I just washed the sheets a couple days ago. They're… clean, he said, looking away from me, those same red spots appearing on his upper cheekbones.
I nodded. Okay, I said. Thank you, Archer. For everything. Thank you.
He nodded at me, our eyes lingering, and when our shoulders touched as he was walking out of the room, I felt him jerk slightly. He closed the door behind him.
I looked around the room one more time and noticed that there actually was a small photograph lying down on the top of his dresser. I walked over and picked it up delicately. It was a beautiful girl, her long brown hair flowing over her shoulder, laughing at the person behind the camera. She looked carefree and happy. She looked like she was in love. I realized why her smile looked so familiar–it was Archer's smile. This must be his mother, Alyssa McRae, I thought. I turned the photo over and on the back was written, 'My beautiful Lys, Love forever, C.' C? Connor. Archer's uncle. The man who had shot him. He was such a town hero, though–they must not know that he had shot his nephew. "But how is that possible?" I asked the girl in the photo softly. Her large brown eyes remained smiling, not giving me a clue. I placed the photo back down where it had been.
I undressed quickly, down to my underwear and bra and pulled back the covers and got in Archer's bed. It smelled like him–soap and clean male.
As I lay there in his bed, I thought of him in the other room, his long body probably hanging over the end of the couch. I inhaled the scent of him on his sheets and pictured him shirtless, the moonlight shining in on his smooth, bare chest and I shivered slightly. He was just mere feet from me on the other side of the wall.
Thinking about Archer that way felt just a little dangerous–I didn't know if it was a good idea. Thinking about it now, I realized that there had been a chemistry between us from the very start. It had just been difficult to classify because of all the ways he was so different. And I still felt a little confused. But apparently my body did not feel confused at all as my hormones flash fired through me, my veins filling with heat, my mind unable to let go of the images of he and I tangled together in these very sheets, those beautiful, whiskey colored eyes filled with passion.
I turned over and adjusted the pillow, groaning softly into it and closing my eyes tightly, willing myself to sleep. After a little while, even though I had slept for several hours earlier that evening, I fell into a peaceful sleep and didn't wake up until the sunrise, muted by the trees around the house, was lighting the room.
**********
I sat up and stretched, looking around at Archer's room in the morning sunlight. I pulled on my shorts and tank and peeked my head out his door. He was nowhere in sight and so I headed straight across the hall to his bathroom. I did my business and used my finger to brush my teeth and gargle with his mouthwash. I washed my face and looked at myself in the mirror. I looked okay. My eyes were still very slightly swollen, but other than that, I didn't think my freak-out had left me looking too worse for wear this morning. I smoothed my hair back and leaned against the sink.
Thinking of my freak-out had me thinking of the flashback that was sure to come on any second now. It would be better if I had it alone, out of Archer's sight. He probably already thought I was half nuts. Letting him see my PTSD episode would definitely convince him that I was fully there.
I stood against the sink for a few minutes, closing my eyes and willing the flashback to do its worst while I was locked away behind closed doors. Nothing happened.
I turned on the water and imagined it was the rain falling down around me, just like that night. Nothing happened.
I tried to stamp down the hope that blossomed in my chest–I had been hopeful in the recent past that the flashbacks had stopped, right before being cast into an attack.
I closed my eyes and thought about the night before, what Archer had said to me when I told him my deepest shame, that I had done nothing as my father was gunned down, as I was almost raped. He hadn't looked at me with disgust… but rather with understanding. Relief washed through my body again at the memory alone.
And I had cried more than I knew I could. I had cried a river of tears… for my dad, for the loss I felt everyday at losing my best friend, my person… for losing myself somewhere along the way, for running away…
I opened my eyes, biting my fingernail and worrying my brow. Is that what I had needed? Was that the purpose of the flashbacks all along? To force me to face what I was running from? That felt right. But it was only part of it. Maybe I needed to feel safe and accepted in my pain before I was set free from this daily misery. I had needed someone who would understand and hold me as I cried.
I had needed Archer.
I swung the bathroom door open and walked quickly through the house, calling to him. He wasn't inside. I ran outside and called for him. After a few minutes, he walked from the direction of the lake through the trees and stood there looking questioningly at me.
I didn't think you'd be up this early, he said.
I ran down the slope and stopped right in front of him, grinning broadly, my excitement bubbling out of me. I laughed, looking in his beautiful face. I still wasn't used to seeing all of it. Or most of it at least. He still desperately needed a haircut.
I didn't have a flashback this morning, I said, my hands moving quickly.
He frowned, looking at me confused.
I shook my head, laughing a small laugh. I guess I just can't believe it… I mean, I always have one. Every day. I've had one every single day for six months, I said, my hands moving quickly, my eyes filling with tears.