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I sag against the island. The knife clatters to the floor as I press the heels of my hands into my eyes, as everything that’s happened finally hits me. He’s here, and I can’t hold myself together any longer. Even still, my legs won’t move. I want to leap into his arms, but I know I can’t, because he’ll pick another meaningless fight with me—
‘Frankie?’
I cry harder at the sound of his voice, something I’ve shamefully missed this past week. I hear him crouch before me, and a moment later his hands are on my wrists, trying to pry them from my face. ‘What’s wrong, love? What happened?’
And it’s the concern in his voice that makes me throw my arms around him. I bury my head into the crook of his shoulder, and a moment passes before his arms come around me, tight and unyielding.
He stands, lifting me with him, and sits me on the island. He tries to pull away but I cling to him. He can’t see my face, tear-streaked, the crusted blood on my cheek from the small gash in my temple—but he’s so much stronger than I am. His eyes narrow on that gash now, and his hands tighten around my wrists.
‘Who the fuck did this to you?’ Archer growls. He looks at the blood on my palms, my elbows, my knees, and his voice is hoarse when he says, ‘Were you…? Did someone touch you?’
‘Not like that,’ I manage.
And then I tell him everything, and when I finish, his expression darkens, the rage in his eyes promising revenge, but he doesn’t leave to boot down Jodie’s door.
He simply carries me to the sofa and sits down, tucking me into his lap, and this time, just as I did for him the night of Demi’s death, he holds me as I fall apart.
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Terrify
Ihaven't been sleeping great since the break-in two weeks ago.
Archer surprisingly bought me a new phone and installed my old number, and I wonder when I’ll have to cash in for that favour. But he’s been… oddly supportive. Maybe it’s just his guilt and he did cheat on me in Miami, but when I return from work, the apartment gleams; he even stops by the supermarket on his commute home from work to restock our cupboards, and instead of playing his game or being on his phone, he helps me cook.
Granted, this everything-is-amazing-between-us-right-now phase will lose its momentum. It typically lasts one week, so any day now, really.
But he’s not there when everything truly hits me. When I wake up in the middle of the night, sweating and gasping, shaking the remnants of that knife and that voice from my head. I never wake Archer—not once. He’s been so kind to me and I don’t want to sabotage it with asking anything more of him. But in those moments, I’m alone. Completely alone. And only the warmth of the shower and the sound of it washes away those memories.
I haven’t even told Emmy and Jess about it. About any of it. I don’t know why, but I feel…stupid for burdening other people with my problems. There are people out there who have endured worse and they don’t complain, and here I am, barely able to get four hours' sleep and barely able to eat and barely able to hold a cutting knife.
But I think the possibility of the situation is what scares me most.And I think that’s what makes it worse, becausethe hardest burdens to bear are the ones only you can see.
It's Friday afternoon, two weeks before Christmas. I left work early because I wasn't feeling too good, but as soon as I stepped into the winter chill, my nausea vanished, so I decided to catch up on some festive shopping. I didn't get very far before I bumped into Georgia, Archer's mum.
Despite my open contempt, I couldn't seem to shake her. Thankfully, she said very little as we browsed the shelves, but when the snow started up again, coming down in thick flakes, she asked if I could drive her home.
We stop off at a small tearoom, mainly because I’m absolutely freezing and want to soothe my chattering bones with a succulent hot chocolate topped with marshmallows, cream, and chocolate sprinkles. Georgia gets a cinnamon milk and offers to pay for both, but I refuse.
Like hell do I want her doing anything for me.
I order two teacakes for myself and sit at a table near a window that overlooks the bustling, slush-covered roads. I cup my mug, letting the warmth soak through my gloves, and as Georgia slides into the seat opposite me, I wonder if I can get away with not talking to her at all—
‘Do you want children, Frankie?’ she asks suddenly.
I nearly fall off my chair. ‘Why?’
She shrugs and glances out the window. ‘I just want to know what you want from my son. What your end goal is.’
I remove a glove to apply lip balm before I say, ‘I’m not sure what I want. Not out of Archer, but out of life. I think that’s just something you figure out along the way.’
Her eyes fall on me, piercing and cold. ‘When you picture your future with Archie, do you see yourself having children with him?’
No. I don’t. How can I picture anything when I’m always fretting about what mood he’ll be in when he gets home? Actually, I can think of nothing worse than having kids with him. Who would change the nappies and get up in the middle of the night and be expected to shop and do school runs?
A lump forms in my throat, and I suddenly become interested in the marshmallow sliding down my mug. ‘I’m not sure I like kids, to be honest,’ I reply quietly. ‘They’re always snotty and sticky and smelly and they’re always screaming.’
Her mouth twitches. ‘I was like that before I fell pregnant with Archer. I always said I’d never have children.' Her eyes grow distant, and her mouth softens into a smile. ‘My pregnancy was completely unplanned, but I… I was instantly protective of the baby growing inside me. And whenever there was the slightest threat, if Ian even moved too quickly to grab something, my hand would go to my stomach without me even thinking about it. I fell out of love with my husband, because all that mattered was keeping my child safe from him.’ Her gaze meets mine. ‘Archer isn’t your first love, Frankie. Your child will be.’
