18. Work Thing
18
Work Thing
Evan
At the end of the weekend, Sophie sneaks me back out to my car, where we spend far too long in the rain saying goodbye without saying goodbye.
Sophie’s holding an umbrella over us, the rain drumming against the black canopy in a low, steady rhythm.
The air smells like wet leaves and damp concrete, the cold bite of winter still lingering.
I’m leaning back against my car, my arms around Sophie’s waist, sharing body heat—keeping her close for as long as I possibly can before I’m forced to let her go.
“Next time, just tell me you’re here,” she’s saying with the furrowed brow of a schoolmistress.
She looks awful serious despite the fact her glasses are slightly misty from the rain, and I tighten my arms around her, slipping a thumb underneath her top to feel the warm skin of her waist as she berates me.
“You don’t need to keep climbing the fire escape. Even if it’s very romantic, it’s also incredibly dangerous, especially with all this rain, and I’d rather you not slip and fall to your death. So just tell me when you’re here, and I’ll come out and sneak you in.”
“I’m starting to think you like this, Sutton,” I say huskily.
My hand’s now fully under her shirt, fingers splayed against the delicate ridges of her ribcage, thumb flicking at the elastic band of her bra.
“All this sneaking around, all this secret fucking.”
She glares up at me, but she also slides her thighs right against mine, arching ever so slightly closer to me.
“Says the degenerate who’s risking death climbing a slippery fire escape just for a chance of getting into my bed.”
I laugh; the sound comes out scratchy and rough.
“Not a degenerate. Any guy would risk death just for a chance of being your dirty little secret. I’m just the lucky one.”
“Better listen to me, if you want to stay lucky,” she says.
“Or next time you try knocking on my window, I might not open it.”
“Nah.” Sliding my leg deeper between hers, I lift it slightly, pressing my thigh up into her.
Above us, the umbrella wobbles in her unsteady grip.
Her free hand grips my elbow, fingers digging into my arm, and I catch her biting down into her lower lip.
“You’ll definitely open it.”
“Arrogant bastard,” she hisses, hips rocking against my thigh.
“Uh-huh.” I lower my voice and reply against her ear.
“Needy. Little. Slut.”
A car drives by in a rush of light and rain, and Sophie shoves herself away from me with a glare and a slap on my arm for good measure.
She steps back, making sure to tilt her umbrella away so it’s only sheltering her and I’m standing under a grey sheet of rain.
“Do what you’re told, Knight,” she says imperiously.
“Don’t I always, love.” I open my car door but stop just as I’m about to get in.
“Hey, I forgot to ask. Are you going to that Harvard alum gala in New York? Mom mentioned your League of Extraordinary Students programme was being invited.”
Her glare deepens.
“It’s called the Direct Admissions for Remarkable Talent programme. ”
I grin, wiping rain out of my eyes.
“That’s what I said: the Teacher’s Pets Association for Bookish Nerds.”
She kicks her muddy boot into my car door, which pushes into my legs.
My grin widens. “You coming or not?”
“I am.” She doesn’t sound happy about it, which surprises me because this feels like exactly the kind of meeting of great minds that Sophie would be into.
“Will you be there?”
I tilt my head.
“Uh-huh…”
There’s a moment of silence that’s filled with the dull rush of rain and distant traffic.
“Shall I…” I hesitate.
“Need me to stay away from you?”
“I don’t want to…” It’s her turn to hesitate.
“This is a Harvard thing for me. A work thing. That’s how I’ll be approaching it. And obviously, we’re not supposed to be together anyway.”
Sophie Sutton: a stickler for professionalism and formality.
But it still stings like shit, like alcohol rubbed right into an open wound, and it takes all my willpower to not let her see me flinch.
“Right,” I say. “Yeah, of course.” I hitch my grin back on my face.
“Don’t worry. I won’t get in the way of you schmoozing.”
“I’m dreading it,” she says flatly, and I can tell she’s telling the truth.
“The insane workload I can deal with. But having to suck up to the kind of people who’ve been looking down on me my whole life is giving me nightmares. I can’t stand it.”
“I know.” My tone softens.
“But it won’t be so bad. It’s not just going to be obnoxious right idiots like me. My mum will be there. A lot of lawyers, too, the kind of people who’ll inspire you. You’re going to meet people you can actually talk to. You’ll see.”
She nods, and draws closer, raising the umbrella above me.
“Thanks,” she says. “I know it’s not easy, Evan, this whole thing. But for what it’s worth, I really appreciate your patience and understanding.”
“And the secret fucking, obviously.” I reach down to kiss her cheek.
“Will you need a lift to the city—for the gala?”
“No, I’m riding in with this girl from my class.”
“A new friend?”
She shrugs.
“Who knows.”
“Alright. Well, I’ll see you there, then. From afar, of course.”
From afar.
Like I won’t be spending most of the night searching for her in the crowd, watching her draw everyone’s attention, watching people being inevitably pulled into her field of gravity while I’m cast out of orbit, forced to remain as cold and remote as a faraway star.
Like I won’t be feeding on the sight of her beauty, the addictive heat of her presence, wishing I could stand at her side proudly instead of remaining hidden in the shadowy corners of her life.
A wave of bitter resentment rises through me; I throw it back with all my strength.
I’m the one who begged to be her secret.
No point in regrets now.
Oblivious to my inner struggle, Sophie reaches up to kiss my cheek, too.
“Good luck at KMG. Be brilliant.”
“Brilliance might take a while.” I smile wryly.
“I’ll start by trying not to be dull.”
“That’s going to be a real challenge for you,” she says with the kind of cruel little smirk that always gets my blood burning.
“But I’ll be rooting for you.”
She steps back, her boots splashing against the wet concrete, the rainfall throwing a grey veil between us, and for a second, I don’t want her to leave.
Every time we part, it feels like I’m stepping out of the real world and into a different existence.
A colourless, dull void, where nothing really matters and living is a joyless, boring endeavour.
I wonder how long we can keep this up before it becomes too much.
I shove the thought firmly away.
“You will?” I say lightly.
“Thanks, Sutton, oh, and—” I show her my middle finger.
“Go fuck yourself.”
“I’ll go put on your sweatshirt, then,” she says, turning away.
“I’ll make sure to call your name when I do.” She looks back at me over her shoulder, pulling out her tongue.
“Love ya, loser.”
My heart skips a beat.
Is this a trap? I want to say it back, but feel like I shouldn’t, like this is just like the gala, Sophie keeping me close but never close enough.
Does she even want my love?
She must do, why else would she keep calling me back to her?
Why else would she say it?
But if it is a trap, then—
Fuck it.
“Love you too.”
If life was like a movie, Sophie’s love would be enough to transform me into the man I was always meant to be.
Like a prince’s transformation, I’d shed my old skin and emerge a newer, better, shinier version of myself.
Movies make you think that improvement is just about willpower, that you’re only ever a montage away from the person you’re meant to be.
But that’s not how real life works.
Real life is Sophie: It’s spending years working harder than anyone around you only to be mocked and looked down upon.
It’s working yourself to the bone for the things you want, not for fifteen minutes, but for every single day of every single week of your life.
It’s doing everything you can to get the things you want when getting those things isn’t even guaranteed.
So what other choice do I have?
I get to work.
It’s even harder to start, because by this point everybody in the department seems to be expecting mediocrity from me.
I find myself wishing I’d made a better first impression, appeared more enthusiastic, driven, ambitious.
But I dive in headfirst anyway.
I start showing up early, earlier than anyone else in the department, planting myself at my desk with coffee and an actual to-do list. I volunteer for every menial task that nobody else wants: organising files, following up with difficult clients, double-checking spreadsheets for errors.
The effort is met with mild indifference.
My supervisor, a man who’s been here so long he’s practically fossilised into his desk, barely glances at me when I offer to help with a client presentation.
“Sure.” He doesn’t even look up from his screen.
From the wall above him, motivational posters remind me to ‘Make It Happen’ and to ‘Walk the Talk’.
He waves a hand. “Just don’t mess it up.”
I leave his office deflated, feeling suddenly stupid in my new suit and white gold tie clip.
His reaction is exactly the kind of reaction I get for the next two weeks: polite, indifferent tolerance.
Every day, when I pass the Knight Media Group sign, backlit in gold above the reception desk, I force myself to straighten my posture, fix my tie.
In the elevator, I ask myself the same question every time: would Sophie give up?
The answer’s always the same.
So I don’t give up.
But the more time passes, the more my motivation bleeds out.
Every time someone ignores my input, every time my work gets brushed aside, it rattles the flimsy scaffolding of resolve I managed to build off the back of Sophie’s words.
I tell myself to keep going, to push through, but doubt creeps in.
What if Sophie’s wrong?
What if I’m not strong or capable or any of the things she thinks I am?
What if I’m just… me?
A spoilt, useless rich kid who’s been coasting on his family name his whole life.
Isn’t that why she won’t be seen with me, after all?
Because deep down, she knows exactly what I am: nothing but my money.
That’s all anyone sees when they look at me—including her.
By the end of the month, I stop coming in early or staying late.
I pass the reception desk with my eyes on the floor, blanking out the sight of my name.
In the elevator, I push Sophie firmly out of my head.
Sometimes, the echo of her voice tells me to keep going, to prove everyone wrong, but it sounds distant now, like she’s speaking to someone else entirely.