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‘Hello, ladies,’ he says.
Oh God, this can’t be good.
He looks at Archer and inclines his head in my direction. ‘Punching above your weight a bit, aren’t you, mate?’
Archer’s fists clench on the counter.
‘You must have a shining personality.'
A muscle pops in Archer’s jaw.
The guy lumbers back to his friends, but I overhear one of them mutter, ‘Little spunk monkey, isn’t she?’
And he’s laughing with his friends, and I don’t grasp what the wink of metal is in Archer’s hand, because by the time I understand, he’s already spun and punched the guy square in the face.
Lettuce and donner meat are flung into the air, and sauce spatters the windows, and the plastic chair secured to the ground snaps apart as the guy slams into it and topples onto the table behind him. Blood gushes from a hole in his cheek.
Archer grips a bloody key between his fingers.
And I’m frozen. With fear, with terror, with shock—I don’t know. But for a moment I can’t move, and my heart thunders from the noise as the men close in on Archer. Fists meet flesh and blood slicks the blue tiles.
‘Archer!’ I hurl myself in front of him. ‘Stop! You’re going to hurt some—‘
And then I’m no longer before him. No longer standing. I’m on the floor on my knees and pain slices across my head and I’m going to pass out. My world shifts and narrows, and the only thing that matters is breathing. I don’t care about Archer.
I’m going to die I’m going to die I’m going to die—
Someone grabs me beneath my arms and drags me outside. My head swims, but I make out shouting. I make out Archer’s voice. Why’s he asking for napkins? What a strange thing to ask for.
Suddenly I’m lifted and carried to a bench and something is pressed against my forehead.
‘Fuck, Frankie,’ Archer says. ‘I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.’
I look down at the red blooming across the napkin. ‘Am Ibleeding?’
As soon as I say it, my eye starts to sting as blood drips into it.
‘I’m so sorry,’ he keeps saying. ‘I didn’t even see you.’
‘You—did youhitme?’
Panic makes his eyes wide. ‘I didn’t mean to, I swear. I swear, Frankie. I just meant to push you away—‘
‘I thought you didn’t see me.’
‘It’s just a scratch, Frankie.’ He stands and rubs his hands down his face. ‘I’m sorry I hit you, but don’t winge about it. I thought you were tougher than that.’
Iamtougher than that, but I can’t stop my tears, because although it’s a scratch, the blow was delivered by Archer. And it hurts because I like him. That’s why I’m crying, not because I’m angry or because the wound stings. I’m disappointed, because I desperately wanted him to be different. Because when I envision Archer and I together, this isn’t supposed to happen.
I stand on trembling legs.
Despite my protests, he still wants to walk me home, but I refuse to acknowledge him. I don’t even say bye before I walk through my door and lock myself in the bathroom.
I haven’t stopped crying. Not even when I wash the blood from my face and dress the gash in my forehead. Not even when I seize scissors and cut a full fringe to cover the plasters. Not even when I comb through the clumps of congealed blood in my brown hair.
I stare at the girl in the mirror, at her red-rimmed blue eyes and the swell of her plump lips from the tears, and I don’t recognise the girl staring back.
Chapter Six
