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And as he drives, he says nothing.
He just holds my hand.
???
He carries me into his room, and when he sets me down to seize his dressing gown, probably meaning to fling it around me, finally—finally—I find my voice, but it sounds quiet and weathered, even to my own ears.
‘I need to shower,’ I say. Not want—need. I’m just so, so cold, and it has little to do with my sodden clothes.
He cranks it on for me, holding his hand beneath the stream until it reaches a reasonable temperature.
Once he leaves, I peel off my clothes and step beneath the water. Warmth soaks into me, thawing my frozen limbs. Slowly, I feel my toes again, my legs, my arms, my fingers. My body slams back into itself, and with it every thought I’ve suppressed over the past day.
I sink to the floor of the tub from the weight of them. I’m not sure how long I sit there, hanging my head, the steam making my eyes heavy, but after some time the shower curtain twitches aside, and Archer kneels before the tub.
His eyes search my face for a moment, and then they follow the movement of his hands as he gently grabs a bar of soap and a sponge. He works deftly, silently, as he rubs the sponge over my arms, my shoulders, my neck, dipping lower to my stomach and legs. He doesn’t look at my body; he only watches the movement of his hands. I wonder if he does it to give me privacy, somehow, as if he knows I don’t want to be seen like this.
‘Want me to wash your hair?’ he asks quietly. His arms are soaked, but he doesn’t seem to notice or care.
‘With your Face, Hair, and Bumcrack shower gel?’ I hear myself say.
A smile ghosts across his mouth, but I look at him and whisper, ‘Why are you being nice to me?’
He goes still, his hands halting on my arms. His smile vanishes, replaced with what I can only guess is surprise. Shock. His lips part, but he says nothing. He just stares at me. He opens his mouth and then closes it. ‘I’m sorry,’ he says hoarsely. ‘I should never have left you there like that.’
I’m sorry, he said after he launched me across the kebab shop.
Were you sorry for grinding my fingers in the meadow? Were you sorry for pulling my hair and demanding I never speak to Kai again?
‘I just… I couldn’t bear the thought of someone else touching you,’ he goes on. ‘I’m a dick, and I’d understand if you hate me. If you never want to speak to me again.’
I’m sorry those guys touched you. Not for all the vicious, cruel things I spat at you after they did. Not for making you believe it was all your fault. But I’m sorry your actions made me leave.
I swallow the lump in my throat. ‘My dad has cancer,’ I say. My stomach plummets as I speak the words into life, into truth. The water from the shower hides my tears, but it does nothing for my wobbling lip. ‘He’s never smoked. Never touched alcohol. He eats his stupid fucking vegetables. When I was little, he used to pick up the carcasses of animals that had been killed on the road, to save them from being mutilated. And he’d help people—he was always helping people, even if it put himself out.’ I raise my eyes to Archer’s. ‘What has a person got to do to live a long, happy life? And if there is a God, why has he chosen my dad, instead of some lowlife scumbag pedo? Why is it always the good ones?’
Archer lets out a long, heavy breath. It was unfair to unburden myself on him like that, especially when I haven’t said much to him about my personal life. He’s the wrong person to go to for emotional support, but I can’t go to my dad, or Cassie, or my mum. I can’t turn to Kai.
But I’m tired. So, so tired of being strong. Of holding myself together because I’m afraid what people will think—what Archer will think.
I press the heels of my hands into my eyes as my face contorts. Sobs wrack my body.
The stream switches off, and a towel is thrown around me, and then Archer is carrying me. He says nothing as he removes the damp towel and wraps me in his duvet. He toes off his boots and slides in next to me, his arm snaking around me and tucking me into him.
His arm tightens around me, as if he tries to hold me together as my body shakes, until the steady rise and fall of his chest against my back calms me. He doesn’t try anything, not even when I feel him grow hard against me.
This is the most intimate we’ve ever been. Not our stolen glances or rushed hands, but this. When I gave him something that should have sent him running, but he’s chosen to cling on to me, as if he needs the touch as much as I do. And we stay like that, his legs tangled with mine and his arm a solid reassurance around my waist, as we fall asleep.
???
I didn’t hear Archer sneak away last night, but the lightsnickof the door as it closes jerks me awake.
My eyes adjust enough to see him lean against the door.
‘I didn’t mean to wake you,’ he says gruffly. His eyes are red-rimmed, with deep, dark circles beneath them. Even his movements are sluggish as he rubs his hands over his face.
He still wears the black T-shirt from last night and the denim jeans. I don’t need to ask where he’s been; I already know, but I don’t want to think about that. The reality of his life.
I’m trying out this new method where, if I ignore my problems long enough, I hope they’ll just go away themselves.
