Page 77 of Wild Thing

He hasn’t really left the hallway yet, because everyone is crowding around, forming multiple lines, giving him a hug or a present, though the present table against the wall is already packed with towering boxes and packages of God-knows-what. What could Archer possibly want? Except just that, presents—it’s the thought that counts.

And dozens of thoughts gather around him, joking, laughing, patting him on the back, kissing his cheeks—those lipstick smudges will drive him insane.

My eyes burn with tears. I hope Archer realizes that a lot of people care about him. If only he would let them close again.

Archer is overwhelmed. He doesn’t show it but sucks in his cheeks. Good. That’s the best kind of present—to feel human, loved and thought about.

I want to see more of him like this—among friends, at parties, or on a football field—God, I wish I could—or laughing with Droga like they are right now, or doing motorcycle tricks, or in an octagon, half naked and feral but safe.

I want to see all sides of him, knowing he’s my guy.

My. Guy.

The words do something weird to my heart. It gets hard to breathe, and that goofy smile tugs at my lips.

The music goes quieter all around the villa, the sound of the microphone tapped cutting through the voices and laughter.

Marlow is slick like a runway star—hair tied in a bun at the back without a single hair out, sunglasses, a silk buttoned-down shirt, halfway open, necklaces dangling, tight jeans.

Wow.

He perches his sunglasses on his head, then jumps up onto the bar counter, a microphone in one hand, a cocktail glass in his other.

“Alright, you guys, attention!” he calls out, and everyone goes quiet and turns to face him. “We have our man here, Archer Crone.”

Everyone turns toward Archer, forming a semi-circle, cheering and whistling.

“He’s been in hiding for some time but rose like a phoenix from the ashes!” Marlow declares with pathos. “And decided to finally grace us with his presence. So if you were ever waiting for the second coming of Jesus, here it is, ladies and gentlemen.”

The crowd woot-woots.

Archer shakes his head with a modest smile—he’s cornered.

Margot puts her hand on his shoulder, and for once, I let it go. She’s been with him from the beginning and through many ups and downs until I arrived. I can bear this minute of her closeness to him.

“I’m talking on behalf of at least a dozen people here who have known Archer for a long time,” Marlow continues. “We really miss the times with you, man. When you changed all Deene official flags and insignia to ‘Happy Birthday, Archer’ and got suspended.”

Twenty or so people explode with laughter. “Go, Crone!”

I raise my eyebrows. He did that?

Marlow grins. “And when you went streaking in the Deene student pool.”

Cat whistles shoot across the living room.

Archer? Really?

“And when you—on purpose—crashed a Deene golf cart into Mrs. Helligarg’s car because it was too old but she didn’t have money to change it and you hated that she parked too close to your Aston Martin Vulcan”—more cheers sweep across the room—“yep, and so you ended up buying her a new car.”

I don’t know this guy, I swear, but he is grinning. God! Archer is grinning—we must’ve done something right tonight.

“And the time when you lined up all of the frat guys naked across the lawn in front of the dean’s office and made them do the chicken dance.”

“Oooohhhhhh!” There are booing sounds as Archer tilts his head back and closes his eyes in what looks like embarrassment.

“And we are all older and we’d like to think, wiser,” Marlow goes on but in a more serious voice. “We’ve been through a lot, so maybe no streaking or shrooms—”

“Take Marlow’s advice, because he doesn’t use it!” someone shouts, and laughter echoes through the crowd.

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