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The small Asian restaurant is bustling with noise when we step through the blue doors, but Archer touches my arm.
He holds up a rolled fag as if to sayI’ll meet you inside.
I swallow each grimace of pain with every slow, excruciating step towards the booth Emmy and Jess occupy.
Emmy wears an emerald dress that picks out the specks of green in her eyes, but Jess’s style couldn’t differ more: the curvy redhead sports a skater skirt over fishnet tights and feet shoved into Docs. I know the sunflowers on those boots are handpainted by her, because Emmy doesn’t stop beaming with pride whenever she mentions Jess’s love for upcycling shoes.
Despite their difference in fashion, Jess always manages to carefully select a piece of clothing that matches her girlfriend’s colour scheme, whether it be a scarf or a hair pin or gloves. Tonight, it’s a jacket, the suede making the green seem darker.
Emmy leaps from her seat to throw her arms around me, and I suppress my gasp as my feet scream. ‘You came!’ She pulls away to grin at me, her piercing glinting like dirty silver in the blue light. ‘Ugh, I was so ulotrichously joyous when you said you’d come.’ She waves a hand at Jess. ‘We both were.’
‘Actually, I was disambiguatley joyous when you said you’d come,’ Jess counters.
I smile. I’ve only met Jess a handful of times when she’s popped by my work to drop lunch off for Emmy—and each time Jess swaggers out, deliberately swishing her hips, Emmy stares pointedly at her girlfriend’s ass—and she always seems subdued, hands always stuffed in pockets or holding something, eyes always darting around as if everyone is looking at her. Until it comes to Emmy—she brightens whenever she’s with Emmy, the same way one might exhale a sigh of relief when they see a light after walking through darkness for so long.
And I’m about to ruin everything.
I watch Em closely as she squeezes my arm.Any minute now.‘I’m surprised British—‘ she starts, but she trails off and focuses on something over my shoulder.
An arm slides around my waist a moment later, and the smell of cigarette burns my nostrils. Em releases me and steps back, but her gaze locks on me. I shoot her a look as if to sayPlay nice, please.She composes her features too quickly for anyone to notice her stumble, schooling her face into a warm, radiant smile—forced and pinched, but it’s something.
‘Archer,’ she says, and I don’t fail to note the bite in that single word. ‘I’m so glad you could make it.’ Another glance at me:I’m definitely not fucking glad he could make it.
Archer’s body is a line of tension against me, but he says, ‘You must be Amelia. I’ve heard so much about you.’
I close my eyes.I’m so glad you could make it, only not really;I’ve heard so much about you, but only how you slag me off. I suppose I only have myself to blame, for telling Em Arch called her a dyke, and for telling Arch Em hates him. But although they silently despise each other, the other is oblivious to one another’s seething hatred. Archer has no idea I admitted to Em that he called her a dyke, and Em has no idea that I confessed to Archer just how much she wants to rip his balls off and throw them in the Thames.
And now I stand here, caught between them, I realise how much I need them to be friends. How I can’t lose either of them, these two people I love.
We take our seats. Archer stretches an arm on the back of the booth behind me and widens his legs, but heat doesn’t pool between my thighs and every thought doesn’t eddy from my head like they did with—him. Archer only does it to look at ease; he regards the two rigid women across from him, a slight smile tugging at his lips.
He knows. Heknowshe’s offsetting them. And he’s enjoying every excruciating second of it.
‘I’m Jess, by the way.’ The redhead leans across the table to extend her hand, and Archer takes it.
‘Archer.’ A charming smile. ‘Is that natural?’ He gestures to her hair.
She blushes. ‘Yeah.’
‘Don’t ever dye it. It’s beautiful.’
I reign in my jealousy and the sudden urge to slap the shy smile from Jess’s face. Archer loves redheads; I recall asking what his ideal woman was, to which he replied ‘Redhead, curvy, big ass.’ I haven’t been able to shake my contempt for redheads since, and I never even considered what he’d think of Jess.
She’s done nothing wrong. Even if Archer is into her, she has a girlfriend.
I clear my throat. ‘Jess actually runs her own business.’ I’m not sure why I say it. Maybe I feel bad about wanting to stab her eyes out a moment ago. Maybe because I know she doesn’t like talking about it, the small business that’s rapidly sailing into impending doom.
Emmy shoots me a glare, but Archer says, ‘Oh, really?’
‘Yeah,’ Jess says reluctantly. ‘I buy cheap clothes from charity shops and upcycle them using tie-dye, or factor different materials into a new piece. I sew company logos on shirts as well, or use my own designs, but…’ She shrugs. ‘People aren’t willing to pay the extra labour charge, because by the time I’ve paid for all my supplies and bought the shirts, I’m making no profit. Shoes are the most popular, though.’
Archer quirks a brow. ‘Shoes?’
Why won’t Archer talk to me? Why is he acting like I’m not even here? Why is he giving all his undivided attention toJess?
Jess perks up a bit. ‘People bring their old shoes to me to repair and inscribe with whatever they want. The products I use can easily rub off with solution, so customers return after a few weeks to get something new.’
