35. Chapter 35
thirty-five
Skye
New York has a way of swallowing you whole. The honking cabs, the swirl of languages, the smell of street food and exhaust—it’s constant and so alive.
We flew in this morning, and already I feel like I’ve lived a week.
We made a pit stop at our hotel only long enough to freshen up before Archer let me drag him through the Museum of Modern Art, playing the reluctant tourist while I soaked in every exhibit.
To his credit, he didn’t complain… much.
Afterward, he tugged me into a small boutique and insisted on buying me a dress that, truly, had no right costing what it did.
It’s Archer’s way of trying to smooth over the tension that’s simmered between us since Wednesday night and yesterday’s disaster at AJ’s, when Maya accidentally let it slip that I’d spilled soda all over Boston the weekend before.
Archer drove me home screaming the entire way while I sobbed and rubbed my wrist—the one he grabbed so hard it bruised.
Archer isn’t one to apologize with words. His way of fixing a problem is by throwing money at it. And I don’t push it. Any further discussion of the subject would only result in another fight.
Now, as we weave through the crowds, Archer’s hand is firm at the small of my back, guiding me toward our next destination: a brick-front Irish pub Wilder swears has the best shepherd’s pie and the strongest drinks in the city.
The gold Gaelic lettering above the dark double doors glows in the late afternoon sun, announcing the restaurant’s name: Murphy’s.
There’s a five-leaf clover mounted next to it.
My brain catches on it—the five leaves instead of four. Weird.
The second we step inside, we’re met with the smell of rich food and stout and the low hum of conversation over live music coming from the small stage at the back.
We’re early because Archer doesn’t like to arrive anything less than first. And first we are, by something like thirty minutes. Then again, judging by how busy this place is, maybe being early is not such a bad thing.
“Alright, well, I guess I can see why my brother likes this spot,” Archer says, looking around the spacious but cozy interior. With its hardwood floors and dark brick-and-wood interior, the place feels older than the city itself.
“Let’s wait at the bar,” Archer decides, steering me toward the centerpiece of the restaurant—a long L-shaped counter with dark-green, leather-upholstered stools in front of it and an elegant mirrored shelf lined top to bottom with liquor.
Despite the bustle, Archer and I snag a couple of empty seats. He holds mine out for me, letting me climb up before sliding into the stool beside me.
Onstage, a young woman has just finished singing, her guitar propped against the mic stand. Applause follows her as she hops down, her laughter weaving into the hum of the room.
“What can I get you?” the bartender asks, his voice low and warm.
My gaze flicks to him. He’s all sharp lines and strong angles, a slight stubble on his cheeks and chin that matches his dark hair.
For a split second, he reminds me of Boston—masculine features, tall, broad frame, and dark hair—if it wasn’t for the fact that Boston’s eyes are gray instead of brown.
“Water, no ice. With lemon, please,” I say.
The bartender nods with a small smile. “And for you, man?”
Archer leans forward, forearms braced on the counter. “Old-fashioned,” he says smoothly.
“You got it. Can I see your ID?”
Uh-oh.
“Yeah, for sure,” Archer mutters and pulls his wallet out of his back pocket. He retrieves a small plastic card and slides it across the counter.
Before the bartender can check Archer’s ID, the girl from the stage bounds toward the bar, sliding into the space between Archer and another patron.
“Hey, Jack,” she greets the bartender, bright and easy. He gives her a tender smile that I’d be willing to bet he doesn’t offer many people.
“Hey, Trouble. Need water?” Jack asks, reaching for a glass.
“Trouble?” Archer echoes, smirking as he turns toward her.
The girl cocks a bemused eyebrow, one hand resting on her hip. “Only to him,” she says with a quick nod at the bartender. “To everyone else, I’m Randi.” She sticks her hand out.
Archer takes it. “Randi? What kind of name is Randi for a girl?”
Heat rushes to my cheeks, embarrassment prickling.
The girl shrugs, unbothered. “A perfectly fine one. What’s yours? John? William? Sir Thomas the Third?”
“Archer,” he says, puffed up.
Her mouth quirks. “Of course it is,” she deadpans, before turning back to Jack just as he slides a tall glass of water her way.
I can’t help noticing how she brushes Archer off so effortlessly, how she stands her ground without even breaking a sweat. I wonder what that feels like.
Randi takes the water. “Keep an eye on me, Jackie.” She gives the bartender a wink.
“You know I will, Trouble.” Jack chuckles as the girl walks off, then studies Archer’s ID. A good ten seconds later, he slides the ID back across the counter. “Sorry, man, I won’t be able to serve you alcohol today.”
Archer snatches it up. “Why the hell not?” His prior, confident tone has sharpened into something gruff.
Jack smiles calmly. “I think you know why.”
Archer shrugs. “Wanna enlighten me?”
Jack remains calm while that vein on Archer’s forehead begins to protrude, and I try my hardest to become invisible.
“That ID’s fake.”
Archer sits up, shoulders squaring like he’s trying to fill more space than his body allows. “Are you accusing me of something?” he says, loud enough that a couple heads turn from nearby tables.
Jack doesn’t so much as blink. “Just stating a fact.”
Archer bristles, his jaw flexing. “Get me your manager,” he snaps, his voice the perfect mix of entitled and pissed-off.
Jack shrugs, utterly unfazed, then puts two fingers between his lips and lets out a sharp whistle that cuts through the hum of conversation like a blade.
Seconds later, a guy steps forward. Tall, lean, a dark ball cap shadowing his eyes, but I don’t miss the defined lines of his jaw and the way the black shirt pulls across his chest and arms.
He comes to a stop in the same spot where Randi stood a minute ago. “Did you need me?” he asks Jack, who just nods his chin at Archer.
Archer’s surprise flickers. “That’s your manager?” He turns to the guy. “What are you, nineteen?”
The new guy doesn’t rise to the bait. His expression says Archer isn’t the first asshole to puff up and start something in here, and he won’t be the last. “Can I help you?”
Archer chuffs. “Yeah. Your bartender’s refusing me service, accusing me of showing him a fake ID.”
Why Archer is so intent on doubling down is beyond me. The ID he showed Jack is a fake. Archer’s only turning twenty-one in September.
The guy doesn’t bother asking to check Archer’s ID. He just glances at Jack, then back at Archer. “If Jack says it’s fake, it’s fake. He knows what he’s doing. If you don’t like it, you’re welcome to take your business elsewhere.”
Archer sputters, his face going red, but for once he doesn’t have a comeback. He glances around, maybe realizing people are watching, then mutters, “I’m meeting my family here.”
“Then maybe order a Coke,” the guy replies, already turning away.
“Fucking New Yorkers,” Archer mumbles under his breath.
I can feel the eyes that had turned toward us slowly drifting back to their own corners, but the heat in my cheeks stays. Archer’s knee bounces under the counter, and all I can think about is going back to our hotel.
We spend the next minutes mostly in silence.
Archer’s eyes don’t move from the counter, his jaw tight.
Every so often he mutters something under his breath I can’t hear.
I send an unspoken thank you to the universe when Archer’s parents arrive and we leave our spots at the bar to join them at a large booth near the back.
“Skye!” Mrs. Longfellow croons, pulling me into an almost-hug to pat my back awkwardly. “You look lovely, sweetheart.”
“Thanks, Mrs. Longfellow.” Two-and-a-half years later, Archer’s parents still haven’t offered me their first names. And I won’t ask. That would be impolite.
Archer motions for me to slide into the booth ahead of him, then takes his seat by my side, his leg touching mine.
Archer’s older brother, Wilder, arrives last, looking half-exhausted, half-wired. He greets his parents, then pulls Archer into a brotherly hug only to shift into a headlock and give him a noogie.
“Stop, Wilder,” Archer complains, freeing himself.
“Aww, Archie,” Wilder says with a laugh, and proceeds to give me a gentle hug before dropping into his seat with a groan.
“Finally escaped the land of bad plea deals and even worse coffee,” he says. “Drug court’s a nightmare, Dad. The cops don’t give a shit, everyone says they were holding five kilos of meth ‘for a friend,’ and I’m pretty sure the judge thinks I’m still in law school.”
Mr. Longfellow chuckles, clapping his son on the back. “Welcome to the trenches, son. You gotta cut your teeth like the rest of us.”
“I guess,” Wilder says with a nod. “Although, I was really hoping to make a little more of an impact, you know? Maybe I went in too rosy-eyed, but, man, I’ve been offering deals for drug diversion programs instead of jail time probably in eighty percent of my cases, but it rarely sticks.
The defendants either won’t take it or they’ll immediately do something stupid again landing them right back in front of the judge. ”
My ears perk up.
“What’s a drug diversion program?” I ask, keeping my tone neutral.
“It’s basically a get-out-of-jail-free card for first-time drug offenders. It’s focused on rehabilitation rather than punishment,” Wilder explains. “The defendant goes to a rehab program instead of jail.”