38. Pavlovian Response
38
Pavlovian Response
Sophie
“I’m never drinking again.”
My voice is small and pathetic in the silence of the flat.
The only light that’s on is the silver lights underneath the kitchen cupboards, and I’m leaning against the counter, nursing a huge mug of green tea.
The glamour and festivities of the night have faded like fairy godmother magic post-midnight.
My black blazer is draped over the back of a chair, and I’ve traded in my dress and heels for boxers and Evan’s black sweatshirt, hood hiding my hair, which is crinkled from being up all night, sleeves so long I’ve had to roll them back three times.
My phone sits at my side, screen dark and blank, no text, no call—it might as well be dead.
“I know, baby.”
Elle, freshly showered and wrapped in a bathrobe, curls an arm around my shoulders.
She catches me looking at my phone and says, “Maybe he’s busy with work or something. Or in bed.”
“At night? On Valentine’s Day?” I shake my head.
“It’s okay. I can accept it. He’s moved on. It’s reasonable. I expected it. Really, it’s what I get for drunk-texting my ex.”
It should sound unbothered and self-deprecating, but even I can tell it sounds dejected and hurt.
And now that the alcohol is dissipating in my system and the green tea is sobering me up, the reality of what I’ve done, of my own weakness, of Evan having moved on, is so cold and stark that I could freeze to death.
“It’s a rite of passage,” Elle says, squeezing my shoulder.
“We all go through it at one point or another.”
“I know, but—”
A knock on the door makes us both jump.
Hot tea spills over my finger.
Elle straightens up, wide-eyed.
We look at each other.
“Oh my god,” she whispers like there’s a murderer out there.
“It’s not him,” I whisper back—for no reason other than I’m panicking.
“Who else?”
“Sol?”
“She’s staying the night with her boyfriend.”
“Maybe they argued?”
Elle frowns at me.
“Um, did you not see him trying to reach her soul via her mouth with his tongue? They’re doing everything tonight but arguing.”
“Ugh, Elle. Gross.”
“Go open the door.”
My heart stutters and my knees almost buckle.
I catch myself on the counter.
“You go open the door. I feel like I’m going to throw up.”
“Oh my god, fine!”
Elle disappears into the hallway.
I lean against the counter, holding on for dear life, hoping against all hope that my face isn’t bright red, that I’m not going to collapse, that I’m sober enough not to cry or embarrass myself, hoping it’s anyone but him, anyone but him, literally: the police, the FBI, a burglar, a psychotic mass-murderer, that spineless creep Luca Fletcher-Lowe, just not him , not—
“Evan?”
Elle’s voice reaches me from the hallway.
I clap my hands over my cheeks in horror: they’re boiling hot.
Oh god. Oh no.
Oh yes.
Finally.
“You know what?” I hear Elle say.
“I get it now.”
I’m going to kill her.
I’m going to kill her with my own hands.
Evan walks into the flat with his hands in his coat pockets, and my stomach flips like the entire world has just tilted upside down.
Almost a year.
It’s been almost a year, and I know I should’ve expected him to look different, but somehow I didn’t.
And he doesn’t look different, because he still has that ridiculous frame, the broad shoulders and big arms and long legs, and that wheat-gold hair and those summer blue eyes, but he is different, too.
He’s filled out a bit, his skin glowing.
His hair is perfectly cut, pushed away from his face.
He looks tired, like he’s been working all day, but also relaxed at the same time.
He looks calm and confident and in control.
I hate it. I hate him.
I drink in the sight of him like I’ve been parched, like I could drink till I was sick.
And when my eyes finally settle on his, it’s to find him looking at me, eyes slowly making their way up over my bare legs, my body, my sweatshirt, my mouth.
And then his eyes settle on mine, and he blinks, slow and satisfied, and the corners of his lips lift in a knowing smirk .
“Nice outfit.”
I look hastily down at myself, at the black sweatshirt that I wear whenever I need to feel safe and cosy and comforted.
His sweatshirt.
My cheeks, which were already on fire anyway, grow hotter still.
“You would’ve preferred my outfit earlier,” I tell him, and my voice comes out hoarse from drinking and dancing and yelling in the club, and, later, crying in the cab.
“Shame you missed out.”
“This one looks better,” he has the audacity to say.
“Trust me.”
And really, I could kill him, because how dare he walk in here hours later, without bothering to text me, without so much as flinching, after almost a year of not seeing each other, of not talking, of not so much as a text.
His face should be at least twice as red as mine, his eyes should be raining tears, his mouth should be pressed against mine, his hands should be—
“You want some tea, Romeo?” Elle asks brightly, her voice cracking through the tension like a hammer through glass.
“Or did you come all the way to stare at her?”
Evan doesn’t even bother to take this opportunity to break the tension.
He keeps his eyes right on me, answering in a mellow, affable tone, “Tea sounds great, thanks.”
“Well, come on, then,” Elle says.
“Come in. Give me your coat.”
He hands her his coat obediently, and Elle pops it on a hook in the hallway before busying herself making tea.
I’m still braced against the counter, watching Evan as he draws into the flat, glancing around at the living room, the books and case files stacked on the coffee table, the paintings on the walls, my blazer flung over a chair .
While he looks at the flat, I look at him: he’s wearing black slacks and a soft grey sweater, top two buttons undone to reveal a glimpse of a gold chain, sleeves pushed back on his forearms, which are dusted with hair so fine it glints silver in the dim lights from the kitchen.
He walks over slowly, taking his time, and comes to stand on the other side of the counter—facing me.
“Nice place,” he says.
“Love all the books. Very cosy.”
“We weren’t expecting visitors.”
“No?” He tilts his head.
“You didn’t think I’d come?”
“You didn’t reply, so no.”
He leans in, eyes narrowing ever so slightly, his smile taking on a mocking, crooked edge.
“You mean the person you meant to text didn’t reply?”
The heat in my cheeks intensifies.
By now, my face must be so flushed it’s a wonder I’ve not exploded yet.
If it was anyone but Evan, I’d lie through my teeth and muster every last resourceful instinct a Harvard law student is capable of.
But it is Evan, and the room is warm and all I can smell is green tea and his cedarwood cologne, and the smell of his skin, which somehow still seems sun-kissed despite the bitter February cold, so I drop my head back slightly, bite into my bottom lip, and then say, “Couldn’t let you reject me, could I?”
“Come on now,” he says, low and wheedling.
“No man in his right mind could ever reject a girl like you.”
You did , I think, but don’t say aloud.
You did, when you broke up with me .
“I’m here now, aren’t I?” he says in the wake of my silence.
“You could’ve still texted me back.” I narrow my eyes at him.
“You probably liked keeping me on edge. You probably enjoyed the thought of me waiting for you.”
“Oh, Sutton,” he says huskily.
“I fucking loved it.”
I reach out across the counter to shove at his shoulder, but he catches my hand in his, pins it beneath his so that I’m forced to bend over the counter towards him.
Heat flares through me, concentrating low in my stomach, between my legs—a Pavlovian response to Evan’s overbearing strength.
Logically, I know I should yank my hand away.
I don’t. I should say something biting, something clever.
Instead, my lips part wetly.
His eyes drop to my mouth, just for a split second before he drags them back up to meet mine.
“I’m sorry for not texting you back,” he says softly.
“I was working.”
As if.
“On Valentine’s Day?”
He shrugs.
“It’s just a normal Thursday to me.”
There’s a glimpse of genuine melancholy in his tone; adrenaline spikes through me.
I smirk up at him.
“Aw, no date? That’s so sad, Knight. You need to get a life.”
“Lead by example, Sutton. Where’s your date?”
He pretends to look around and then turns back to me, head tilted ever so slightly back so that he can look down at me from as high up as possible.
My fingers tense against the countertop where my hand is still pinned beneath his with effortless strength, and I catch my breath when I realise I’m barely breathing because my heart is beating too fast.
“He never showed,” I bite out.
“Lucky I’m here, then.”
“Lucky for who ?”
Elle loudly puts down a cup of tea between us, making us both jump as we remember we’re not alone.
I look at her, eyes wide in alarm and embarrassment, and she turns her head to hide her face from Evan as she mouths to me, Oh, my, fucking, god before biting down into her bottom lip and rolling her eyes into the back of her head.
I’d think she was only making fun of us if I couldn’t see that she, too, is flushed all over.
“Well,” she says loudly and with exaggerated emphasis.
“Nice to meet you, Evan, but I better go to bed now. I have work in the morning.”
I glare at her.
“No, you don’t.”
Elle smiles sweetly.
“Exactly.”
And then she saunters away, closing her bedroom door with a loud click and leaving behind nothing but silence, the fragrant steam of green tea, and the unbearable tension of me and Evan with nothing between us except a kitchen counter and ten months’ worth of unmet want.