8. Archer
CHAPTER 8
Archer
My brother’s a meddlesome, conniving asshole, but I can’t deny his methods work. Where I couldn’t do much more but stare at Tinsley and step into her like a planet finding its sun, he’s able to push us together. Get us set off on a course that'll navigate us through the pendulum swings of past and present until we find our footing in the now. Because somehow, for as easy as it is to be around her again, it’s also infinitely harder than I ever thought possible. A rush of want and hurt, love and anger constantly crash down upon me and war with each other for which one wins out.
“Archer, you really don’t have to take me out,” she insists again but still accepts my hand to help her from the side by side we rode over in while Ryder held Briar’s attention with scheduling when Tinsley could come rehearse with Ellie. “I know you're busy with work. I just wanted to say thank you. Nothing else, no expectations.”
I don’t immediately let go of her hand as we begin walking. The urge to relearn the cartography of her is too strong. I want to know what’s new, what’s changed. Memorize every facet and sharpen the ones I can still recall like a picture in my mind.
Did the blisters she earned on her soft hands when she wore my denim shirt over her tank and tiny shorts like a damn cowgirl pinup while helping me muck the stalls fade into calluses?
Does the rough pad of my thumb along her pulse still make her heart kickstart?
Is it still intuitive for her to join us together the moment we touch?
But at the first shift of my hand over hers, she pulls away and murmurs an apology as if she were the one holding too long and not me.
Another time. Maybe when we get to the lake’s cove. She always did love it down there. Then again, I’m not so sure if now’s the time to show her. It might seem obsessive. At least that’s what Hunter told me it was back when I first went through with my plans the winter after she left.
“I’m really not. Tax season’s finally over, the cycle’s payroll is handled, and analyzing projections for the quarter will still be there when I get back.”
She smiles up at me, a familiar look in her whiskey eyes as she stares at me through my glasses. “Do you still love it? Numbers, I mean.”
They’re the first words she speaks inside the stables and whatever bashful answer in the affirmative of yes, I’m still a fucking nerd who can lose hours of his day crunching numbers and playing with the market I was going to give her is masked by Rowdy. The moment he hears her voice, his head is out of the stall and a chorus of excited whinnying begins.
Like the Arabian, Tinsley can’t contain herself. When she sees his head pop out, she’s off like a shot from a starter pistol, running down the length of my family’s private stable and calling his name to which he nickers back. Once there, she eagerly accepts his nudging head into a hug, her hand scratching behind his ears while she quietly coos to him.
When I catch up to them—the wicker basket she brought with her in my hand—I see she’s nuzzling him right back. Her head strokes up and down along the side of his muzzle, her eyes closed, and a tear rolls down her cheek.
“I’ve missed you, sweet boy… so much. I’m so sorry I left without saying goodbye… yeah, I know, it has been a long time… after a while I wasn’t sure I could come back, you know?”
“The only thing that stopped you from coming back was yourself.”
Her lips curl in for a fraction of a second, the only sign that what I said may have landed as harshly as I subconsciously meant for it to. Then as fast as the blip of hurt appeared, it’s gone, and I would give anything to take back what I said.
Not a single trace of the unguarded expressions and reactions she’s shown me this afternoon or from the other night remain; glimpses of her still being the girl I’ve loved all these years are gone. In its place is the L.A. artifice that’s consumed her—the pristine picture of a machine-made American sweetheart. As if the version of her that arrived at her label’s office so long ago wasn’t already a showing of perfection and more than worth the love and adoration her music has inspired.
“This was a mistake,” she decides, holding just a little tighter to Rowdy, readying herself to let go.
Shit, I’ve really screwed this up. My one shot for another chance with her and I’m already sending her running.
“No,” I insist. “It’s not. I’m just… stay,” I decide. “Please. We’d love to take you out.”
“We?”
“Rowdy I mean.”
Slowly she nods, “Right, Rowdy. Okay then, but my shoes?—”
“You worry about Rowdy; I’ll take care of you, Shortcake.”
And just like that, she’s come back to me. Her cheeks tinged with pink and her smile shy but genuine as it reflects through her eyes. Her hand absently tucking her hair behind her ear as it falls forward with her downward glance. My Tinsley Jacobs is still in there somewhere. The one that’s only ever been for me, and I hope that, with time, I can coax her back to the surface.
* * *
Apart from helping Tinsley into the saddle—something I’m not sure she needed but was always a habit so I found myself doing it and her accepting without protest or question—muscle memory takes over. In no time, she and Rowdy find their old synergy, first in walking, then a steady trot. And with a playful smile at me over her shoulder, backlit by a crown of the sun’s rays, they take off into a canter. The pure joy that emanates from her is infectious, her laughter drawing my own to the surface.
Beneath me, Gatsby itches to stretch his legs. His head moves from side to side and up and down as he vocally tries to urge me into giving him free rein. We’ve been taking it slow, matching the cautious pace Tinsley’s been using with Rowdy, remaining close and ready but far enough back to let them find their ebb and flow again. With them bolting ahead to crest the next grassy hill though, his patience has worn out. He may be retired, but once a racer, always a racer, and being left behind is not acceptable. I’m not even fully through the motion of swinging my hips forward to signal him of the coming change before he takes off, chasing after them.
Over the hill, we pause side by side for a moment as Tinsley’s eyes sweep across the rolling property. Her chest rises and freezes before the breath she holds slowly escapes, everything inside her releasing with it.
“God, I’ve missed this place,” she softly whispers, eyes closed and face turning to the sun as the breeze plays with her hair, the softest lilt of her accent emerging.
The moment floats around me, the details sharpening and cementing inside my mind settling down into one of thousands of perfectly preserved mental photographs. Like all the others of her, it’s a moment in time that I’ll forever recall with startling clarity. Everything from the smell of the fresh, willowy air to the soft song of nature and the gentle lilt of her hum is now permanently ingrained in my being. One more thread in the rope that holds me to her.
From here, we can go anywhere. It’s just a matter of what she wants—and if this time, she’ll let us have it.
“Where should we go?”
“Where else?” she teases, pulling Rowdy’s reins to the right and squeezing him with her thighs and heels. “The cove.”
She’s off once more before I can object, racing for a distant downward slope that will give way to a cove along Berry Lake’s shore.
It was our place. The one where we’d lay out on a blanket, her sweet thighs straddling mine as we kissed and touched the afternoon away. The place where, when a heatwave passed through, she stripped down and floated along the emerald surface naked, her secret safe with me and the rocky alcove that shielded her from the rest of the world. It’s where she would play so many of those songs now out in the world, testing strands on her guitar until a particular compilation of notes had her lighting up. That cove was where I knew for the first time I loved her beyond a shadow of a doubt and would either be blessed or cursed with only ever loving her for the rest of my life.
The best days of my life happened on that private stretch of lakeshore. So it was only fitting when I broke ground on my house that winter that I had them build it there. A lasting reminder of what was. A home for her ghost and a silent, unanswered prayer for it to resurrect her.
There’s no doubt in my mind that, if I wanted to, I could redirect her elsewhere and let what’s there remain my secret. But I don’t. I chase after her—following her like I always have, letting her lead my way—with my heart creeping further and further up my throat the closer we get.
Before I know it, we’re mirrors of one another, guiding the boys back down to a trot and then an easy walk. The curtain of Black Willows thickens and I’m off of Gatsby coming to help her down from Rowdy. With both sets of reins in my hand, I let Tinsley pass through the branches before me, knowing the first thing she’ll see when she does.
“Archer…” She turns back to look at me. “Is that… yours?”
Tying the horses off at the post I built out here when it became a daily trip for us, I quietly confirm her question.
“All this land and you built your house at the cove?”
“Where else would I have wanted to live?”
She looks back at the home’s profile, hand like a visor over her eyes to shield against the sun’s reflection off the windows and the lake’s undisturbed, gleaming surface.
There’s nothing overly grand about the house’s design. In fact, it’s quite modest with an already paid off mortgage. There’s three floors—two really since the third is a pitched loft that’s the master suite and only a fraction of the square footage of the other two floors—plus a basement, with a wall of windows on each that offers unobstructed views of the lake and the roll-topped mountains beyond. The two main floors have decks that stretch the length of the house, but only one of them has any furniture on it—a simple daybed swing on one end and two rocking chairs with a table where I drink my morning Dr. Pepper—the cold fizz of carbonation being the jolt I need when I’m up before the sun—in the middle. Halfway between the house and the shore, there's a fire pit I made out of stone with adirondacks surrounding it. And at the shoreline, a wooden dock stretches out to my boat. With it being just me except for one to two nights a month when I have Ellie or the entire family over, it’s all I need and all Tinsley had wanted when I first told her I was meeting with the architect.
“I’m gonna build us a house here.” My arms were around Tinsley, keeping her caged in against me while the soft ripple of the lake lapped against our feet at the edge of the shore. I laced my fingers overtop of hers and pointed up the sloped hill to a cropping of raggedy looking trees. “Right over there I think.”
“Is this the part where I pout about wantin’ a say in this house you’ve decided on for us?” she teased. I tickled her bare ribs, making my arms even tighter when she squirmed with her giggles.
“Yeah, Shortcake,” I murmured, kissing at the curve of her neck. “This is the part where you tell me exactly what you want in life and I give it to you.”
She shifted in my arms and her small hands pushed against my chest, sending me to lay back. Slowly, she crawled up to me until her thighs were bracketed over mine. Her hair fell forward over her shoulder and I pushed it back, not wanting to miss a single glance of those eyes that had seared my soul so thoroughly.
“You,” she hummed, leisurely kissing up my neck. “All I want is you, Archer. You and this place are my home.”
“Nothin’ else?”
In that sweet Kentucky drawl, she confirmed, “Nothin’. Nothin’ but you. All of you.”
I crunched up, my legs bending as well to support her. My hand combed through her hair, grasping at the nape of her neck as I stared into her eyes, wanting confirmation of what she just said. “What are you sayin’, baby?”
“That I’m ready,” she shyly answered. “If you are, I want to. Tonight.”
The kiss I gave her was firm and full of promises to love her until I die. A precursor to the vows I wanted to make before her, our family, and God.
“Tonight.”
Tinsley gives my house another look before coming over and taking the basket and blanket from me.
“Archer, it’s beautiful,” she compliments. “It fits in perfectly with everything that was already here, enhancing it all instead of taking away from it.”
I sit across from her, my hand brushing back and forth over the soft fibers of the plaid blanket as I squint against the sun to look out over the water.
“It’s not a historic, 100 year old Bel-Air mansion, but I like it just the same.”
She smirks at me while handing over a still warm fried green tomato BLT. “You saw that, did you? Tell me, Archer, what else have you kept up with?”
“It’s kinda hard not to,” I snort, waiting for her to settle in before beginning to eat. “You’re everywhere, Tins. I can’t remember the last time a day went by where I didn’t see your face or hear your voice on the radio.
“Besides, you’ve met Ellie. She worships you. I literally can’t escape you.”
I notice all she has in front of her are some cut up raw vegetables without ranch or any sort of dip. She doesn’t even have her strawberries with her. “Aren’t you gonna eat?”
“Can’t,” she answers after swallowing a bite of cucumber. “Between the frozen strawberry margaritas, shots of tequila, and bacon ranch cheese fries at Dark Horse the other night, I’ve blown my diet to pieces. That doesn’t even include the nightly bottle or two of sparkling wine I have with Briar, the pints of strawberry ice cream, or the frappés I’ve had every day. All the cardio and training in the world won’t do me a whole lot of good when the tour resumes if I’m eating unbalanced junk. Even if it’s really good junk,” she adds forlornly, popping a cherry tomato in her mouth.
I set the sandwich down and adjust my glasses. “You can’t be serious. You’re fuckin’ perfect. Why would you let anyone control what you can and can’t eat?”
“It’s my job, Archer. Between travel, hotel, and tickets, my fans pay a lot of money to see me perform. I have to be at my best every night for them, and that means a rigorous exercise regime and heavily moderated diet.”
“Even on vacation?”
“Especially while on vacation,” she stresses.
“That’s ridiculous.” I can’t help the derisive scoff that comes with my words because it is.
Her eyes are sharp daggers when they connect with mine. “It’s my job. I’m a performer. You wouldn’t be saying that if I was some football player or gold medalist. But no,” she drawls, rolling her eyes and giving me another peek of her absent accent. “I just prance around in sparkly dresses and sing silly little songs like a bubble headed doll. How hard could it possibly be?”
“Who the fuck said that to you?” I demand, though I already know. People all across the globe have said it.
But the way Tinsley is now—all defense and rigid anger—seems like it’s come from a lot closer of a source. It’s as if the words were spewed by someone whose voice had the power to reach her above all the other noise, and I want to toss my hat and beat their ass for slipping inside her mind like this. She’s talented and smart and oozes grace and kindness and is so stunning every glimpse of her, whether she’s on the red carpet or in one of my old denim shirts, steals my breath.
“Tell me, Tinsley. Who was it? Was it that fuckin’ asshole whose car you keyed?”
“Oh God,” she humorlessly laughs, head thrown back as she huffs. “Of course you saw that. Jesus… No, it wasn’t Corey. He just liked to call me a frigid bitch,” she dismisses, as if that’s somehow an acceptable thing to say to the woman you love.
“You have terrible taste in men, Shortcake.”
“Well, they can’t all be you, now can they, Superman? Then again…” She drifts off, her face suddenly a blank mask as she looks over her shoulder at the house I built here in our place. She shakes her head, and another chuckle lacking life and vibrancy falls out. “You know what? Nevermind.”
She stands up, brushing her hands off on her jeans, and then it’s there, the artifice I’m growing to hate the more she shows it to me as if I can’t see through it. As if I wasn’t once the person who knew her as well as she knew herself.
“Thank you, Archer. It was incredible to be able to ride again. I’ve missed it so much.”
“Tinsley, wait!” I yell, scrambling to stand up and close the gap as she all but runs to where Rowdy is tethered. “Baby, talk to me, please.”
Everything I say falls on deaf ears.
“Don’t call me that!” She whirls, reins in hand and points at me. “You lost the privilege ten years ago, Archer. I’m not your baby or your Shortcake. I’m not your goddamn anythin’ anymore.” Swinging onto Rowdy, she calls out, “I’ll be sure to hand him off to Miss Lucy when I get back,” before taking off through the trees, readying for an all out gallop back to the stables.
Hands on my head, I tug at my hat as I turn around and yell out at the lake, kicking the sandy ground for good measure.
How did something so perfect get so goddamn fucked up?