This little lamb will have to grow a spine.
And some sharp teeth, to bite back.
Mrs. Granger’s tan sedan is — blessedly — gone from its usual spot on the side of the house. Part of the reason I’m home so late is rooted in my undeniable desire to avoid a confrontation with my parents’ spy. The other reason is that I spent the afternoon driving all the way to Providence, stopping only to fill up my gas tank. With my red-rimmed eyes fixed on the road, it was harder to succumb to the urge to sob my eyes out.
I’ve cried enough for a lifetime, today.
My heart has not even begun to sort out the tornado of emotions that ripped through its chambers, leaving a path of destruction in its wake. I need some time alone to pick through the rubble; to see what is left standing, once the dust settles. But I feel markedly better after my impromptu visit to Ms. Vaughn’s office.
To say my advisor was surprised to see me sitting in her waiting room is an understatement of massive proportions. Yet, she was gracious enough, not only finding space in her schedule to accommodate me, but talking me through the options in a concise, compassionate manner.
I left with dry eyes, a clear mind, a packet of scholarship applications, and an informative pamphlet on student loans.
My feet feel made of lead as I force myself to punch in the front door code and step inside the house. It’s dark in the atrium but there’s a shaft of low light coming from my father’s office. The door is slightly ajar. Sucking in a deep breath, I move down the hall and push it open all the way, half-expecting to see Vincent sitting there behind the imposing wood desk, signing VALENT contracts with a four-hundred-dollar fountain pen. But the man hunched over the stack of papers is several decades younger than my father. His blond hair is golden in the glow of the lamp, his facial hair sharply groomed, his blue eyes obscured by a smart pair of glasses. He glances up when I stop at the threshold.
“Hey, darlin,’” Oliver drawls, sitting back in the sumptuous leather chair. His expression is unreadable. “Where’ve you been all day?”
A series of images — Archer’s hands in my hair, Archer’s lips on my neck, Archer’s hips pressing me hard against the floorboards — flashes through my mind. Guilt stirs awake, coiling around my heart and settling there like a pair of iron shackles.
Cheater, a low voice snarls.Unfaithful, ungrateful girlfriend.
In retrospect, it’s hard to imagine I could get so caught up in lust, I forgot about my commitments to Oliver, my sense of loyalty, my moral compass. And yet, even now as I stand here crippled by a disquieting amount of shame, I cannot pretend to wish it never happened. Nor can I pretend to regret it. I find, selfish as it may sound, I cannot regret any sequence of events that led to hearing the truth from Archer’s lips.
I love you. I will love you until I stop breathing. Until I leave this earth. And if there is an afterlife, I’ll love you there, as well.
“I took a drive,” I say in a hollow voice, not moving from my spot by the door. “Down to see my advisor at Brown.”
“Oh? I thought your appointment wasn’t until next week.”
“It’s not.”
His head cants to the side as he considers this. “You made a decision, then. About next semester.”
My teeth spear into my bottom lip to keep it from wobbling as I finally force myself to unglue from the doorjamb. As I sink into the seat across from him with shaking knees, I’m again struck by how much he reminds me of my father. No wonder my parents are such big fans of our relationship. They’ve spent twenty years trying to mold me into a more suitable version of myself, but Oliver Beaufort couldn’t be more perfect in their eyes if they’d mail-ordered him from a specialty son-in-law catalogue.
He sets his pen down with great care, then lifts his eyes to mine.
“Josephine,” he says softly. His hands are folded on the desk. “You can tell me. I promise not to be angry, whatever your decision about Brown.” His hands flex into a white-knuckled ball. ”And about the ring.”
He’s staring at me patiently, not a shred of condemnation in his entire being. And I know, looking at him… This is a good man. He would accept me without question, flaws and all. He would spend a whole lifetime making me so safe, so secure, I’d never again be hurt. Never cry my eyes out in the middle of the night until my pillowcase is damp with misery. Never curl into a ball and hug myself close, trying to physically contain the pain inside my chest. This man would not shatter my heart; he would safeguard it.
This should be the man I choose.
This should be the man I build a life with.
This should be an easy decision.
A no-brainer.
A given.
But in my traitorous, treacherous heart… in my stubborn, stupid soul… in the very marrow of my damaged, deranged bones… something screams out that the easy decision is not always the correct one. That the way thingsshould bedoes not always reflect how they are. That you cannot choose who you fall in love with any more than you can choose your genetic makeup.
Archer Reyes is coiled in my DNA.
Flaws and all.
Pain and all.