of not being allowed to protect her the way I want to, the way I could .
“Hey.” My voice sounds rough and awkward in the silence of the car.
I almost wish I’d turned on some music just to make that silence less suffocating.
“Are you alright?”
“Yes.” She says it sharply and then corrects herself, speaking a little more gently.
“Yeah, don’t worry. It’s just been a lot. I’m glad we’re going away.”
“Me too.”
We drive through the blur of rain and lights.
Sophie is curled up in her seat, her legs hugged to her chest. She keeps dropping back into her own thoughts, and every question I ask gets the shortest, most non-committal answer.
“How did your summer course go?”
“It was pretty challenging. But it went well.”
“You like your professors?”
“I like our mentor.”
“You’re enjoying Law so far?”
“It’s a lot of work.”
I let out a slow breath, tightening my grip on the steering wheel.
I don’t know what answer I was hoping for.
Just something more.
Anything.
“How are the rest of the kids on your programme?”
“Smart. Everyone’s really smart.”
We both know what I really want to ask, but I can’t bring myself to spit it out.
Sophie’s body language screams at me to stay away.
And I don’t want to upset her, but I also don’t want her to suffer alone.
She doesn’t want to be showered in gifts or flowers, so why won’t she let me help in the ways that matter?
“Do you want me to take you back to Harvard?” I ask despite the fear she’ll say yes.
She’s silent. I hold my breath.
If she says yes, I’ll give her what she wants.
I’ll drive her back without a word and let her slip away.
But she doesn’ t say yes.
She exhales, barely a sound, and then whispers, “No.”
I spent hours researching the perfect hotel, and it looks exactly like the kind of place Sophie would love.
A facade of dark, weathered stone, intricately carved arches, ivy cascading over the edges of tall, mullioned windows.
The suite is beautiful, extravagant even, but it feels somehow too big, like it’s mocking the distance between Sophie and me.
The four-poster bed, dark parquet floors, alabaster lamps spilling soft cream light, the gilded edges of the mirrors, the richness of the emerald bed drapes.
None of it fills the emptiness gaping between us.
To one side, floor-to-ceiling windows reveal the Charles River flowing glossy and black, and beyond it, glimmering with city lights, the spired skyline of Cambridge.
Even the air smells expensive: fresh-cut lilies and crisp champagne.
A perfect place for a perfect weekend.
Except it isn’t. Because even though Sophie’s here, she isn’t .
I follow her to the windows, where she’s pushing aside the full-length muslin curtains to peer outside.
I take her shoulders, forcing her to drop the curtain and face me.
“Sophie. Can we talk about what happened?”
She doesn’t meet my eyes.
She shakes her head, pulls herself out of my grip, and retreats towards the enormous bed.
“I don’t really want to talk about it.”
“I can see that, but I do.”
She finally looks up, a hint of resentment and anger flashing in her dark brown eyes.
“So? ”
She says it so derisively, so bitingly, that I would be cut to the quick—if I wasn’t aware of exactly what she’s doing.
“I don’t want to argue,” I say softly.
I walk over to the bed and kneel in front of her, looking up.
“I want to make sure you’re okay. Look, I know Max, and he’s a total piece of shit. I didn’t realise he was in your class.”
She rolls her eyes.
“What does he have to do with anything?”
“If he’s giving you trouble, you don’t have to take it. Report him—Harvard’s not like Spearcrest.”
A horrible expression crosses her face.
“I know his dad’s a senator,” I tell her, “but if you don’t want to report him, then let me handle it. I’ll make that asshole disappear right out of your life, I’ll make sure he never—”
Her jaw clenches, and she stands up from the bed, yanking her wrist from my hand, angry tears blossoming in her eyes.
“If this is what you brought me here for,” she says, “I’d rather leave.”
“Don’t, Sophie. Please, I—” I shake my head, feeling defeated, powerless despite everything I know I could do for her.
“I just want to help.”
She blinks rapidly, sucking in a deep breath and holding it.
She’s collecting herself, tidying away all of her emotions, burying them somewhere far out of my reach.
She exhales, slow and controlled.
Her body goes still, her shoulders settling.
And just like that, the Sophie shield goes up, the dark, alluring charm flickering to life.
She steps into me, curling her arms around my waist, and smiles up at me, that glossy plum smile, cool yet inviting.
“I know you do,” she says, gentling her smoky voice.
“But what I need right now is fun, not drama. So let’s go out, let’s have some food, and let’s actually enjoy ourselves, alright? ”
And even though I know this is just Sophie’s way of keeping me at arm’s length, even though I can feel her push me out of her life even as she curls her arms around my waist, I still nod, and agree, and do what she says.
Because the pathetic truth is that I’d rather be here at arm’s length than up close with anybody else in the world.
Sophie smiles up at me, her lips gleaming with that bruised colour, her eyes hooded and unreadable.
She leans up just slightly—too close, not close enough—and my chest tightens, but I don’t move away.
She wins. Doesn’t she always?