I drew my hand back and paused for a second, taking in his tense body and strained expression, thinking that I'd never seen Archer Hale angry. I'd seen him wary, and shy, and uncertain, but never angry. I wasn't sure what to do.
He took a deep breath, but said nothing, looking over my shoulder, his mind suddenly somewhere far away.
Will you tell me about her, Archer?
His eyes darted back to me, clearing. He took another deep breath and nodded, yes.
We dried our hands and left the last of the dishes in the sink, moving into the main room. I sat down next to him on the couch and waited for him to speak.
After a second, he looked at me and said, When my uncle was dying, his head seemed to… clear a little sometimes.
He drifted off again for a second, gazing over my shoulder momentarily and then snapping back to the present. His eyes found mine again.
It was almost like that cancer ate up some of whatever it was that made him… different mentally. He had these moments of normalcy that I'd never witnessed in him before, or at least not for extended periods of time.
Sometimes during those times, he would confess things to me–about all kinds of stuff. Things that he had done in his life, how he had loved my mother… A brief flash of pain crossed his features before he went on.
One day, I came into his room and found him crying, and he pulled me over to him and kept telling me how sorry he was. When I asked him why, he told me that when I was in the hospital right after I was shot, he brought one hand up to his scar unconsciously, rubbing it gently and then brought his hand back down, the doctors told him that my voice box could possibly be repaired, but that there was a limited time frame in which to do it. He paused again, his jaw clenching a few more times, bitterness filling his expression.
But then he told me how he'd told Victoria about the scheduled surgery, and she started planting it in his head that it would be better if I couldn't speak. If I couldn't speak, I couldn't be questioned. She exploited his paranoia so that he cancelled the surgery and missed the opportunity for me to ever talk again.
I sucked in a breath, horrified. Why? I asked. Why would she do that? Why wouldn't she want you to speak?
He shook his head, looking away for a second. Because I know things that she doesn't want shared. Or maybe she just hates me. Maybe both. I've never really figured it out. He shook his head again. But it doesn't really matter.
I furrowed my brow, confused. Archer, surely she knows that you can write–that you can communicate if you want to. What is it that she doesn't want shared?
He took a deep breath. It doesn't matter, Bree. It's nothing I'd ever talk about anyway. That's the worst part about it. She took my one opportunity to be normal, to be a real person, to live a life like other people do–and all for nothing. I would have never told her damn secret anyway.
Archer, I grabbed his hands, bringing them to my heart as I had done earlier. You are a real person, you can live a life like other people do. Who told you you can't? It felt like my heart was cracking. This sweet, smart, gentle man thought so little of himself.
He looked down, shaking his head, unable to respond to me, because I held his hands against my chest.
I didn't ask him more about the secret he held against Victoria. I knew that Archer would confide in me as he felt comfortable. He had lived his life alone and isolated, with no one to talk to for so long. Just like me with the cooking and the intimacy… baby steps. In our own ways, we were both learning to trust.
I did have one final question though. I let go of his hands and signed, Why would she tell me you're violent? It was almost ludicrous. Archer was the gentlest man I had ever met.
She came out here after my uncle died, after she'd seen me in town a couple times. I have no idea why, and I don't care. I was angry, and hurting. I pushed her out my gate. She fell on her ass. He looked ashamed, although he had no need to, at least not in my book.
I pursed my lips. I understand, Archer. She deserved it and much more, too. I'm sorry.
He looked over at me, studying my face. He tilted his head, something seeming to come into focus in his eyes. You didn't pay her any attention. You asked me about her after we… kissed.
I nodded my head. I know you, I said simply.
He looked like he was working out a puzzle. You believed me over her immediately?
Yes, I said. Absolutely.
We stared at each other for a couple beats and then his face broke into one of those heart-stopping grins. I almost groaned, heat racing through my veins. That smile was mine–I was going to wager that no one had made Archer Hale smile like that in a long, long time. I felt greedy and possessive of that beautiful smile. I grinned back.
Can we kiss some more? he asked, his eyes shining with desire.
I laughed.
What? he said.
Nothing, I answered. Nothing at all. Come here.
We made out on Archer's couch for a long time. But it was sweet and gentler this time, our intense need from earlier quenched for the time being. We learned each other's mouths, memorized each other's taste, and just enjoyed the intimacy of kissing, lips to lips, breath to breath.
When we opened our eyes and he stared down at me, smoothing my hair back and tucking a piece behind my ear, his eyes told me everything that his voice couldn't. We communicated a thousand words, without a single one being spoken.
Later, after the gentle rain shower had dwindled to nothing, Archer walked me home, wheeling my bike next to him, Phoebe sitting quietly in the basket.
He grabbed my hand, looking at my shyly and smiling as I smiled back, feeling my heart swell in my chest.