Our spot.
If I can’t say goodbye to Archer in person, I’ll say goodbye to the place that most reminds me of him. I’ll sit on the rafters where we watched so many sunsets, trace the initials carved into the wood wall, and whisper all the things I wish I’d had a chance to tell him.
Things like,I’m sorry.
Things like,I love you.
Things like,I can live without you…but I don’t want to, anymore.
Inside the boathouse, my father’s navy blue picnic boat rocks quietly in her berth. As I climb the ladder up into the rafters, I struggle to keep the memories of prom night at bay. They claw at me insistently, demanding my attention.
Archer and me. Skin to skin, heart to heart. Hands tugging at shirt-hems, fingers fumbling for buttons. A sting of pain. A slow-build of pleasure.
If I’d known that night was the only one I’d ever share with him, I would’ve never closed my eyes. I wouldn’t have wasted a single second on sleep. I would’ve held him so close, nothing — no one — could ever pull us apart again.
I grip the rungs tighter as I reach the top, moving carefully as I haul myself through the gap in the floorboards. I maneuver slowly around the low-ceilinged space, picking a pathway through the boxes. Cursing lowly as I stub my toe on Miguel’s old toolbox, I flip the switch on a small camping lantern. It emits a dim glow, lighting the rafters in shades of dusky orange.
Shaking the dust from one of the wool blankets, I spread it across the floorboards and settle atop it. It smells familiar — the faint scent of leather and fresh cut grass clinging to it, conjuring images of a boy with hazel eyes and dark hair. I burrow deeper into the fabric, arms curled around my knees, eyes fixed on the lapping waters of the cove below. The moon’s reflection shines like a spotlight on the surface.
In the dark, my fingers creep to the wall, tracing the gouges like Braille. Over and over and over again.
AR + JV
4EVA
* * *
I must’ve nodded off, because I wake with a start to the sound of footsteps coming from below.
Someone is inside the boathouse.
For a second, I think it must be the maintenance man. I quickly dismiss the idea — it’s still dark outside. Nowhere near dawn. I’ve been asleep mere minutes, not hours. Whoever it is, they aren’t here to service the Hinckley. Worse, they’ve undoubtedly seen the light from my lantern. It’s too late to hide.
Why didn’t I bring my damn cellphone?
The sound of footsteps is replaced by the groan of the ladder as the intruder climbs slowly up the rungs, into the lofted space. I look around, searching frantically for some kind of weapon. My hands land on the old toolbox, plucking a rusty hammer from the depths. I cling to it, wishing my palms weren’t so sweaty.
There’s no place to hide. I duck my body behind a stack of boxes, partially shielded from view. My eyes are locked on the shadowy gap in the floorboards, straining to make out details. The light from the lantern barely reaches back there. When the top of a head appears, I suck in a sharp breath, steady my shoulders, and call out to the stranger.
“Stop right there! I have a weapon and I will use it!”
The head stops moving.
For a moment, there’s only silence. But then, in a voice choked with barely contained laughter, the intruder calls back to me.
“Don’t shoot. I come in peace. And, if memory serves, you’re a lousy shot. Remember the paintball incident of sophomore year?”
The hammer slips from my grip, falling to the floorboards with a thud. I very nearly fall down after it.
“Archer?”
He pulls his long limbs up into the loft, his grin flashing brightly in the dim light. I can’t think as he makes his way to me, moving methodically around stacks of boxes and haphazardly piled furniture. His eyes are locked on mine, pinning me in place. I don’t dare blink, don’t dare breathe, as he comes to a stop before me.
“Hey, Jo.” His voice is whisper-soft. “What are you doing up here?”
I blink stupidly at him. “What am I doing up here? What areyoudoing up here?”
“I saw you walking down the lawn about twenty minutes ago. When you didn’t walk back, I figured I’d check on you.”