Chapter Three #2
He didn’t say anything. He just walked up to me, and as I stood up, he wrapped his arms around me, and I fell apart.
I cried ugly, shaking sobs that I had been holding in all day because I was trying to be strong for my mom.
He held me in the middle of the hospital lobby while strangers walked past, and he didn’t let go until I stopped shaking.
Then he handed me the gas station bag. Inside was a package of red licorice—the specific brand from the gas station near our high school that we used to stop at after Friday night games. I don’t know how he found it in whatever airport he’d flown through, but he did.
My dad was fine. He recovered fully, went home after three days, and still mows his own lawn to this day, despite my mother’s protests. Archer stayed for two of those days, sleeping in a chair in the waiting room, before he flew back to Boston for a biology exam he most likely failed.
We show up for each other; it’s what we do.
I wrap my hands around my mug and look at him—this enormous man in a faded t-shirt with bedhead and stubble on his jaw, thanking me for showing up. I want to say I’d show up for you every time. I’d show up if you called me from the moon.
Instead, I say, “Well, someone’s gotta feed those kids. Your fridge is very sad, Arch.”
He almost smiles. “Fair.”
“Seriously. You’re the starting goalie for the New York Knights. If you’re off your game because you aren’t eating enough, the entire tri-state area is going to have my head.”
“That’s a lot of pressure on you.”
“I take my responsibilities seriously.”
Now he smiles. Then he shifts to business—schedules, practice times, upcoming road trips, and which days Bree has the kids. He slides a key fob across the island. “The Lexus SUV in the garage. It’s yours while you’re here.”
“Archer, I can’t drive your—”
“You can and you will. The twins’ car seats are already installed.”
“Okay.”
“My housekeeper comes on Wednesdays. Her name is Maria. She’s been with us for three years, and she’s, uh—she’s the best. She’ll probably try to feed you.”
“I like her already.”
“The twins’ preschool is Mondays, Wednesdays, and Fridays from nine to one. Drop-off is—” He pauses. “Lily’s a runner. You have to hold her hand in the parking lot, or she’ll take off after a bird, a puddle, or a piece of sidewalk chalk.”
“Noted.”
“And Luke will tell you he can walk himself in. He can. But he wants you to watch until he gets through the door. He won’t say that. He’ll just keep looking back.”
My chest aches. The way Archer knows them—the puddle, the looking back—tells me everything about the kind of father he is. He’s a professional athlete, but he’s also just their dad. And he’s completely involved. It’s sweet.
“Got it,” I say. “Anything else?”
He thinks for a moment. “Luke won’t eat anything green unless you tell him it’s what sharks eat. And Lily—”
“Will negotiate for everything and win.”
“Every time.” He meets my eyes, his face suddenly open and unguarded, as if he forgot to keep the wall up.
For a brief moment, I see the version of him that nobody else gets—the one beneath the schedule, stoicism, and jaw clenching.
His eyes hold mine across the island, the kitchen is quiet, the monitor is just breathing, and I can feel my pulse in my fingertips.
His gaze drops to my mouth for a heartbeat, and I think—
“DADDY!”
A blur of pajamas comes tearing around the corner, and Lily crashes into Archer at full speed, arms outstretched, face-first into his thighs. He reacts quickly—goalie reflexes—bending to scoop her up a half-second before impact and swinging her into his arms as if she weighs nothing.
“Morning, Lil.”
“DADDY. Lily took—I mean—LUKE took my—” She’s breathless and furious, her hair a bird’s nest. “He won’t share the BOOK.”
“Which book?”
“The SHARK book. It’s MY turn.”
“It’s Luke’s book.”
“But I WANT it.”
Luke appears in the doorway behind her, holding the shark book calmly against his chest, watching his sister’s performance with zero concern.
“She can have it when I’m done,” he says, measured and reasonable. Three years old and already the most even-tempered person in this house.
Archer looks at me over Lily’s head. She’s got her arms around his neck, glaring at her brother with the intensity of a tiny litigator.
He’s standing there, his daughter on his hip, his son in the doorway, and me on the other side of the island, pretending my heart isn’t doing something I can’t afford to let it do.
“Welcome to the morning shift,” he says.
I pick up my coffee. “I’m going to go get dressed.”
He makes a sound that might be a laugh or a cough, and I walk out of the kitchen before my face gives me away.
In the guest room, I close the door and lean against it, pressing my hands over my eyes.
His eyes on my mouth. Twice. I didn’t imagine it. He looked at my mouth while I was talking about ballet parents and again just now, across the island, right before Lily came in like a tiny wrecking ball.
I’ve been in this house for less than twenty-four hours. I’m standing in the guest room of a man I’ve loved since I was a teenager, wearing no bra, thinking about his tattoo, his eyes, and the way he said, that’s pretty brave, actually, as if he were handing me something I didn’t know I needed.
My phone buzzes. It’s Lauren. I swear she has a sixth-sense.
Lauren: How’d you sleep?
Me: Fine.
Lauren: And?
Me: And nothing. Having coffee. Everything’s normal.
Lauren: Liar.
I put the phone down. She’s not wrong.