Evan watched as Reg slid into the back of a black cab, draping himself over some piss-poor imitation of Barty. He’d tried—tried to stop it, caught Reg’s arm as he left, tried to give him an out—but Reg didn’t want an out.
The worst part? It was Evan’s fucking fault. He shouldn’t have said anything, shouldn’t have brought up the bag of stuff Barty had shoved at him before he left. But he’d thought—hoped—that if Reg could hold the pieces in his hands—pieces of himself given to Barty over the years, things that had always stayed in the flat through all the other breakups—he might realise what he was throwing away. For real this time. But no, Reg had done exactly what he always did—run straight into the nearest mistake and let it swallow him whole.
Still, at least it wasn’t James. That much, at least, Evan had managed to prevent. Even if it meant kissing the guy himself. Reg could come back from a stranger in a bar; he couldn’t come back from James. And besides, James didn’t deserve it, didn’t deserve to be used as a half-hearted distraction, not when he was so clearly in love with Reg. Not that Reg saw it. Reg didn’t see anything beyond his own damn orbit.
Evan let out a slow breath, rolling back his shoulders. It wasn’t fair that it always fell to him. But who else was going to do it? Barty had finally thrown in the towel. Reg sure as hell wasn’t going to pull his head out of his own self-loathing long enough to fix his own damn relationship. Sirius would do something, if Reg let him, but Reg wouldn’t let his brother in far enough to help.
And that, of course, just left Evan.
He hated them both for it. Hated Reg for making him the only one who saw this mess for what it was. Hated Barty for letting himself get broken, again and again, and for needing him to pick up the pieces each time.
And yet, he hated himself the most—because he let it happen. Because he loved them. Both of them. In different ways, granted, but love was still love. They were his family—the only people who had ever felt like his, besides Pandora and Sirius, that was. There were precious few people in this world that he loved. And if he had to drag each of their sorry carcasses to happiness himself, he would.
Evan glanced back at the entrance to the bar. He could go back in. Find someone warm and willing, lose himself just enough to stop thinking for a few hours. It was tempting, in the abstract. But he’d already kissed one person he didn’t want tonight. He pushed the thought away and hailed a cab instead, rattled off his parents’ address, and did his best to ignore the driver’s raised eyebrow. His parents’ address, much like their last name, had that effect on people.
Evan woke with a headache and the kind of heavy, sinking awareness that told him he didn’t belong here. His childhood bedroom was untouched, a museum to a version of himself that had never been real, even back when he’d been living it. Soft shades of blue and ivory, impersonal, expensive. Designed by his mother’s decorator when he was thirteen and never touched again. The air was still and sterile. Downstairs, the quiet hum of morning filled the house. His mother sat at the kitchen island, flicking through some glossy magazine stuffed with ski chalets and overpriced watches, manicured nails tapping idly against the pages. She glanced up when he walked in, one perfectly arched brow lifting.
“You look dreadful.”
“Good morning to you as well, Mother.” Evan pulled out a chair and resisted the urge to rub at his temples.
She turned a page. “And how are your—” A brief, considered pause. “—music friends?”
Music. Said the way another person might say pornography.
“Sirius and Regulus send their best,” he lied. He knew how much she liked to keep the Black brothers at the forefront of her thoughts—how much it pleased her that her closest friends’ children had made a spectacle of themselves in a way that rather eclipsed his own quiet defections. Their choices made for a better scandal. Another thing she could hold over the Blacks.
“Lovely boys,” she mused, a small, satisfied smile curling at the corner of her mouth. “And so creative.”
With a sharp motion, she snapped the magazine shut.
“I know you wanted some time to relax after graduation, but it’s been quite long enough, dear. Don’t you think it’s time you sold the Edinburgh property and came home?”
“Actually,” he said, around a bite of toast, “I wanted to talk to you about that. I thought I might stay a bit longer.”
She went still, and the air in the room tightened. “Why?”
“I applied for a master’s at Edinburgh University,” he said, keeping his tone even, light, as if it didn’t matter. If she thought it mattered, if she knew how much he wanted this, then the price would be higher. “It starts in September.”
She tilted her head, lips pursed. “And what, pray tell, do you intend to study for your master’s? Will you continue with law?”
“No, history and politics.”
A sigh. “At least law had some purpose, darling.” A pause. Then, thoughtfully, “Although, I suppose if you insist upon a career, politics is not the worst thing you could do.”
Evan had her now. He could see the gears turning, the quiet calculation. She was picturing him on red leather benches, shaking hands with the right people, upholding the Rosier name. The name he fucking hated. He didn’t point out that a seat in the House of Lords was hardly his idea of politics, nor was it his plan—because Evan did have a plan—a plan to get out. A plan to be free. Free of her. Free of his father. Free of his name.
Evan smiled. “I could,” he agreed evenly.
“Well,” she conceded, “it could be worse.”
“You’ll talk to Father?”
She waved a dismissive hand. “Yes, yes, I’ll see to it.”
A clatter from the other side of the room. Pandora, already dressed, her shirt perfectly starched. A string of pearls around her neck. Her long, honey-coloured hair in an elaborate French braid, make-up impeccable. She looked like a carbon copy of their mother—Evan hated it.
“Morning,” she said cheerfully, reaching for the bowl and helping herself to the porridge that sat waiting on the Aga.
“Pandora, that’s far too much honey,” their mother said as Pandora took her seat beside Evan.
Pandora’s eyes flicked up. “It’s a teaspoon.”
Their mother sniffed. “Still, all that sugar so early. Liquid calories, dear—no wonder you’re always lethargic.”
Evan felt something sharp wedge itself under his ribs. He hated his mother for this—for what she was doing to Pandora. Hated her for the way she dulled his sister’s sparkle, for the way she couldn’t see that Pandora was already too thin, already too eager to please. Why couldn’t she just let her be a teenager? Why did she have to try and turn her into her own fucking clone?
“You’re free today, right?” Evan said, turning his attention to his sister. “Come out with me.”
Pandora perked up instantly. “Where?”
“How about the Tate?”
She rolled her eyes. “It’s New Year’s Day, Ev. It’s not going to be open.”
“Shopping, then. Soho. We’ll make a day of it. Get lunch too.”
Their mother wrinkled her nose. “Nothing unhealthy, Evan.”
“Of course not, Mother. I wouldn’t dream of it.”
He caught Pandora’s eye behind her back and winked—she ducked her head, but not before he saw the smile on her lips.
“Take a car. I don’t want either of you on the Underground—you’ll catch something nasty,” came the response. “And be back for dinner. We’re having the Lestranges and the Greengrasses over. Sophia is back from Paris, Evan.” A pointed look. “And I’m certain she’d love to see you.”
There it was—the condition tied to her speaking with Evan’s father. The price for using whatever leverage she had over him—probably his latest affair, something bad enough that he wouldn’t dare refuse her. Or in this case, refuse Evan. And Evan would play along. He’d make nice with whoever his mother shoved at him. Smile and bite his tongue long enough to hold off his mother and her pointed hints about settling down, at least for another year. Just make it through the master’s, and then after—after, well. Master’s first.
He stood and deposited his coffee mug in the sink.
“Meet me in the hall in half an hour, Panda,” he said over his shoulder, his mother’s reprimand for the nickname—juvenile, she called it—echoing behind him.
They didn’t take a car. They took the Tube. It added an extra forty minutes to the journey, but seeing Pandora beam as they stepped onto the platform, the city stretching wide before them in a way it never did from the back of a chauffeured car, was worth it. Worth even the horror of the Tube on New Year’s Day.
The shops were chaotic, but neither of them cared. Evan let Pandora drag him through perfumes and too-bright lights without complaint. Then she stopped in front of a dress, her fingers ghosting over the fabric of a short black lace number. Their mother would never allow it—too gothic, too daring. And most importantly, the price tag only showed three digits. Expensive by most people’s standards, but not theirs. Trashy, that’s what their mother would say. Cheap.
“Going to try it?” he asked.
She shook her head. “She’d never let me wear it.”
“Good thing she’s not here,” Evan said, shoving her towards the changing rooms.
He grinned when she came out, twirling for him. “You look great.”
Evan bought the dress. Called it a late Christmas present. Shoes too. Black leather boots. Later, after he’d had as much shopping as he could hack, he took her to a pub. Leaned against the bar as the hungover-looking bartender slid over a pint of cider, something fruity and sickeningly sweet. He tasted it as he waited for the girl to finish his Guinness. It was horrid, but Pandora would love it. He ordered them both fish and chips, the greasiest, most unhealthy thing he could think of. Watched in satisfaction as Pandora ate the whole thing with the kind of infectious happiness only a sixteen-year-old could manage.
Evan knew he should say something meaningful, use the time with her to try and impart some sort of brotherly wisdom. But he was shit at this sort of thing, had never been good at being delicate, sensitive. He was too blunt, too direct, and he was scared he’d make it worse. Pandora deserved care, someone who could talk to her gently, carefully. But as usual, there was no one else, no one but him.
“Listen,” he said, hesitating when Pandora’s gaze flicked up, expectant. He exhaled, rubbed a hand across his face. He needed to shave. “I know how Mum is, how she’s always harassing you about food, but it’s not healthy. She’s not healthy. Panda. You don’t want to end up like her.”
Pandora’s expression shuttered. “Evan—”
“You know you don’t have to listen to her, right? She’s wrong about a lot, most things, actually.”
She didn’t say anything, just looked back at him, and it was like looking in a fucking mirror. He could see it all in her big blue eyes, the exact same shape and colour as his. Doubt, shame, and that ever-present, constant, burning want to be wanted, to be loved.
“I’m serious,” he said, leaning forward. “Don’t try and twist yourself into some fucking replica of her. It won’t make you happy, and it won’t make her love you any more. You could waste away to nothing—it wouldn’t matter. She’s never going to be satisfied.”
Pandora looked down at her glass, her fingers tightening around it. “You make it sound so easy.”
“Fuck no,” he said. “But it’s worth it. You might actually learn how to be happy if you stop trying to make them happy.”
When they’d finished their drinks, they walked slowly towards the South Bank, the city spread out before them in a stretch of shimmering light, neither in a rush to go anywhere particular, just walking. Evan lit a cigarette, exhaling smoke into the cold air, and Pandora shot him a sideways glance.
“Can I have one?”
He raised an eyebrow but handed over the packet, watching as she lit up with the kind of ease that told him he’d missed some stage in her growing up.
“When did you start smoking?”
She gave him an impish smile. “When are you going to tell Mum and Dad you’re never coming home?”
He laughed and shook his head. She grinned back, nudging him with her shoulder.
“You going to come visit me, then?” he asked. “Come up on the train, now you’re all grown up and apparently old enough to smoke.” He bumped her shoulder with his own.
“Mum would have a seizure.”
“All the more reason.” He waggled his eyebrows at her—and she giggled. “You’d love Barty,” he added. “Tattoos everywhere, the thickest Scottish accent you’ve ever heard, swears like a sailor.”
“Does he swear more than you?”
“Fuck no.” Evan flicked his cigarette away. He turned to her, serious now. “Promise me something, Panda?”
“What?”
“Don’t let them turn you into something you’re not. You’re brilliant the way you are.”
She studied him for a moment, something quieter moving behind her eyes.
Then she nodded.
“Okay.”