“I don’t know what to say to you,” she whispers finally. Her voice is soft; I strain to catch all her words. “That’s never happened before.”
My jaw tightens, holding in the desire to apologize. If she forgives me, this whole night — everything I did with Sienna — was for nothing.
I can feel her looking at me. Waiting for me to say something. To make this better between us, like I always do when we disagree. But I keep my eyes fixed straight ahead, my lips pressed firmly shut.
“I don’t know what your problem is, Archer, but I hope you get over it. Soon. I didn’t even recognize you, tonight. You were so angry. So out of control. It was like…” She pauses. “Like staring at your brother.”
Jesus.
I suck in a sharp breath. I can’t help it. Her words are a calculated blow, directly to my soul. And she knows it. She knows better than anyone how hard I’ve tried to distance myself from the reputation Jaxon created for our family. She knows how much I’ve struggled to detangle my identity from his.
Jo isn’t done speaking. “You need to get over this knight-in-shining-armor act. We aren’t kids anymore, Archer. I don’t need you to protect me from the bullies. I don’t need you to watch my back.”
Bullshit, I think but don’t say. She may not want to hear it, but she does need a shield to keep her safe; a sword to slay her demons.
The kids who go to our academy are assholes. Always have been, always will be. I’ve spent my life putting myself in the path between her and them. She’s not even aware I’m doing it, most of the time.
Case in point, tonight. Ryan Snyder. I shouldn’t have hit him. I realize that. I realized it the moment my fist flew out, the moment he went sailing through the air like a sock puppet. The moment Jo’s eyes sprung open and she started looking at me like a stranger.
And yet, if I could go back, I’d probably do it again.
Snyder may look like a Ken doll, but he’s no dickless innocent. Beneath that floppy hair and sensitive facade lies a true player. He’s hooked up with half the girls at Exeter Academy — plus just about every other private school in New England. The guy has so many notches in his bedpost, it starting to look like an authentic Native American woodcarving. Over my dead body will he add Jo to that piece of work.
Her voice gets even smaller. Still tipsy, she’s struggling to articulate her thoughts. The ones that manage to escape are laced with undeniable pain. “You know, hard as it might be for you to believe, I’m not totallyrepulsive. I—I—”
I’m horrified by the devastating crack in her voice; even more so when I look over and see tears welling in her big blue eyes.
Christ.
I clutch the steering wheel tighter, a useless lifeline against the avalanche occurring beneath my ribcage. My chest feels like it’s caving in on itself. I wish the ground would swallow me up, suck me down to Hell. It would be a reprieve from this torture.
Still…
I say nothing.
I offer no comfort.
I hate myself.
“I just can’t… You need to realize…” She shakes her head vigorously, as if to clear it. “Not every human male on this planet sees me as a platonic little sister!” she says finally, fumbling for the door handle as the first wave of tears spills down her cheeks. “You’re just going to have to get used to it!”
With that, she slams the door and sprints up to the house, her strides weaving like a rum-soaked pirate. I wait to start the engine until she’s securely inside, door locked behind her, porch light extinguished. Leaving me alone in the dark night.
“Fuck!” I yell, slamming my fist against the steering wheel so hard, I’m surprised it doesn’t crack. “Godfuckingdammit!”
It takes all my strength not to peel out down the driveway. To keep my tires at a gradual crawl. Messing up the pea-stone won’t make me feel better. It will, however, make more work for my father in the morning.
Dramatic exits aren’t as satisfying when you think about the groundskeeper responsible for cleanup duty.
Leaving the circular driveway behind, I branch off onto the smaller route that leads past the swimming pool and tennis court, around the guest house, all the way to the wooded edge of the property. It is here, far inland, away from the coveted water views and prime real estate, hidden by a thick grove of maple trees like a blemish behind an artfully placed hat, that we make our home.
Gull Cottage — so named by the fading, hand-carved sign hanging above the front door — is a small, single-story dwelling with a simple farmer’s porch. Three bedrooms, one bathroom, no frills. Built in the mid-1960s, it lacks the historical flare of the main house, as well as the creature comforts.
But it’s home.
I park my truck next to my father’s in the small clearing on the side of the cottage. My shiny, souped-up, black Ford F-150 — a blatant bribe from the scouts at Vanderbilt last spring, after they came to see me pitch — looks even more ridiculous sitting beside the beat-up pickup Pa’s been using to get around the grounds for as long as I can remember. I eye it pitifully as I walk past — chipped paint, nonexistent suspension, evidence of a hard-day’s labor still sitting in the leaf-strewn bed.
Jo’s dad drives a brand new Tesla. Just brought it home last month.