9. Worthless People
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 up at 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.”
When we return to the hotel after dinner that night, our room welcomes us back with its soft, silver glow.
Outside, it’s started snowing, fragile flakes drifting in windswept swaths through the night sky, melting the moment they touch the smooth black mirror of the river.
Our things are already mostly packed, waiting near the door, a reminder that this is our final night of reprieve from real life.
Evan drops his coat onto the ottoman and turns to me, his eyes full of quiet anticipation.
I feel the weight of the day pressing down on me, our stolen peace as fragile as any of the snowflakes spinning through the night outside the window, my chestful of unspoken words suffocating me.
“Sophie,” he says, his voice gentle but steady, as he stands in front of me to unbutton my coat.
“Can we talk about—”
“Not now,” I interrupt, shaking my head.
“Evan. Please .”
He holds my gaze for a long moment, as if searching my eyes for glimpses of the truths I’m withholding.
I don’t want to be a coward, I will tell him the truth, just—not now.
Not yet.
He lets out a strange sigh when I kiss him, hungry yet wry, like I’m giving him something he wants, but in the most predictable of ways.
And maybe I am. But I need this, and he does too, I know it.
Isn’t this the one thing we’ve always had in common?
This yawning, desperate hunger for each other’s touch?
This addiction to one another’s presence and body and skin, no matter how painful?
We undress in silence, the distant city lights outside casting shifting patterns on the walls.
When he pulls me close, his touch is tender, his lips brushing mine with a softness that makes my chest ache almost as much as the ache between my legs.
I let out a low, husky sigh without even realising when his mouth finds the delicate crook where my jaw meets my neck, and I slide my hand between us, fingers sliding over the hard bulge pressing against me.
Evan stops, then. I try to pull him back to me, but he pushes me away by my hips, strong hands keeping me still as he stares down at me, eyes dark, chest rising and falling rapidly.
“I don’t want to do this if you’re only going to forget about it.”
“I won’t,” I pant.
“I swear. I only had one drink with dinner. I’m not even tipsy.”
He nods, and pushes me slowly back to the bed, forcing me to step backwards, hands gripping his elbows for balance.
“I don’t want to do this unless you actually want it,” he says, voice low and deep, almost gravelly.
“I do.” I swallow. “I want this, Evan, I—”
“I don’t want to do this,” he continues, cutting me off, “unless you want me .”
“Evan.” My voice is a breath, a sigh, a whimper.
“I do. I want you. Now.”
He lets out a noise low in his throat, something that sounds like approval and maybe even anger.
He pushes me back onto the bed, palm pressed to my breastbone, forcing me to lie flat as he descends upon me, caging my body in with his.
He kisses me slowly, taking his time, lips lingering on my neck, my breasts, my stomach, my legs.
He kisses the little purple bruises peppered along my inner thighs.
And when I’m writhing and bucking my hips under his hands for some contact, some friction—anything—he finally lowers his mouth on me.
He makes me come with his gentle, relentless tongue, and when he settles his hips against mine to bury himself inside me, it’s not hard and desperate and punishing, it’s slow and deliberate and it feels so good my entire body trembles like jelly beneath his.
Evan comes with a hoarse cry, pulling me to him, kissing me deep and tender, holding me right against his chest even as his hips move without control.
He holds me like something precious and brittle, something he never wants to let go of.
Afterwards, I rest my head on his chest, listening to the steady rhythm of his heartbeat as we both regain our breaths.
His hand trails lazily through long strands of my hair, and when he finally speaks, his voice is barely above a whisper.
“I love you.” His breath is warm against my temple.
“I love you so much.”
The words land softly, but they feel heavy and terrible and important.
I close my eyes, willing myself to hold on to the warmth they bring, the fragile, fleeting comfort of being loved.
“I love you too,” I say, and it’s true—real enough right here, in this pocket of time we’ve created in the middle of the rocky expanse of our lives.
And for a few heartbeats, it feels good to say it, to tell him.
Evan exhales, his breath warm against my temple.
His fingers tighten in my hair, his heartbeat steady and sure beneath my cheek.
And then the silence settles, and I know it’s time.
“I don’t think we should keep seeing each other while I’m at Harvard.”