Page 100 of The Sounds of Her

That song. That damn fucking song. He wrote it while they were in LA, after these texts. Now those lyrics make sense.

In the cold moonlight, she wore a wicked grin. A dagger in her words, a game she'd always win. She danced on the edge, where love becomes numb. A heart so callous, she was a loaded gun.

“Archer.”

Slowly, he lowers his hand, and his eyes meet mine. They’re red rimmed and damp. The sadness is so stark it takes my breath away. I grab his shoulders and pull him into me. Archer presses his face into my neck, the wetness soaking into my skin. He grips me around my middle so tight it’s almost restricting my ability to breathe, but I don’t care.

I don’t care because I don’t want to let him go. I don’t want him to hurt. I want to kill that fucking bitch with my bare hands.

Instead, I hold him against me and don’t let go.

I’ve heard it said plenty of times, how people look younger in their sleep, innocent, the stresses of their day to day gone when they’re at their most relaxed. Not Archer. His brow is creased as if he is in pain, his REM is frantic and his body fidgets, as if he’s on the cusp of waking up at any moment.

We didn’t talk much after I read those texts. Exhausted from the emotional tsunami, I made him go to bed, even though he said sleep wouldn’t come. Watching him, I am half tempted to wake him up because it looks to me like he is suffering just as much in his unconscious state.

For the past two weeks, I’ve seen Archer laughing, happy with his friends, giving a great speech at his best friend’s wedding. He’s been amused at the things that happen between us, the groupie, Daryl at the winery. He’s listened to all of my problems, helped me through them, and offered to help fix this mess with my parents.

There was no pain or regret when we had sex. He was there in the moment with me. Giving all of himself. I have to believe I’ve given him some respite from this. Archer is really good at fooling people into thinking he is okay.

And he is not okay.

I leave him in the bedroom and go to stand in the living area. My hands shake with rage and sadness. I’m not sure which is the more prevalent. I’m torn over what to do. He needs to tell his friends, Adam, at the very least, but I can’t force him.

I can’t unlock his phone to read those texts again, although it is an invasion of privacy, I wish I could call her and tell her what a bitch she is. I’d never overstep like that, no matter how much I want to.

In my eyes, a woman being able to make a choice about her body, to decide if she wants to keep a baby or not, always lies with her. I’ve never considered it from the other side before. Sure, there are men who make demands one way or another over what they want, without care or consideration for how the woman feels. This is the flip side, and it’s difficult seeing it.

Archer would have loved that baby, I know he would. And if Madison made the choice to end the pregnancy, she at least owed him the opportunity to discuss it.

My blood boils all over again because everything about that woman is vile. She didn’t have to tell him about the baby, not after she already had the abortion. Texting like that is vindictive, cruel, and Archer didn’t deserve it.

Exhaustion takes over. I go back to the bedroom and lay down beside him. Sleep evades me as I watch his continued torment.

It’s almost five AM when he rolls towards me, his hand wrapping around my waist. I press back into him. His head rests half on the pillow, half on my shoulder. I take his hand and hold it against my chest, letting him feel the steady beat of my heart.

Archer stops moving and his breath deepens. He’s lost the fight in his sleep. Eventually, I fall asleep, knowing he’s able to rest.

The next thing I am aware of is something tickling my cheek. I brush at it, but it doesn’t stop.

“Brooke?”

I groan, the tickling goes away at least on my cheek, it trails down my throat and neck then across my collarbone. My eyes blink open just as Archer presses his lips to my jaw.

“Morning,” he says, propping himself up and looking down at me.

“Hey,” I reply, still groggy. Last time I looked at the clock, it was almost six in the morning. “What time is it?”

“Midday,” he strokes some hair off my forehead. “I let you sleep, but you should eat.”

“Are you okay?” I ask, rubbing my eyes.

“Yeah… I’m good,” he winks. “Come on, I’ll make coffee.”

He pushes off the bed and heads towards the door. He’s fully dressed, right down to his sneakers. How long has he been awake? I’m only wearing his t-shirt from last night, but don’t care. I straighten up the covers, then head to the other room.

Archer is finishing up my drink and looks over. “Did I tell you I enjoyed seeing you in my clothes?”

Taking the cup, our fingers touch. “Maybe.”

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