“What sort of answers?”
“Relax, it’s not a serial killer’s den of iniquity. It’s Archer’s apartment.”
My brows lift. “He has an apartment? But, what about Bryant—”
“Sorry.” He mimes zipping his lips closed. “That’s all I can give you.”
“Fine. Thanks. I guess.”
“My pleasure.”
I pocket the paper and turn for the door. I might’ve come here for clarity, but I’m leaving even more confused than I was when I arrived.
“Don’t be a stranger!” Chris calls after me as the doors swing shut at my back. “Come visit any time! I’ll let you use the stapler!”
I shake my head, laughing softly under my breath all the way across the parking lot.
EIGHTEEN
archer
The knockthat sounds on my door at nearly ten that evening is soft. Hesitant. As if the person doing the knocking is half-ready to run off before I have a chance to open it.
Wondering who the hell could possibly be at my apartment this late, I jam my thumb against a button on the television remote, muting the sounds of the cheering crowd at Fenway Park on my screen, shove to my feet, and stomp to the entryway. It’s probably Tomlinson — the guy just can’t seem to take no for an answer, despite the three texts I’ve already sent declining his offer to watch tonight’s Red Sox game at the Salty Dog over a beer and a plate of nachos.
Need to tell you something,he insisted in his last message.
Life-threatening?I replied.
Not exactly.
Then it can wait,I sent back, before flipping my phone into DO NOT DISTURB mode. I’m not good company at the moment. My bottom lip is still swollen to twice its normal size, courtesy of Jaxon’s beefy knuckles on the docks yesterday, and I have a pretty nice shiner blooming over my left temple. As I walk to the door, I press the bag of frozen peas more firmly against my brutalized face. I don’t bother pulling on a shirt or even brushing the crumbs from my sweatpants as I grab the knob and yank it inward.
“Tomlinson,” I say over the screeching hinges. “I told you earlier, I’m not in the mood fo—”
The words fall off my tongue as the bag of peas falls out of my hands. I hear it hit the ground at my feet with a dull thud, but I don’t look down to see where it landed. My eyes are locked on the girl standing at my door. One of her small hands is still aloft, frozen in place mid-knock; the other is holding a pie dish covered in foil. The scent of baked apples and cinnamon sugar fills the narrow hallway where she’s standing, her upturned face illuminated by the flickering fluorescent light.
For a moment there’s only silence, interspersed by the occasional buzz of a moth flying repeatedly into the bare bulb overhead. I swallow sharply, trying to make sense of this implausible scenario: Josephine Valentine, standing on my doorstep in the middle of the night, holding a fucking pie.
Whatever careful speech she undoubtedly rehearsed in the mirror before coming here quickly disintegrates when she catches sight of me.
“Your face!” she blurts, horrified eyes sweeping across my features. “God, you look awful!”
I say nothing in response.
Seeming to realize this might not be the most appropriate of greetings, she coughs lightly and adds, “Are… Are you okay?”
I don’t know how to respond to that. So I don’t. Her eyes flicker toward her feet, avoiding mine. She’s nervous, that much is plain to see. Probably not half as nervous as I am, but I’m hopefully doing a better job at hiding that fact.
“Sorry. I guess it’s not really my business.”
I clear my throat. My hand is gripping the door knob so tight, it’s losing circulation. “What are you doing here, Josephine?”
She flinches, almost imperceptibly, when I say her name. As though just hearing it from my lips is enough to cause her physical pain.
I just can’t seem to stop hurting her.
“I…” she hedges uncomfortably. Her voice is small enough to tell me this interaction is not going at all how she’d planned. I bet she regrets her decision to ever darken my doorstep. “I brought you a pie.”