“Ran,” Ophelia confirms.
“I needed time to process!” My voice is defensive. “My whole life had just exploded.”
“Right. You needed to take a beat. And you took it.” Odette begins to apply a fresh coat of sunscreen to her arms. “Now, it’s time to stop hiding and tell him how you feel.”
“He knows how I feel,” I say immediately.
“Does he?” Ophelia takes the sunscreen bottle from her twin. “Maybe he knew how you felt last summer. Before the accident. Before he lost his future. Before he lost baseball. But has he ever heard you say you love himnow? As he is? Have you told him you still want a future with him — even if that future looks totally different than the one you always imagined?”
I blink slowly, processing her words. In truth, I’ve always seen it as a given. An indisputable fact.
I love Archer Reyes.
I’ve always loved Archer Reyes.
And I always will love Archer Reyes.
It didn’t occur to me that he might question that unshakable state of reality. I suck in a sharp breath. “You think… he might actually believe I don’t love him anymore because of his injuries? That I might think less of him because he’s not going to be some big-shot MLB star?”
“I don’t know,” she says gently. “Maybe you should ask him.”
My brows arch. “Call him up and say, ‘Hey, Archer, just so you know I’m still in love with you and I want to make a go of it as a couple, despite our track record of monumentally screwing everything up every time we’ve tried in the past?’”
“A little wordy for my taste,” Odette murmurs. “But sure, it gets the point across.”
I snort.
Could it really be that simple?
Could we really just choose to step over the wreckage, hand in hand, and walk forward together?
The twins are right. I owe it to myself to try. If I don’t, I’m as big a hypocrite as Oliver. Hadn’t I, only yesterday, told him that if you really love someone, you fight for them? No matter what?
“Don’t worry, Jo.” Ophelia pats me gently on the back. “It’s all going to work out. You’ll see.”
“And if not… we have more margarita mix.”
I sit up straight on my lounger, suddenly alarmed. “Wait. You want me to call him now? Like, right this minute?”
“No time like the present.”
“But…” I swallow weakly, trying to think of an excuse to get me out of this. As much as I want to talk to Archer, I don’t want to do it with a rapt audience. “I can’t. I’m not ready.”
“You’re ready,” they chorus in unison.
“I don’t even have his phone number saved in my new phone.”
“Use mine.” Odette plucks it from her purse and hands it over. “Go on. The passcode is 666.”
“Um,” I squeak, staring at the phone like it’s a venomous creature. “I…”
I’m saved by a most unlikely source — the tight voice of Mrs. Granger, cutting across the sunny afternoon like a grim reaper’s scythe. “Miss Valentine.”
My head whips around. She’s standing a half-dozen feet from us, glaring from me to the near-empty pitcher to the twins with undisguised distaste.
“Mrs. Granger. It’s Saturday. I didn’t think you were working today.”
“Mmm. So it would seem.” She pauses, nostrils flaring. “I need to speak with you — now, if you please. I will wait in the kitchen.”