47. Summer
47
Summer
Evan
It’s not very difficult to convince Sophie to let me fly her parents in for her graduation.
I know her too well, and I’ve known her for too long.
What I do is spend months telling her I want to buy her a $60,000 white diamond necklace for her graduation.
I let her horror and dread build over time, and when I can tell she’s reached a peak of stress about the situation, I offer her a compromise in the form of allowing me to fly her parents to the US.
She agrees.
(And anyway, I’ve got the rest of my life to shower this proud, stubborn woman in diamonds.)
Her parents somehow look exactly as I pictured and not at all.
Both of them are shorter than her, for one.
They’re both elegant and a little awkward, with straight postures and sharp bone structure.
Sophie has her father’s dark eyes and hair, his olive colouring.
It’s strange to see her with them: it reminds me of the way she used to be around teachers in Spearcrest. Standing tall, back straight, full of contained nervous energy, rigid and solemn .
Despite how obviously anxious she is, Sophie is a fucking vision on Commencement Day.
The black robe and red hood suit her: she wears it over a structured black dress and plain heels, her make-up understated and striking.
Even the mortarboard cap looks good on her long, shiny hair.
Her mother is misty-eyed the entire time: it’s not hard to see how proud her parents are of her.
They take pictures of her in her academic regalia, pictures of her shaking hands with her mentor, Mr Park, and then the president of Harvard, pictures of her with her diploma.
On the way to the restaurant afterwards, we take separate cabs, and I hold Sophie’s hand in mine, squeezing her fingers to stop her from wringing her hands together.
“It’s going well, right?” she says, looking up at me.
I cradle her face to kiss her cheek.
“It’s going great. Your parents couldn’t be more proud of you if they tried.”
“They seem to really like you,” she says, lips quirking.
“It’s my natural charisma.”
“Or the fact that their grandkids are going to be rich.”
My heart skips several beats.
I blink, catch myself before my jaw drops.
“ Grandkids , Sophie Sutton?”
She laughs, cheeks colouring.
“ Obviously that was a joke.”
We both look out of our respective windows.
My chest fills suddenly impossibly full, and my head spins like I’m dizzy from standing at the top of a very tall mountain, and I can’t help but turn back towards her.
“If we have kids, I hope they’re all dark-haired and mean and smart like you.”
She doesn’t say anything, gazing out of the window for a long moment, and then she turns back to me, squeezing my fingers in hers .
“So long as they have your dimples.”
Dinner is pleasant but a little stilted, and I can tell Sophie’s knotted up tight with nerves.
She’s picking at her food even though she’s hungry, sipping water like she’s trying to melt a lump in her throat.
I squeeze her hand under the table, a small reassurance, and do my best to carry the conversation.
Luckily, her parents seem happy enough to listen to me talk about Spearcrest, my rugby and tennis, my parents, KMG, even Inkspill.
They have the same inquisitive streak as Sophie, asking plenty of questions, and I answer them all, grateful for the distraction.
In return, they seem only too happy to answer my questions, and since I want to know everything about Sophie, I have plenty to ask.
I sit with my chin in my hand, grinning like an idiot as they tell me about her childhood.
“We used to worry she’d never make friends,” her mum says, smiling fondly.
“She’d always sit all alone in school reading books. We even had to attend a meeting about it—her teachers were concerned about her social development.”
“I bet she was quite the teacher’s pet, though,” I say, grinning.
Sophie digs the point of her heel into my tibia, but my smile doesn’t falter even a little.
“Oh, the teachers adored her,” her mum agrees.
“But she’d report the other kids when they did something wrong, and that probably didn’t help.”
I turn to Sophie, mock horror on my face.
“So you’ve always been like this?”
She shrugs, lifting her glass to her lips.
“If rules weren’t important, we wouldn’t have them, would we?”
“She was the same in Spearcrest,” I tell her mum, my grin widening.
“When she was a prefect. Mad with power, clipboard in hand, terrifying everyone in the lower years.”
Sophie rolls her eyes, but her mum’s smile falters slightly.
“Yes, we were so afraid she’d struggle to make friends there too.” She looks at me warmly.
“We were so happy when we heard she met you.”
A cold feeling sinks through me, and I drop my eyes to my plate.
They don’t know. They don’t know that for years, I wasn’t her friend at all.
That I was just another face in the crowd of people who let her suffer, who made her suffer.
There will never be a time in my life I don’t remember befriending Sophie at school—just like there will never be a time I forgive myself for turning my back on her.
The conversation shifts back to Harvard, but the tension lingers and grows.
Sophie’s parents start asking about her plans after the bar exam, and I feel her fingers scrambling for mine under the table.
She squeezes them so hard it almost hurts.
I turn to look at her.
She meets my eyes, and we hold gazes for a moment.
Then I nod and mouth you’ve got this .
She gulps in a deep breath that feels as heavy as a rock, and forces herself to meet her parents’ expectant eyes.
“I’m moving to New York,” she says.
“After I pass the bar. I’ve secured a job in Manhattan.”
The reaction is instant.
Her mother’s expression freezes, the smile slipping from her face like something from a spilt cup, a messy splash of hurt.
Her father’s brows knit together .
“Oh,” her mum says after a pause.
“I see.” She sets her fork down carefully on the edge of her plate.
“Manhattan, sweetheart? That’s amazing, only, that’s… that’s quite far, isn’t it?”
“It is,” Sophie says quietly.
“So you’re not planning on coming back home?”
Sophie stiffens.
“I—no. No, I’m not.”
Her father shakes his head slowly.
“We always thought you’d come back. We just assumed you’d want to work in London—closer to your family. Closer to home.”
“I’ll visit,” she says, voice wobbling.
Her mother’s smile is strained.
“Of course. Of course, sweetheart. But…” She exchanges a look with her husband, and her eyes are wide and glittering like she’s trying not to cry.
“Sophie, I—is this because of us?”
Sophie blinks.
“Pardon?”
“We’ve always wanted the best for you,” her mum says, her voice laced with sadness.
“We gave you everything we could, and I hope—” She falters, presses her lips together.
“You don’t… resent us for sending you to Spearcrest, do you?”
Sophie flinches ever so slightly.
She glances at me, her throat moving in a hard swallow, her breath coming slightly uneven.
“Of course not, that’s not—”
But she stops.
Because she can’t say it.
Not without lying.
Her eyes dart to me, panic creeping into her gaze—my bold, courageous Sophie, all her bravery sapped out of her—and I know if she stays here any longer, she’s going to cry, and if there’s one thing Sophie hates more than anything else, it’s crying in front of others.
She pushes back her chair, and I can tell her legs are unsteady under her.
“I’m sorry, I can’t—” Her voice breaks.
“I don’t feel too well. ”
“Do you want to go get a cab?” I take her hand and kiss it.
“I’ll get this, alright?”
She nods, mutters a goodbye and then she’s gone, disappearing through the restaurant doors and into the cool night air.
Her parents stare after her, looking lost and dismayed.
I don’t follow immediately.
Instead, I inhale slowly, set my napkin down, and meet their eyes.
“She doesn’t resent you,” I tell them, voice measured.
“You gave her everything, and she knows it, more than you’ll ever know. You gave her Spearcrest. And without Spearcrest, she never would have made it here.”
Her mum’s lips part, her father shifts uncomfortably in his seat.
“But,” I continue painfully, chest tight, gathering my courage to tell them the unvarnished truth.
“Sophie had a horrible time there. She was bullied and mocked and isolated. She spent years fighting to survive in that school.” I glance between them.
“I know, because I was there. I saw it. And I—” The words lodge in my throat; I force them out.
“I was part of it.”
Her mother pales.
“You—”
“I wasn’t her friend,” I admit, plain and honest. “I should’ve been. I should’ve helped her. Instead, I made it worse. She deserved better than the way she was treated there, by everyone, including me. But…” I catch my breath.
“You know what Sophie’s like. She put her head down and made the best of Spearcrest. Not because it was good or easy, but because she wo rked herself to the bone, because she’s the strongest person I’ve ever met in my life.”
Her father shifts again, jaw clenched, hands folded tightly over the tablecloth.
“New York isn’t about resenting you,” I finish quietly.
“It’s not even about Spearcrest. It’s about Sophie. Sophie’s life and dreams, Sophie finally allowing herself to be happy. She had a hard time in Harvard to begin with, but she loves it here. She’s happy—she’s thriving . And that doesn’t mean she’s ungrateful. Sophie wants to make you proud, but this is her life, and she deserves to be happy.”
Her mother looks down at her lap.
Her father clears his throat, blinks hard.
I can tell that both of them are struggling to speak, and something tells me that they’re exactly like Sophie: they don’t want me to see them break.
So I smile at them as kindly as I can.
“Don’t worry, alright? Sophie loves you, and she’s going to be alright. You’ll see.” I push my chair back and stand.
“I better go check on her. I’ll take her home, but tomorrow, we’ll take you to the airport. She’ll want to see you before you go.”
Sophie’s mother smiles mutely, and her father gives me a grateful nod.
Before I leave, I settle the check and order a cab to take them back to their hotel.
And then I grab my jacket and leave.
I find Sophie outside, standing beneath the glow of a streetlamp, arms wrapped tightly around herself.
The May air is crisp, almost chilly, Sophie’s dark hair shifting slightly in the wind.
“You alright?” I ask, pressing my lips to her temples.
She doesn’t turn, and her voice comes out a little hoarse.
“I will be.”
I step closer and drape my jacket over her shoulders.
She stiffens slightly, but she doesn’t push it off.
She looks up at me .
“Did you say something to them?”
“Only the truth, love.”
She’s silent for a moment, and I wrap her into my arms, holding her tight, letting her think her thoughts until she’s ready to speak.
When she does, her voice is small.
“You think they hate me?” And, even more softly, “I didn’t want to hurt them.”
“If there’s anyone they should hate, it’s me.” I tilt her face up to mine, holding her gaze.
“I think they love you, and even if your life doesn’t follow the path they expected, they’ll always love you.”
Tears glitter along her eyelashes.
“You’re sure?”
I brush my thumbs delicately beneath her eyes, wiping away her tears.
“Uh-huh. Trust me. I’m sure.”
Summer finally comes, and there’s not really any time for worries.
Sophie’s preparing for the bar, and we spend several weeks flat-hunting together.
We move in during the first week of summer: a sun-drenched, loft-style apartment in Tribeca, nestled on the top floor of a converted warehouse.
The place fits Sophie like a glove: exposed brick walls, towering windows, dark wooden beams cutting through high ceilings.
In the mornings, golden light pools across the dark wood floors.
Below, a quiet street stretches towards a small dog park; Sophie keeps not-so-subtly hinting at it.
Inside, the apartment is a blend of modern and old-world elegance, sort of like me and Sophie.
She fills it with antique Persian rugs, bookshelves crammed with law textbooks and first editions, vintage armchairs, and one enormous sofa so comfortable we both fall asleep on it the first night we stay in the flat.
I convert the spare room into an office for her.
Inés and Mina help me find her a massive antique desk from a dusty shop in the West Village, which I polish and place in front of the window so she can see the city stretch below.
I get her filing cabinets and fit one wall with an old blackboard for her to scribble ideas on.
Sophie loves it, just like I knew she would, but when I fuck her right on top of her shiny new desk, she accuses me of having ulterior motives.
I only have one, though: making her happy every day of her life.
The week after we move in, we throw our first party together.
We call it a housewarming party, and it is, but it’s also a celebration—of me staying at Inkspill, of Sophie securing a job doing what she loves, of us.
Sophie and me, together.
No more hiding, no more fear, no more almosts.
The apartment fills quickly, a mix of old and new faces.
The golden glow of the pendant lights reflects off half-empty champagne flutes, laughter spilling from the balcony, carried on the warm summer air.
Zachary is deep in conversation with Theo and a few of Sophie’s Harvard classmates.
Near the kitchen, Elle balances a precariously full plate of hors d’oeuvres while gesturing animatedly with a cocktail in hand, entirely unaware that half the contents of her glass are threatening to slosh over the rim.
I didn’t expect everyone to show up, but they have.
Sev and Ana?s flew in from Japan, Zachary and Theodora from Oxford.
I was almost tempted to invite Luca, just to rub it in his face that I ended up with the girl he tried to keep from me for years, but something tells me he already knows.
He only ever likes my photos when they feature Sophie.
Asshole.
Still, it’s hard to be in a bad mood when I see how happy Sophie looks surrounded by people she likes.
Her other flatmate, Solana, is also here with her boyfriend, and Elle brought a couple of people from their internship at KMG.
Alice Liu and a few other of Sophie’s classmates from the DART programme are also there—even Dahlia Lindenfeld.
I overhear them both berating Sophie’s choice to give up KMG and Big Law to join Sardowski she has no idea.
Inkspill turns up: Inés brings Matt and Mina, who is over the moon to finally get to meet Sophie, and Patch brings his husband.
Zachary and Theo gravitate towards them without being able to help themselves and talk turns deeply academic very quickly.
Luckily for me, I have to leave the party for a while and this is as good a time as any.
On my way out, I catch Sophie by her waist, pulling her away from some animated chatter between her, Ana?s and Elle.
She laces her arms around my neck and presses her mouth to my temple.
“You having fun?” she whispers.
Her eyes are bright, her cheeks are flushed.
“Yes.” I wipe someone’s lipstick kiss off her cheek with a thumb.
“You?”
“I didn’t think everyone would turn up.”
“Of course they’d turn up.”
I kiss her mouth and tell her I’m going to pick up Iakov from the airport.
She lets me go reluctantly and says, “You better hurry back, Mr Knight.”
“I wouldn’t dare disobey you, Miss Sutton. ”
I return about an hour later, but I don’t just have Iakov in tow.
Audrey and Araminta, Sophie’s best friends from Spearcrest, sneak in after us.
Audrey’s got her fiancé with her, and Araminta’s brought her girlfriend.
When Sophie spots Audrey and Araminta, she freezes for a moment, and then her eyes fill with tears.
The three of them sink in an embrace and between exclamations and kisses and introductions, it takes almost fifteen minutes for Sophie to make her way back to me.
“How long did you plan this?”
It took months to coordinate flying them over; I shrug.
“I don’t see what you mean.”
“Thank you,” she says, standing on her toes to kiss my mouth.
“Anything for you, love. Always.”
I lace my arm around her waist and pull her to the kitchen, where a box rests on the counter.
She frowns at me. “What’s this?”
“I have no idea,” I answer honestly.
“It was waiting downstairs at reception when I got back from the airport.”
She throws me a suspicious look, as if she doesn’t believe it, and I laugh, grabbing a beer and hopping on the edge of the counter.
“Well, go on, open it.”
Sophie opens it carefully, lifting the lid of the box to find a beautifully packaged leather-bound gold-embossed edition of Jane Eyre .
She swallows hard, running her fingers over the cover before flipping it open.
Inside, on the first page, is a handwritten inscription.
For the girl who always had her nose in a book, it’s your turn to write your own story.
We love you. We’re proud of you.
Go do amazing things .
Love,
Mum and Dad
Sophie looks up at me, eyes soft and wide and full of emotion.
I look down at her from the counter.
“Told you.”
Hugging the book in her arms, she stands between my thighs, resting her head on my chest. I wrap my arms around her, kissing the top of her head, stroking up and down her back.
“You gonna lend it to me?” I ask against her hair.
She looks up, laughing despite her wet eyelashes.
“You want to read Jane Eyre ?”
“I hear it’s about a strong hard-working girl falling in love with a rich obnoxious asshole. Gotta make sure it ends well.”
“I have good news and bad news.”
I shake my head.
“She ends up marrying him, and they have two sons and two daughters and a golden retriever, and they are happily in love for the rest of their lives.”
“Well, actually, there’s a fire, and her sexy repressed cousin proposes to her, but—”
I place a finger gently on her lips.
She stops talking to kiss it, and I slide it away from her lips and under her chin, tilting her face up to me.
“ And they are happily in love for the rest of their lives, Sutton. ”
Her lips quirk as she tries to contain her smile.
She lifts her eyebrows.
“The dog is a non-negotiable clause.”
I lean in, my voice low, almost rough.
“So’s the wedding.”
She considers it for a split second, and for that split second, my heart doesn’t even dare to beat.
Then her lips curve, and she sticks out her hand.
“Deal. ”
I don’t bother shaking her hand.
Cupping her face, I seal the deal the way deals are sealed in fairy tales, not boardrooms: with a kiss. The End