11. London
London
Iswing the door open the second Archer gets closer and hold it for him to enter.
"Uh, thanks?" he says.
"Who was that?" I ask him without hesitating.
"Who was what?" Archer continues inside and sets the two coffees on the counter before taking the packages from under his arms.
"The girl you were just talking to."
He turns toward me, his gaze narrowing. "Were you stalking me, little tornado?"
I roll my eyes and march over, pointing at the coffees. "Which one is mine?"
"Either one."
I take one and suspiciously sip it. "Is this a vanilla latte?"
"Yeah, why? Is that not what you wanted?"
"I didn't tell you what I wanted."
"Oh. I, um, I just guessed." Archer opens one of the boxes he brought in with a knife and pulls out a shoe box I could never mistake. "Here. These are for you."
"You bought me Christian Louboutins?"
"It's not what you think." He flips the lid to reveal a pair of stark white tennis shoes with red bottoms.
"You got me sneakers?"
"Well, the ones you came here in were worse for wear, and you only bought yourself heels when you went out the other day. I figured you could use something more practical."
"What's in the other box? Did you get yourself a matching pair?"
"No." He gives the box his attention, carefully opening it and pulling out two satchels. "I didn't know if you'd want brown or black, so I got both." Archer reveals two Saint Laurent crossbody leather bags with gold chains.
"I'm confused." I stare at the items and then at him. "Why would you do this?"
"Why would I do what?"
"Buy me, like, seven grand worth of stuff. You've known me four days and I've done nothing but annoy the hell out of you."
Archer shrugs, his plain black T-shirt bunching over his tattooed biceps. "It's just money, it's not a big deal. You needed a purse, I said I'd get you one, and now I did. And the shoes, I mean, you needed shoes, and I know you like brand name things, so I thought these would work."
"Are you saying I'm materialistic?"
Archer runs his hand over his jaw. "You love to put words in my mouth, don't you?"
"That wasn't a disagreement."
"I did not say you were materialistic, London.
I am simply giving you something you need.
That is all. Don't make it into something it's not.
Just say thank you. Actually, no, don't even do that, I didn't do it for a thank-you.
" Archer huffs and storms away, dragging his computer chair out and sitting on it with a bit too much force.
I stand there for a long moment, grab his coffee, and walk it over to his desk. "Thank you, Archer. For the coffee, the shoes, and the purses. It was very thoughtful of you."
He snatches his coffee and takes a swig before setting it down on the coaster he keeps near his mouse pad. "You're welcome."
A smile creeps across my face. "Did we just diffuse our first argument?"
"That wasn't an argument."
"Look at you arguing about whether it was an argument."
"London, I need to get some work done."
"Okay, fine, but first, you're not going to get out of telling me who that was in the hallway."
Archer exhales dramatically and faces me. "That was Camille, our neighbor. Satisfied?"
"I'll be satisfied when you give her my name for a potential sublet of her apartment."
"You're joking."
I throw my arm up. "Why would I be joking? It's perfect. We both get some privacy, and you can still keep an eye on me. What's not to love?"
"We are not going to be neighbors." Archer returns his attention to his computer, typing away at who knows fucking what.
Since I've been here, Archer has gotten these screen covers that prevent anyone who isn't directly looking at the screen from being able to see anything he's doing.
"We can't be neighbors, but we can be roommates? How does that make any sense?"
"I said no, end of discussion." Archer doesn't even glance my way, his lips pressed in a line, his eyes trailing whatever he's doing.
"You wouldn't have to worry about me finding out what's on your computer if I got the place next door," I tell him as I leave him and return to the kitchen where my new shoes and bags are.
He doesn't say anything, not that I expect him to. Archer isn't exactly one of those people who feels the need to get the last word in. His silence usually speaks volumes by itself.
I want to ask him about Camille, her apartment, and the lingering questions that remained when he left earlier in a hurry to get our coffees.
Like what his actual last name is, and why he seems so strangely protective of talking about his siblings.
Or maybe I'd ask how he knew my coffee order when I hadn't told him what it was.
But I don't, because now isn't the time and I don't want to push my luck.
If I'm going to continue living with him, I have to find the balance between annoying him and completely pushing him over the edge.
The next day
"Hey, how much do phones cost?" I ask Archer from my spot on the couch.
He shifts his focus from his computer to me. "What?"
"A cell phone. How much do they cost? I want one."
"Monthly, or the cost of the phone itself?"
I guess I hadn't thought there was a different cost for both. I've never had to think about money in the past, I just went out and got things, and my father paid for them. One of the perks of being under his constant torture.
"Both," I tell him and plop his iPad onto the cushion next to me. "And where do they sell them?"
"What kind of phone do you want?" He types on his computer, and I can't tell if he's paying attention to me or not.
"I don't know. What do you have?"
He doesn't say anything for a long moment, and I contemplate throwing a couch pillow at him but I don't think I know him well enough to gauge how he would react. I decide to clear my throat a bit too loudly. "Hello?"
"I ordered you the latest edition, it will be here the day after tomorrow. The plan is included. Will that be all?"
"I don't even get to choose the color?"
Archer licks his lips. "I got you a gold one."
"Oh, well, I guess it'll match the bags."
"That's why I chose that color."
"You really think of everything, don't you?"
"I try to."
I almost laugh at his response, knowing damn well that Archer is a massive control freak, that's why he thinks of everything. It's hard not to wonder why he is the way he is, but I'd be an idiot to think I could ask him and he'd tell me the truth.
"Do you want some privacy?" I hop up from the couch and Archer glances in my direction.
"You're leaving?"
"I'm going to take a shower. Is that okay, big guy?"
Archer immediately returns his attention to the computer. "Yeah."
I roll my eyes and make my way toward the bathroom, my cast scraping against the floor. Counting on my fingers, I attempt to do the math on when I can get these things removed.
"What's today?" I mutter, unsure of how long I've been here.
The days sort of melt into each other, and considering I spent the last few resting, I can't be certain how long it has been.
Either way, I should only have a couple more weeks until I'm free of the obnoxious coverings.
Maybe I should find a doctor, that way I can get them removed immediately instead of having to wait around on one.
The bathroom door latches shut behind me and I strip my clothes off as I head to the shower. I turn the water on and crank the heat up, the room filling with steam within seconds.
I sigh, stepping under the scorching water and tilting my head up, realizing that I need to wash my hair.
I had been avoiding it since that first day, considering how difficult it was to navigate with my arm in a cast. Sure, I have access to my fingers, but they're not as strong as my other hand, and the cast sort of disallows me from having full control over them.
I wash my body instead, holding off on washing my hair for now. The bruises have shifted their colors, faded reds, purples, and greens covering most of my body, my torso with the brunt of the damage. Luckily for me, I can conceal it under my clothing and minimize some of the sad stares.
Everything still hurts, though, from my head, down to my toes. I thought the pain would have subsided, but I have to remind myself that my father nearly killed me two weeks ago, that doesn't go away overnight.
Even taking deep breaths is difficult, my injured lungs still healing, too. The headaches have died down, a steady throb that intensifies randomly.
He's abused me countless times, but the fractured skull was a new addition to his résumé of damage he's inflicted on me.
I put my arm in front of the faucet and rinse the inside of my cast out, the water nowhere near as disgusting as the first time I showered at Archer's place.
I cringe at the memory of how dirty I was when I showed up on his doorstep.
I can't believe he let me inside. Not that I look much better now, but still, I was disgusting to say the very least.
The water courses over me another few minutes and I decide it's time. I need to wash my hair, I can't keep putting it off. I didn't exactly do a good job the last time I washed it, some of the shampoo no doubt remaining in my hair after I got out of the shower.
I squeeze some of the shampoo into my hand, still wondering why Archer has women's products in here. I go to lather it with my other hand and the entire lump of shampoo slides out and plops onto the shower floor.