37. Chapter 37
thirty-seven
Skye
I’m awoken by the glow of Archer’s phone and blink against the harsh light. Archer’s sitting up in bed beside me, his back against the headboard, scrolling.
“Can’t sleep?” I mumble, rolling onto my side.
“Why didn’t you tell me you were texting with Boston?” he asks, eyes still locked on the phone.
My brain stalls, still slow with sleep. “What?”
Archer lets out a humorless laugh. “Sorry things have been weird. Hope you’re okay.”
I know that message.
My eyes drop to the phone, to the case that—even in the low light of the room—I can tell is light blue, not black.
The realization hits like a shockwave.
Archer isn’t on his phone. He’s on mine. Reading the message Boston sent me last night—after Archer dropped me off—the one I left on read.
Archer laughs, but there’s nothing funny about the sound.
“‘Hope you’re okay,’” he mocks. “What the fuck is that supposed to mean?”
I shrug. Archer’s thumb keeps swiping over my screen, clearly reading through the messages between Boston and me over the last couple of months.
His jaw flexes. “Why didn’t you mention that you’ve been texting Boston?”
My pulse starts to race.
Because the answer is embarrassingly simple.
I didn’t think I needed permission.
“He’s my friend, Arch.”
“No,” he growls, his gaze icy as it locks on mine. “Lily’s your friend.”
I frown. “So is Boston.” The words hang in the darkness.
Archer is rigid next to me. Not calm.
Worse.
“Your friend.”
“Yes.” The word comes out meek, shaky, like my voice is setting me up.
His eyes flick back to my phone, finger scrolling up, then down, then up again, apparently reading and rereading the same message thread.
My stomach twists.
“Nothing’s going on,” I say, already defending myself before he’s even lodged the accusation.
Archer stares at me, his thumb hovering over the screen.
“Do you think I’m stupid, Skye?”
“No.”
“Do you think I don’t see what’s happening?”
I push myself up on one elbow. “There’s nothing happening.”
Archer’s laugh is sharp and ugly. “Bullshit.”
He tosses my phone onto the mattress, his attention laser-focused on me. “You defend him every chance you get.”
Yeah, because Archer’s judging Boston unfairly.
“Archer—”
“Are you fucking him?”
I huff an incredulous laugh. “No, of course n—”
Archer shifts suddenly, rolling on top of me, his weight pinning me to the mattress. “Don’t lie to me, Skye,” he growls, quiet but deadly, that vein in his forehead pulsing like it might burst.
“No, I—” I try again, but the words lodge in my throat as he wraps his hand around it.
Tight.
“Are you fucking Boston?” he snarls, squeezing.
My hands fly to his wrists, pushing, clawing. I can’t breathe. I can’t move. His body is too heavy, too solid.
I’m trapped.
“Are you fucking Boston, Skye?” he bellows again, his grip tightening.
It’s all I can do to shake my head. No. No. No.
Just like that, he lets go.
I gasp—coughing—shoving out from under him and stumbling off the bed. Air floods back into my lungs in greedy gulps. My throat burns.
Archer watches me from the bed, eyes dark and unreadable.
Then, like a switch flipping, he softens. “You okay?” he asks like he didn’t just try to crush my windpipe.
I stare at him, wide-eyed, backing away as he stands and starts toward me.
“You choked me,” I croak.
“I love you, Skye,” he says, like those four words erase everything.
“You choked me,” I repeat, louder this time.
“Because I fucking love you,” he snaps, voice rising.
I shake my head, stunned, but he doesn’t back off.
He lunges forward and crashes his mouth to mine. I hit the wall with a thud, his hands gripping my face, my arms, my waist—possessive and desperate.
I turn my head, try to push him back, but he’s all over me. His breath is hot, his touch frantic.
“I fucking love you, Skye. I can’t fucking lose you.”
“Get away,” I say, voice sharp.
“No, Skye, please.”
“Get the fuck away from me!” I scream, shoving with everything I have.
That does it.
Archer steps back, startled, his chest rising and falling with ragged breaths.
“Skye,” he says, like he’s a broken record. “I love you.”
Tears sting the back of my eyes.
“I can’t bear the thought of losing you,” he pleads.
A heavy knock lands on the door.
“Archer!” Mr. Longfellow barks. “Open the door. Now!”
Archer looks at me, eyes wild. It’s a split-second glance, but I know what it means. Get your shit together. Don’t say anything. Don’t ruin what we have. And I truly believe that, somehow, that’s what he thinks this is.
Love.
I stand, frozen to the ground, while Archer smooths his hands over his shirt, takes a steadying breath, then opens the door.
Mr. Longfellow storms in, gaze snapping between Archer and me.
He takes in the scene: my flushed cheeks, the tear tracks on my face, the way I’m pressed against the wall like I could disappear through it if I tried hard enough.
“What the hell is going on in here?” he demands.
I open my mouth, but nothing comes out. My lips tremble. My fingers dig into the crook of my opposite elbow.
“Nothing,” Archer says too quickly.
Mr. Longfellow slaps him. Hard. The crack of it echoes in the room, and I gasp.
“Are you trying to play me for a damn fool?” Mr. Longfellow says, voice low but sharp. “I heard the commotion. Did you touch her?” he asks, pointing at me.
Archer blinks, swallows, the guilt—or maybe just fear—etched into every line of his face.
Mr. Longfellow turns to me. “Did he hurt you?” There’s no softness in his voice.
Instinct screams at me to lie, to protect him. But a smaller voice—a steadier one—rises inside me, urging the truth forward.
This wasn’t okay. What Archer did is not okay, and letting him get away with it, lying to spare him, will only teach him that he can get away with hurting me. The work my mom does taught me that.
No good comes from protecting an abuser.
“He choked me,” I whisper, the words catching in my throat.
Mr. Longfellow rounds on his son.
“You’ve got to be fucking kidding me, Archer. What the hell is going on in that thick skull of yours thinking it’s okay to commit domestic violence?”
Mr. Longfellow’s use of the phrase domestic violence makes me want to crawl out of my skin.
“Do you know what the repercussions are for something like this? Not just legally for you, but for this entire damn family? What if Skye had called the cops? What if you got hauled off in cuffs? Do you have any idea what that would do to my career?”
Archer opens his mouth to speak.
“Save it,” his dad cuts him off. “I’m not discussing this with you now. I’m getting Skye her own room for the night. Give your hot head some time to sit with your stupidity. We’ll address this situation tomorrow.”
Then he turns to me, and for the first time since storming in, his face softens. “Are you okay like this for now, Skye, or do you want to grab your things?”
I shake my head quickly. “I’m fine like this,” I say, stepping into my shoes from earlier in the evening. I just want to get out of here.
Mr. Longfellow nods once, curt and clipped, then yanks the door open and holds it for me to exit first. As I pass, I catch the withering look he throws at his son.
Mr. Longfellow escorts me to the front desk and requests another room with crisp professionalism.
Minutes later, we’re in the elevator. My room is two floors above Archer’s.
“Looks like it’s just this way,” Mr. Longfellow says as I follow him down the empty hallway in silence.
When we get to the room, he opens the door for me, then stands in the doorway for a moment.
“Listen,” he says, voice lower now. “I know tonight was… not good. And I’m not going to excuse any of it. What happened was out of line. No question.”
I nod.
“But you’ve known Archer for a long time. You know he’s not like this.”
Except, he is.
“He’s got a little bit of a temper, yeah,” he says. “But that boy is crazy about you. Always has been.”
I say nothing.
“I don’t know what happened between you two, but he obviously… he lost it. And I’m not saying that whatever did happened makes his reaction okay. It doesn’t. But maybe there’s a way to move forward without it turning into something bigger than it needs to be.”
I still don’t speak.
Mr. Longfellow takes a tentative step toward me, lowering his voice like he’s sharing confidential information. “Both our families have worked hard to build our names. Your parents with their respective careers. Me as District Attorney. You’re a smart girl. You understand how things ripple out.”
He studies me for a second, then softens his tone even further.
“If there’s anything that would help you feel better about all of this—help you move past it—just say the word.
Archer’s going to stay away tonight. And tomorrow, we’ll regroup at brunch with the rest of the family.
It’ll be light. A nice meal. Reset the energy.
Give Archer a chance to cool down. Give you a chance to… recalibrate.”
Recalibrate.
It’s such a strange word to use. Like I’m a machine that just needs a system reboot after experiencing a momentary glitch.
“I’ll give you some privacy,” he finally says, handing me the keycard. “Get some rest, Skye.”
The door closes behind him with a soft click.
And then I’m alone.