Page 38 of Loving at 40

“When you’ve been alone for a long time, craving company becomes your thing. Companionship becomes your desire. When you can’t stand yourself, you want someone else to stand you,” he says, surprising me.

We aren’t talking about Anna anymore. Who hurt him? Why doesn’t he like himself? Can he mean what he says? Does he want to be with people or just one person?

“That’s what marriage is. That’s what relationships are. That person who stands beside you and sometimes carries you. We all want those things.” I glance back at his sister. “It’s just harder to get there a second time around. That is, if the chance even arises.”

Everything is still too new for Anna, but she’s still young. I don’t want her to give up on things like love and life. I don’t want her to dismiss the desire for what she misses, like sex and holding hands, and hanging out and kisses. We’ve talked about a few of these things, but she isn’t ready to hear someday it might happen again. Maybe, someday.

Gazing up at Archer, I’m reminded of how I still want those things as well. I just need to be selective in who and how I choose to fulfill my needs.

“Never had a first love,” Archer states, his voice dropping as his gaze drifts to my mouth, pausing a minute. “Do you really believe in second chances?”

“People say lightning never strikes twice, but stranger things have happened.” Like meeting the man holding me, being kissed like I’ve never kissed before, and wanting a chance to do it again.

Archer eyes me. His lips curling at the corner, and that gravelly voice lowers even more when he says, “Yeah, stranger things.”

+ + +

After the slow song, Anna said she was ready to leave, and as much as I begged her to dance again, the excitement for a night out fizzled. We returned to the house, but before Archer and I entered the apartment, he has me up against the exterior wall, kissing me once more like he did outside the bar. Savoring the lower swell and upper curve of my mouth, he’s equal parts hard and tender, rushed and patient. His entire body flattens against mine, holding my wrists over my head and stretching him out to cover me. We line up everywhere. Lips. Hips. Knees. Mine are weak when he pulls away, as he bites the lower curl of his mouth and lays his forehead against mine.

“Just wanted to pretend it was a date and give you a good night kiss on the landing.” My God, there’s so much sweet in that gruff voice.

“We don’t need to pretend anything,” I tell him, causing him to pull back and just stare at me. I’d love to know what he’s thinking, but he won’t tell me even if I ask. His thoughts are a hard topic, which leaves me wondering what that means for his heart.

Of course, a kiss isn’t a commitment, and I remind myself to live in the moment. Actually, I can pretend, too. I’ll be his layover a little longer.

He kisses me again—all tongue and a little teeth—until he’s smiling against my lips. “We should probably get inside.” Mila and Lorna are waiting as they babysat the girls for me.

Once we enter the apartment, Archer offers to walk the young teens to the main house, which is really only a few feet across the driveway. Again. Sweet.

While I wait for Archer to return, I still ponder his reaction to the man dancing with me. Admittedly, that guy was getting a little handsy, but Archer’s admission of jealousy had surprised me. He didn’t answer my question, though. Why? Where did that initial anger come from? He wasn’t the Archer I’m slowly growing to know but someone else for a few minutes. Until I questioned him about not kissing me, and he launched himself into proving he wanted to.

We have things to discuss, but when he returns to the apartment, he speaks immediately.

“Babe, I can’t do that couch again.” He nods where I’m seated. “We need to go to bed.” We’d fallen asleep on the sofa last night. I like this old thing. It’s the kind you can really sink into, but it isn’t the best for your back.

“You can go to bed. I’ll stay on the couch.”

Archer gives me a scathing look like I’m speaking some language he doesn’t understand, and something tells me he’s not in the mood for interpretation.

“I’m giving you ten minutes to do what you need to do.”

I interpret his meaning. Be in his bed. He’s so pushy.

Allowing him to use the bathroom first, I change in the girls’ room. After I use the bathroom to remove my makeup and brush my teeth, I find Archer laying on his stomach, pillow tucked under his head. He’s shirtless with the sheet up to his waist. Without having to imagine it, the thick band of boxer briefs tells me he sleeps in only his underwear or at least, he’s doing it for me. I stand next to the bed for a second, looking down at him, noting the tattoo on his back.

My best teacher friend back home is married to a man with a ton of tattoos. Ryan even had a few, but Leon Ramirez’s are different. From what his wife Tricia has told me, he was in a gang as a teen and part of his adult life. The giant snake down his spine. The crown, raised and marred like something branded him over it. The ink has meanings I don’t want to know, and Archer has something similar on his left shoulder blade. As I’ve only seen him a few times with his shirt off, I hadn’t noticed. All the times we were in the apartment, and I’ve only seen his chest. He keeps himself covered at the beach.

“What does it mean?” I whisper, standing beside the bed, admiring the muscular sculpture of his back.

Archer rubs his nose into the pillow before twisting his head back to the side and speaking. “Hard topic, babe.”

He won’t explain, but I need something from him. Is he in trouble? Is he in a gang?

Stepping back, he shoots his arm outward, sharp and fast, latching his hand to the back of my thigh. If I thought I could escape to the couch, I wouldn’t make it two inches let alone the few feet necessary to reach the other room. He tips his head to look up at me. “’Locks. Bed.”

“Give me something, Archer.” My voice shakes. He doesn’t want to pretend, he said nights ago. I don’t want him to keep avoiding subjects. We stare at one another for a long minute. Me standing over him. Him with his arm around my legs. “You almost punched a man tonight.”

“Yeah.” His sandpapery voice drops low, and he props himself up on an elbow, slipping his hand free from my leg. The sheet adjusts, hardly covering his boxer briefs, but I won’t be distracted by the dark fabric below his stacked abs or the trail of hair leading lower.