“Do you want some tea?” Gwendolynne poses the question with a look of utmost distaste, as though offering me hospitality causes her physical pain.
“Please,” I say, because I like to provoke her, and also because I am thirsty.
She disappears into an adjacent room as I move farther into the flat, loosening my tie and divesting myself of my overcoat and my jacket. These I drape over the back of a chair—to join another pile of clothing—before I hitch up my suit pants and sink onto the sofa. The sounds of banging and slamming cupboard doors float out from the kitchen, consistent, I suppose, with Gwendolynne’s current emotional state.
My gaze sweeps the coffee table, which is stacked high with textbooks; she has clearly been studying during her period of suspension. Beside the books lies a sad-looking cardboard box containing the remnants of her supper.
She emerges some minutes later and slams a small porcelain teacup on the coffee table in front of me. “It’s Chinese tea,” she says, her tone curt. “It’s all we have.” There are no other sitting surfaces in the living room, so she perches on the sofa, as far away from me as possible. The action causes the T-shirt she is wearing to twitch up, exposing a considerable expanse of pale, smooth leg, and I hastily look away.
“Chinese tea is fine.” I take a sip. It’s good. Then, with my cup, I gesture at the TV, which is playingPride and Prejudice.
The volume is turned down low. It’s the scene where Mr.Darcy confronts Elizabeth in the pouring rain, and he’s arrogant and she’s belligerent and we’re meant to hate Fitzwilliam Darcy, but I always felt kind of sorry for the poor, smitten, awkward bastard.
“This, though,” I say, fixing her with a baleful look. “Thisis unforgivable.”
She bristles. “What is?”
“The 2005 version? Honestly?” I place the cup on the table andfold my arms, feigning outrage. “When the BBC version is clearlyfarsuperior?”
She scowls at me, not wanting to rise to the bait, but I don’t miss the scanty flint of a spark that catches in her dark brown eyes. “And is there anything else you wish to comment on inmyhouse, Mr.Briggs?”
“The curry and chips. It’s an abomination. It should be salt and vinegar only, you know…unless you are a miscreant who savors chaos and destruction.”
She presses her lips together, and I know I’ve got her. “You unculturedswine,” she says through her teeth, though her tone is playful. “You can get out, and leavethismiscreant to enjoy her delicious meal in peace.”
I chuckle and lean toward her. But she stiffens, a faint flush staining her normally pale cheeks. There’s a sort of charged atmosphere between us, something that I’ve noticed seems to happen whenever one of us draws too near.
She opens her mouth, closes it again, then finally sighs. “What are youreallydoing here, Briggs?” It’s the same question she asked me to begin with, except now her voice is soft, the expression on her face glum. Plus, she isn’t pointing a size 10 scalpel blade at my jugular.
Seeing her sudden meekness makes my heart contract for a beat. I cannot forget that she has had her life completely turned upside down. This is a woman whose whole identity is built on academic achievement, and all it took was a tatty old cat and some unknown conniving bastard to bring it all crashing down.
“I came to see how you were doing,” I answer truthfully. “And to bring you some practice papers.” Reaching into my trouser pocket, I draw out an admittedly rumpled stack of practice exams that the lecturers handed out on Monday. It’s Tuesday, so I’m a day late giving them to her, but then again I did have to buy a car to make the trip all the way to Manchester. I know from experience that my bikeisn’t set up well for long trips, and I didn’t want to be conspicuous by using my father’s Magecorp limo.
For a moment, she stills, seemingly frozen. But then she reaches out and plucks the papers from my hand. “Thanks.” She’s flushing even harder, staring down at the papers now sitting on her lap.
“Listen—” I pause. What do I even say to her? I’ve never had trouble talking to women, but whenever I’m with Gwendolynne, I feel completely lost for words.
“Yes?” She’s still clutching the exam papers, her entire body tense. Her fingers are trembling. Mine would be too, if my arms weren’t so tightly crossed. My body hums with nervous energy.
“I’m really sorry you were suspended.” Even I’m surprised at how honest I’m being. “It’s really not fair on you—or on Percy.”
And then—oh shit—she’s crying again. Great, big, splashy tears that stream down her face, skimming along her jawline and splattering right onto the exam papers. Without thinking, I scoot closer, and then our arms are touching, our legs are touching, my arm is around her, I’m drawing her to me, I’m tucking her head beneath my chin as she sobs into my chest, her tears dampening the crisp white cotton of my shirt.
Fucking hell.I’m hugging Gwendolynne Chan. And she’s not recoiling. In fact…she’s leaning into me.
“I really need this, Briggs.” She says this against my chest, the sound vibrating right down to my core. Inside me, the dueling sensations of lust and pity are waging a war of epic proportions, my brain so utterly confused that all I can do is hold on to her tighter. I curl around her, cinching her closer into my body: a body that is now reacting, uncontrollably, to the smell of her skin, and her proximity. “Ineedto come first.”
“I know,” I murmur, using one hand to rub soothing circles on her back.
But then she scoffs and pushes me away, suddenly angry. “No,” she seethes. “Youdon’tknow.You—with your money, and your privilege, and your—” She stops, covers her face with both hands, and starts properly sobbing, her shoulders shaking.
I don’t know what to do or say, so I remain silent. My chest feels hollow, bloodless, as though she’d actually stabbed me with that scalpel in the hallway and exsanguinated me entirely. I keep one hand on her back because I’m not quite sure where else to put it.
Eventually, she speaks, her voice muffled by her hands. “My parents are going to lose their restaurant.”
My brow furrows; I sit up straighter. “What?”
She drops her hands and raises her head. She doesn’t look mad anymore; now she just looks…weary. “The Chinese restaurant downstairs. You would’ve gone past it to get to the stairwell. They own it. They’ve been running it for twenty-five years, since they first immigrated. They built it from scratch—fromnothing, Briggs.Nothing.I used to spend every weekend there. Studying at one of the tables.”
