Page 89 of Wild Flower

“Yeah, you mentioned she might have cancer.” I trace the outline of the chain and medallion that’s under his shirt. “I’ve been so wrapped up in my own stuff that I didn’t ask you what she found out.”

“Oh.” Something flits through Archer’s expression that I can’t read, like a shield going up.

“Oh no! Was the diagnosis bad?”

“No it’s not—” Archer’s hand covers the one I’ve been tracing his medallion with, squeezing it as his jaw locks and he looks out to the jungle I just screamed at. “She’s fine, she doesn’t …”

He trails off, not looking at me.

“There’s no cancer?” I ask, and his eyes hit me with a storm of emotion I can’t parse. Pain, fear, desperation? For a second, I think he might actually start crying, and I grip his chest and pull him closer to me. “Arch? Is she—?”

“My sister is fine,” he says, pulling me against him and kissing my forehead. He wraps his arms around me, but now he’s the one full of tension. He must love his sister a lot if a cancer scare has him this emotional.

“She’s all you have left, right?” I ask quietly. “After your parents’ accident? Gosh, you must’ve been terrified when you were waiting to hear the results. Not knowing if she was okay.” His muscles tighten around me. “And she must’ve felt so alone in San Diego while you’ve been in Hawaii. I can’t believe you didn’t get on a plane and fly back to see her, go to her appointment with her, stand by her side incase things went the other way. Oh, Arch, I’m so sorry.” He hugs me tighter, practically smothering me. “Was this because of all my crap? Were you staying here for me when your sister needed you? Arch, I love you so much, but I’d hate to know I’d gotten in the way of—”

Archer kisses me.

His embrace feels like a release and a declaration at the same time, and I meet his passion and kiss him back. His body is trembling, and if I cup his face I know it will be wet. Between kisses, I apologize for getting in the way of him helping the last family member he has left, but he keeps kissing away my words. He keeps kissing until he’s carried me in the house and laid me down on his bed. And when he’s inside me neither one of us says anything about the fact that we’re making love without Finn. It doesn’t feel like a betrayal, especially with the desperate way Archer moves and worships, as if this is the only way he can keep the emotions inside from consuming him completely. I’m touched he loves his sister so deeply.

So I kiss away his tears.

And I fall into the ocean of his touch.

And I know that at some point, Finn might need me in the same way, and he and I will also make love just the two of us. We will all be there for each other, and it will fill all the holes in our hearts—like the ones left by my sister and mother—and we will be our own family.

A family together.

53

FINN

The opening for the university show starts in fifteen minutes, and I’m waiting outside the gallery lobby for Becca and Archer to arrive. I’ve never been a huge fan of hoity-toity wine and cheese events, but as one of the featured artists, Katz made it pretty clear that I should be in attendance. I smooth out my tie, telling myself I shouldn’t be nervous. All of the work is hung. Artist statements are printed. Everything looks great. Still, there’s a niggling feeling in the back of my mind that I’ve forgotten something.

“Congratulations.” I turn to see Krista walking out of the gallery doors in a cocktail dress, carrying two glasses of wine.

“Drinking already? And double-fisting it?” I ask, as she walks up. “I didn’t think we opened the show yet.”

“This one’s for you.” Krista offers me one of the plastic cups. “It’s a peace offering for being a bitch all semester.”

“Are you sure it’s not poisoned?” I jest, taking the glass from her. “And you haven’t been a bitch.”

“Liar,” Krista laughs. “Being a bitch is my second best quality.”

“And what’s the first?”

“My competitive nature,” she says with a sly smile, taking a sip from her wine. “But I’m not a sore loser, Finn. Your new work is compelling. Yes, I’m super jealous that Katz gave you a featured spot, but when the work is good, I don’t complain. So, congratulations.” She lifts her glass.

“Thank you,” I say tentatively, clinking her glass as a peace gesture, but not taking a sip. “Honestly, I’m still waiting for you to pull out your soap box and start schooling me on my derivative male gaze.”

“Well, you’re male and white,” Krista says wryly, “so the male gaze part is going to be hard to shake.”

“But at least I’m not derivative?”

“For now,” she says, showing off her competitive edge. “Enjoy my kindness while it lasts.”

A hand wraps around my waist, and I turn to see Becca sliding herself up against me, looking beautiful in an old-Hollywood pencil dress. It’s the kind of thing you’d imagine a 40s movie star wearing, only the neckline is asymmetrical and shows off a lot of tattoos and cleavage. Her hair is pinned up with her signature romantic braid, giving her that effortless beauty that makes her hard to look away from.

“Am I late?” Becca asks, nodding to the wine glasses Krista and I are holding. “You said six, right?”

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