Chapter Three
Beth
Archer has fallen quiet beside me. I finish off my wine because I want something to do, and also because I feel as if I’m in the middle of a heart bypass, and the surgeon is cracking open my chest, and I desperately need more anesthetic. I don’t want to feel the pain. I need to numb it.
I have a thing about perfume and cologne, and I’m always asking people what they’re wearing.
Jude wears Dior’s Sauvage Elixir, which is spicy and exotic, sometimes a little too intense for me.
Archer told me that he wears Acqua di Parma Colonia.
I looked it up. It’s an Italian classic, understated, with a fresh citrus smell.
It’s said to be elegant and timeless, and it was worn by Cary Grant. What a shock.
“I want another glass,” I mumble. “Can you get Tyr’s attention?”
Archer purses his lips. “I’m not sure that’s a good idea.”
“Why?”
“Because I’m not sure I can carry you all the way to your house.”
I bump his shoulder with mine. “You’re the strongest guy I know. You could throw me over your shoulder and carry me all the way to Invercargill.”
His lips curve up. “Probably. I’m sure you weigh hardly anything.”
I draw a finger through the drops of condensation on the bar.
I didn’t tell him where I was because I wanted him to come and find me.
Or did I? Maybe I should start being honest with myself.
I could have phoned Isla, or Kim, or any of my other friends, and they would all have dropped whatever they were doing to come and pick me up.
But I didn’t. I sat here on my own because I knew that Archer would eventually discover what had happened. And I knew he’d find me.
It’s not romantic. It’s soul affirming. He’s a good friend, and he always makes me feel better. Jude has been like a tornado whirling through my life—fast, furious, and exciting, whipping me up until I’m spinning with him, until he eventually moves on, leaving me exhausted and burnt out.
Archer is like a warm March afternoon in the Northland.
The kind of day that’s a comfortable temperature, while still carrying the beauty of summer in the air.
He’s the background music of a waterfall, the scent of a forest, the glimpse of an animal in the undergrowth.
Not a fox, like Jude, careful, cunning, and defensive.
Archer is steady, patient, and loyal; a guy who stands his ground.
But he’s not a Labrador. The glint in his eye when he looks at me holds a glimpse of danger. He’s more like a wolf.
Hmm. I think maybe the wine’s going to my head. We don’t have wolves in New Zealand.
Tyr glances our way. I raise my hand, and he walks down the bar toward us.
“What can I get you?” he asks.
“Another glass of the Sav, please.”
He looks at Archer. “And you?”
I wait for Archer to argue, but to my surprise he finishes off his whiskey, then pushes the glass across. “Another JD please.”
Tyr nods, picks up the glasses, and goes off to pour our drinks.
I glance at Archer. “You’re not going to tell me off for trying to get drunk?”
“You pointed out to me that you’re a big girl now. If you want to get drunk, you can get drunk. I’m just making it clear that I’m not going to let you do it on your own.”
It’s such a lovely thing to say, and it’s exactly what I needed to hear.
“Thank you.” My vision mists over.
He meets my eyes for a moment, then drags his gaze away as Tyr returns with our glasses. Archer pushes my phone away as I try to pay and touches his own to the machine, and Tyr nods and retreats.
Archer holds his whiskey glass toward me, I clink my wine glass against it, and we both take a sip before he leans on the bar beside me, his arm a fraction from mine.
I study the light-gold liquid in my glass, my thoughts meandering.
If I’m honest with myself—and I need to be, I think—things haven’t been right between Jude and me for a while.
He’s so prickly and irritable that I know I started to withdraw from him some time ago.
I could feel it. And in return, he cooled toward me.
Our argument today was not a one-off, and it didn’t come out of the blue.
I miss the connection we had, or that I thought we had.
He was never the kind of guy to spend Sundays in bed curled up around one another.
Jude has battery acid for blood. His energy levels are either a hundred percent, or he’s asleep.
When he’s awake, he’s moving, and he doesn’t stop until he crashes out at night.
Sex—when it happened—was passionate, but always fast and furious.
He’s not a cuddler. He has no idea how to comfort me.
And I don’t think he understands that touch is my love language.
Mind you, Archer rarely touches me, either.
I have lots of friends, both at the Ark and outside it.
I used to think it was because I’m Māori and we’re openly affectionate with family, but I’m sure that in New Zealand most people are more touchy feely than elsewhere.
Women kiss on the cheek or hug. Men bearhug each other or do the ‘clasp the right hand and shoulder bump’ thing.
And with the opposite sex, Māori often do the traditional hongi when they meet, pressing noses and foreheads together, while everyone else hugs.
Archer hugged me just now, but it felt awkward how he angled his body away from me.
Other than the occasional hug when it would seem odd if we didn’t, and the moment just now where he comforted me, he always keeps his distance.
I’d say it was because he was one of those people who recoils from touching, but I’ve seen him greet friends and family with hugs and kisses.
So maybe he just doesn’t want to touch me.
As an experiment, I reach for my glass, take a sip, and then when I place it down, I rest my arm on the bar a fraction to the right. We’re both wearing T-shirts, so our arms are mostly bare.
Out of the corner of my eye, I see his gaze drop to the point where we’re touching and study it for a moment.
He reaches for his glass and has a mouthful of the whiskey. When he puts the glass back down and leans on the bar again, he leaves a slight gap between our arms.
The rejection stings. I just want comfort. Am I so abhorrent?
I want to ask him why he won’t touch me, but I’m not brave enough.
“What do you mean, you compromise more than Jude does?” he asks.
I shrug, irritated that he moved away and tired of trying to figure men out. “I don’t know. I feel as if he’s a… a plastic mold, and I’m a piece of plasticine. I have to reshape myself when I’m with him to make sure we fit together. But he just stays the same. Does that make sense?”
“Yeah, it does.”
“I know I seem upset… I am upset… we’ve been together a long time, and he was my first long-term relationship.
But I think I’m more frustrated that it’s taken so long to come to this conclusion.
Of course he doesn’t want kids. Why didn’t I raise the subject before?
And why didn’t I realize from what he said and the way he reacted when I spoke about Kim? I’ve been so blind.”
“I think you’ve been hopeful, that’s all. Lots of young guys say they can’t stand babies and don’t want children, but most of them come around when they get older. And Jude might, too.”
I shake my head. “I know he won’t. And I don’t want to have to haul my partner kicking and screaming to the nursery, you know? If I do have fertility issues, I don’t want him falling at the first hurdle.”
He just sighs.
“You’re never told this during sex ed classes at school,” I grumble.
“It’s always ‘you can get pregnant the first time you have sex’ and ‘you’re never safe,’ as if it’s going to happen at the drop of a hat.
They don’t tell you that you can drop every single hat you own and it still might not happen. ”
He tries to hide a laugh, and fails.
I glare at him. “Are you making fun of me?”
“I wouldn’t dream of it.” He smiles. “You’re cute when you’re tipsy.”
“I’m not cute when I’m not tipsy?”
He just gives me a wry look and has a mouthful of whiskey.
I drink my wine and sulk.
Then I heave a sigh. “I can’t believe he broke up with me on Valentine’s Day.”
“Yeah, that was rough. I am sorry about that.”
“He gave me a necklace this morning. Said he loved me.” I say it sadly.
“He does love you, Beth.”
“I don’t think he does.”
“Of course he does. There are just a few issues that need ironing out.”
“I’d rather hit him with the ironing board.”
This time he laughs openly. “I can’t imagine anyone less likely to commit violence.”
“Are you saying I’m a wuss?”
“No…”
“A walkover?”
“Stop being contrary and take the compliment. I’m saying you’re the nicest person I know, gentle and kind.”
“I’d rather be a sexy seductress.”
“You can’t be both?”
“I don’t know, can I?” I know I’m openly flirting now. I want someone to obliterate the pain of Jude’s rejection. To tell me I’m attractive, and that I haven’t just thrown away my only chance of happiness.
But Archer neatly sidesteps and says, “Drink your wine.”
The glass is still half full but, feeling rebellious, I drink it in one go and hold it out to him. “I want another.”
“This isn’t the answer,” he says firmly.
“You said if I wanted to get drunk, I could get drunk.”
“Not here, in public. You’ll fall off your barstool and crack your head open, and they’ll have to call an ambulance and carry you through the crowd, and then tomorrow you’ll hate me for letting it happen.”
“I’d never hate you,” I scoff, jabbing him with my elbow.
“Ow. Even so. I think you should go home.”
“I’m not going home.” I say it flatly. “I don’t want to see him.”
He frowns. “You’re just tired and emotional. You’ll feel better tomorrow.”
“Stop telling me how I feel. And stop trying to make it better. This isn’t just a freak argument. I’m bitterly unhappy. Can’t you tell the difference?”