Page 4 of Come Break My Heart Again

“Hi, Elle.” Archer takes one step closer, still leaving a gulf between us. A beautiful bunch of red tulips are clutched in his left hand, one of Provisions’ wicker shopping baskets held in his right one.

“Hi.” My tone is flat as I stare at his wedding ring. The gold band is impossible to miss against the backdrop of bright green stems.

I knew Archer got married last summer. My parents attended the wedding even though it wasn’t a celebratory event for them. More of a wake—the death of their dream of me becoming a Hathaway. As if that outcome hadn’t been determined a long time ago.

“How have you been?” he asks.

I’m still staring at his wedding ring, incredibly irritated by the shiny, obvious sight. Even Archer fucking Hathaway got his happy ending. I’m bitter enough to resent him for it.

“I’m great.” I force yet another smile, certain he can tell that it’s fake.

“I was eavesdropping. Big, fancy job all lined up. I’m not surprised.”

“Me neither,” I reply.

That’s what happens when you follow all the rules—you end up exactly where everyone expected you would.

Archer nods, one corner of his mouth lifting an inch. “Wouldn’t want my lawyer to go up against you.”

“Then be careful who Daddy insures.”

Archer glances down, any lightness in his expression bleeding away. “I’m sorry, Elle. Truly. If I could go back and?—”

“You can’t.” I inject steel into the two words.

My life is already plagued by plenty of what-ifs. I don’t need to pile Archer’s regrets on top of my own.

“I know,” he says. “I just wanted to make sure you … knew that.”

“Yeah, got it.Thanks.” I look away purposefully, hoping he’ll get the strong hint I’m finished with this conversation and keep walking.

“They don’t have any roses.”

I say nothing, running my tongue along the backs of my teeth as I continue to stare at the metal buckets filled with flowers and pretend he’s not here.

“That’s why you’re in town, right?”

I don’t like that Archer remembers anything about me. Even if his recollection of the anniversary of Rose’s death is only because our mothers are best friends and not as my ex-boyfriend.

My mouth stays stubbornly shut. I’m done socializing, and I don’t owe him any explanations about where I go or why.

Archer exhales, realizing the same. He rubs his jaw once, pulling the skin taut over his cheek and drawing my attention to the thin white line there. The sight of the scar stings. I don’t like this serious, somber,remorsefulversion of him. I prefer him as a smug prick who’s neither agreeable nor apologetic.

“I hope you’re happy, Elle,” he tells me quietly, then walks away.

I stare after his retreating back, my teeth clenching the inside of my cheek hard enough that I taste the metallic tang of blood.

I haven’t been happy since I was seventeen.

That’s not entirely Archer’s fault. But I blame him.

Partly because he bears some responsibility.

And mostly because Ryder isn’t here to blame instead.

A terse, “You’re late,” is my mother’s heartfelt greeting when I arrive at my childhood home.

I slam my car door closed. Gravel crunches beneath my shoes as I walk toward my father’s car. It’s parked just past the front door, around the curve that surrounds the stone fountain. I can see his tall profile through the tinted window, waiting in the driver’s seat. Impatiently, I’m sure. He usually spends Saturdays at the golf course with Mr. Hathaway and the rest of his friends. Once this unpleasant outing is over, I’m sure the country club will be his next stop.

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