12. Tinsley
CHAPTER 12
Tinsley
“What do you think?” I ask, coming out of the bathroom, my arms open to the side as I slowly turn, showing off my pink dress.
Briar gets up from the bed and grabs my hands when I make a full circle. “Perfect. Very sweet, very sexy, 100 percent irresistible.”
I can’t help the wide smile that stretches across my face or the squeal that comes with it. I take a quick breath to try and quell my excitement but it bubbles right back up, making Briar laugh as I jump and shimmy like I’m a teenage girl again going on her first date.
“I’ve never seen you like this!”
“Archer makes me happy,” I shrug, spinning and hopping from one foot to the other on my way to the edge of the bed. I sit down on the plush comforter and reach for the shoe organizer under the bed. Holding up a brown boot and a white one and putting the white one back when Briar points to the other, I tug them on and repeat, “He makes me so incredibly happy, Briar.”
“I can see that,” she smiles. “You’re practically glowing just talking about him.” She sits down beside me and rests her head on my shoulder. “It makes me happy for you, Tins. I just wish you two hadn’t lost out on so much time.”
It was as I thought when I confronted Hunter. There’s anger there about what was done—more for what he put his twin brother through than for me—but I’m making peace with it. Archer and I have found our way back to one another and in the end, that’s all I care about.
Putting my head on hers, then lifting it back up so we switch to an order better suited for our height difference, I assure her, “We’re better off for the time apart.”
She’s quiet for a moment, then says, “I wish I had gotten to see you punch him.”
I bark out a laugh and tell her, “His wheezing was a thing of beauty. You’d have loved it.”
“Of that I have no doubt.” She lifts her head up and studies me for a moment then snaps her fingers. Laying back on my bed, Briar stretches her arm out to the nightstand and with the tip of her fingers pops Archer’s hat off the lamp I’ve kept it on. She sits back up and plops it on my head, fussing with the ends of my hair until it passes her inspection. “Now, you’re perfect.”
The doorbell rings and she glances at the clock. “Damn, he’s punctual. It is exactly six o’clock. I’m gonna head out there and make sure Doom and Gloom aren’t reading him the riot act. Take your time.”
After she leaves, I get up from the bed and stand in front of the mirror that hangs above the dresser. I lift my left arm and turn to the side, checking that my tattoo is covered. When there isn’t a peek or even a shadow of ink through my pink dress no matter how I move, I’m satisfied but still nervous.
I trail my fingers along the outer swell of my breast. Briar and Skylar joke about it being my talisman but they’re right. Not so much for luck but in keeping me soothed and grounded. Like my music, it’s one of the pieces of Archer that I carry with me. The ones closest to my heart, that I know I’ll never forget. A reminder of what was and now, what could possibly be again.
A measured exhale leaves me and I hit the switch to turn off the lights. I’m as ready as I’ll ever be.
Where the hall opens to the living room, I stop and stare for a moment, my breath caught in my chest as I look at Archer. A basic t-shirt, jeans, and boots have no right to be so devastating. But the way his shirt stretches across his broad shoulders and molds with the taut lines of his back has my mouth turning parched. How well the muscles of his thighs and butt are shown in his jeans doesn’t help. The boots and the hat… I’m a sucker for a country boy—for this country boy.
My time appreciating him only lasts for a second or two. As if he’s aware of my presence at his back, he turns around and softly compliments, “You look stunning,” making my knees weak with his black framed glasses on.
I step right up to him, and when I tilt my head back to meet his gaze, he reaches behind me and taps on the brim of the hat, making the front lift up. His fingers drift into my hair and he murmurs, “Hi, Shortcake.”
“Hey, Superman.”
“Are you ready? Or do you need a minute?”
“I’ve had more than enough minutes. I don’t need or want anymore.”
He bends down in a way that has his hat blocking us from view. In the small space between us, he replies with a natural candor, “Then give me all your minutes, baby,” kissing me in place of punctuation.
It’s over too soon and it’s my turn to whimper, though mine is born from feeling bereft at the loss of him. He merely smiles at me and taps the brim of my— his— hat back down, commenting, “Told you it looks better on you.”
The fingers in my hair finally fall free and reach down to lace with mine. I let him guide me to the door, telling Mikey, John, and Briar, “We’ll be?—”
“At the ranch,” Archer supplies, opening my front door and pulling me ahead of him to walk out first.
John laughs, “Cute, Miss Jacobs, but you know we’re going with you.”
“You most certainly are not,” I scoff, beginning to laugh until I realize he and Mikey are dead serious. “No, absolutely not. Y’all aren’t comin’ anywhere near where we’ll be.”
“Miss Jacobs,” Mikey starts but I cut him off.
“No. Y’all were here for the party, that was it. I’m still on vacation and that means no bodyguards. ”
“We’re—”
“No!” I loudly repeat. “No, no, no !”
I stare them both down until John’s shoulders slump a fraction and he mutters, “Fine, but take this,” tossing me his cell phone, which I fumble in my haste to catch, barely managing to recover it before it hits the ground.
I don’t have a purse so I just hold onto it tightly and say, “Thank you.”
“Use it to check in with us,” he stresses.
“I will.”
“Good.”
Not entirely satisfied, Mikey gets close to Archer and threatens, “If anything happens to her, they will never find your body. Do you hear me?”
“Yes, Sir,” he nods. “But we’re gonna have to talk about this whole ‘her not having a license or a phone of her own thing.’ I don’t like it and it’s gettin’ fixed.”
That seems to be the magic phrase for the duo because they both nod and step out of our way, reminding me, “You know the schedule; check in.”
“I will,” I quickly assure, all but running to Archer’s pickup, ready to escape before they change their minds and follow us.
Opening up the door and helping me in, Archer says, “I’ve missed you, but I’m happy you haven’t been alone. You bein’ by yourself in that condo at the resort used to keep me up at night worried somethin’ would happen to ya.”
I pull my hair out of the seatbelt as he reaches across to buckle me in and murmur, “I’m so sorry you got hurt,” swiping at a tear that unexpectedly falls from my eye.
He catches another with his thumb, gently caressing my cheek. He places a lingering kiss on my forehead and whispers, “No tears, baby. We’re here now; that’s all that matters.”
Grabbing his hand when he starts to retreat, I plead, “Fight for me, Superman. Fight for me. Chase me. Don’t ever let me go. No matter what anyone tells you, never let me go. Promise me you will and I’ll do the same.”
Archer’s brow pinches and I can see it in his eyes, he’s trying to figure out where the puzzle piece I accidentally dropped goes. Cupping his face to halt his train of thought, I kiss him as desperately as my words, taking my own turn to whimper as the emotion rushes out of me.
When we pull apart, he vows, “In ten years, I never once let go of you, Shortcake, and I never will,” sealing it with a much softer kiss before closing my door.
* * *
I sniffle against Archer’s chest as the green light fades out and the movie’s credits begin to roll. “I remember when you read me The Great Gatsby in bed that one night. You said it was your favorite book, one of the most romantic you’ve ever read.”
“And you called me crazy,” he laughs. “Told me it was heartbreaking and devastating because he did all he could to reunite with Daisy only for her to abandon him—for everyone but Nick to abandon him.”
“But you said that’s what made it romantic. That he loved one woman for his entire life. Devoted himself to her and the hope that they would one day be together again. That even after she leaves him, he still—” I hiccup, tears beginning to pour down my face.
“He still hopes and waits for her,” he murmurs, cupping my face and kissing my tears away. “His love never wavered. Even when she was with someone else, he loved her because she was it for him. It was always and only ever her.”
“I’m so sorry,” I cry, crawling into his lap. “I’m so sorry.”
His shirt is wet with my tears but he holds me close, letting me cry.
“There’s never been anyone but you, Tinsley,” he murmurs, combing his fingers through my hair. “It has always been you and it will always be you. No one else exists for me but you.” Gently tugging on my hair, he coaxes me out from the crook of his neck and says, “Dance with me,” leaving me no choice but to follow.
Archer helps me down from the truck where he had an air mattress covering the bed and walls of pillows lining the sides and back for the movie we watched after eating dinner while the sun set. He opens the driver side door and turns on his headlights, illuminating the field we’re in. A moment later, the haunting keys of a piano come from the truck’s speaker and he guides me in front of the lights, slowly spinning me in their shine before pulling me close.
We sway in a circle through the first verse of the song from the movie and he dips me back as the music grows and moves into the chorus. When it hits, he takes me in frame and sweeps me through the steps of a waltz. We repeat our steps through the bridge and when the chorus comes again, he twirls me out. As I come back in, he sweeps me up in his arms, my dress floating on the wind as he spins in a circle, my arms around his neck as I stare into his eyes.
The love I see reflecting back at me steals my breath, and I wonder how I’ve lived all these years without seeing it every day.
I never want to spend another minute without it. Without him.
When my feet come back to the ground, I tell him, “I want to show you something. Can I see your phone?”
He grabs it from the car, the music fading out before leaving us in the early summer night silence. I’m already rubbing at my tattoo when he hands it to me and he asks, “Are you cold?” nodding at how my arms are almost hugging myself.
I quickly drop my arms. “No, just a little nervous is all. No one knows about this outside of myself, Briar and Skylar, Mikey and John, and you—sort of since you were there when it started.”
I don’t bother to scroll through his music, instead searching specifically for my first album. When it comes up, I show it to him and ask, “Do you still have perfect recall?”
“For better or worse,” he confirms, coming behind me as we sit in the grass.
His legs bend along mine and his arms wrap around me, chin coming to rest on my shoulder, ready to listen intently to what I have to tell him.
“Before Summer Haze, all of my albums’ overarching motifs were crafted around a song I wrote when I was with you. They’re all my lead singles and the titles of my albums.
“‘As You Are,’ was my first. I fought my label tooth and nail for this to be the release that launched my career. It’s how Briar went from being their intern to my manager. She’d come into the office in the middle of label execs and my manager fighting with me over it. I’d asked what she thought of the two choices, playing both for her since she was a part of what would become my demographic.
“She says she fell in love with ‘As You Are,’ before the first verse even finished. And there in that conference room, she not only agreed with me that it was the better choice but scolded my manager for not having my back regardless of which song was better. The label fired her for not knowing her place, and I fired my manager for not putting my best interest first and offered her the job then and there.
“Three weeks later, it debuted on the radio and eventually went number one.”
I don’t play the song. Archer knows it. He was there when I wrote it down by the lake.
I pull up the next album and explain, “When it was time to release the first single off my second album, they put up less of a fight. When ‘Reckless,’ debuted, it took half the time of ‘As You Are,’ to hit number one.
“After that, I deviated and didn’t put a song from that summer on my third album. Instead, I put one of the songs I wrote while on tour with Landon Rhodes, ‘Cry Later,’ and again, it went number one.”
What I don’t tell him is that I wrote it after having come back here. I cried until my eyes ran dry that day. Then I did what most girls do when their heart is broken and make themselves over. Only instead of cutting my hair, I let my label craft me into a pop icon and buried myself so far down it took nine years for a flicker of my true self to reemerge. “Cry Later,” reflects the metamorphosis I underwent so I didn’t crumble under the loss of Archer.
“The same thing happened with ‘Have Me Now,’ though people were shocked I released something so overtly sexual.
“Then there was?—”
“‘Ever After Was Once Upon a Time’ and then, ‘Reasons I Could Stay…’” he finishes, drifting off into silence.
His fingers play in my hair but when they stop after a moment, I know he’s put it together. Still, I tell him, “7-8-7-3-7-6-2-6,” the passcode to the gate at the lake house that, despite what I said, I never changed. Untying my dress, I spell, “S-U-P-E-R-M-A-N,” letting the front fall down. I raise my left arm and turn towards the headlights so he can see my tattoo without shadows.
Archer’s fingers reach out to touch me, but they stop and hover. His voice is hardly more than a broken whisper when he asks, “Can I—can I touch it?”
I nod my head, quietly telling him yes, then hold my breath while I wait, my heart thundering in my chest.
A short huff and a whimper leave me when his fingers lightly caress over the feathered arrow that follows the curve of my breast. In the center of the shaft is his name—or if anyone outside my circle ever saw it, the acronym that makes up the name of my first six albums.
“Somewhere along the way, I became Gatsby,” I tell him. “Like his parties, a part of me hoped that you’d hear my songs and know I was still in love with you. That I took what pieces of you I had left with me everywhere I went. Like him, I hoped they’d reach you and call you home to me.”
His fingers don’t leave my body, continuing to trace the details as he asks, “What about Landon and the guy whose car you keyed and everyone else.”
I place my hand over Archer’s, letting him know he doesn’t have to stop, and turn back to him.
“Landon was only ever a friend. We were placed on tour together with the hope that his fan base would become mine. Because we were on tour, we were always together, and that proximity bred a friendship. But that’s all it ever was. Briar was my first friend in L.A., but he was my first celebrity friend. He showed me the ropes. Told me who to trust, who not. What to look out for with the paparazzi and the fans. And he shielded me from the predators in the industry. He’s a really good guy but we were never together. I was in love with you and unwilling to move on and he was—is, they’re still together—in love with his boyfriend.
“As for Corey and everyone else, it’s all publicity. Arrangements with other singers or members of bands and actors and a few athletes to boost their celebrity or promote their upcoming release. Mutually beneficial combined star power with very strict rules in place that none of them were to ever kiss me more than on the cheek, never let their hands drift from the safety zone of the middle of my back, and a firm line drawn in the sand that what we did was only for cameras. At the end of the evening or event or whatever, I would go back to my home or hotel room and they would go to theirs.
“All these years, the guys I’ve been with have all been fine with it. Corey was the only one who took issue. I guess he thought once we were together I wouldn’t be able to resist him—” I scoff and roll my eyes—“and when I not only continued to rebuff his attempts at making things ‘real,’ but dumped him, well, you saw the video of the live stream. He called me a backwoods bitch and I keyed his car until the metal screamed.”
Archer’s fingers leave my tattoo and trail down my body stopping at my hips. His palms caress from front to back several times before he grasps me and yanks me forward and up into his lap. Then bringing his hands up, he brushes strands of hair back from my face before cupping my cheeks and holding my gaze.
“Spell it out for me, Tinsley. I need you to tell me exactly what you’re saying with this,” he pleads.
Kissing first his right palm, then his left, I unfasten his watch so it slips down his wrist, revealing his double strawberry tattoo and kiss that as well.
“I’m saying, the only man I have ever loved is you, Archer. Everything has always been yours, no one else’s. You aren’t just my first; you’re my only.”
He pulls me even closer—a hand at my lower back and the other braided through the hair at the nape of my neck—and crashes his lips to mine. His kiss is fevered and frenzied, his tongue finding mine within seconds of us coming together.
We’re not gentle or soft. We don’t take our time and build a fire. We set an inferno, claiming and seizing ownership of the things we never really lost. Let it blaze unchecked, burning ten years of longing and regret to make way for something new to grow, for arrows to be fired into the sunrise and arc across the sky like morning wishing stars.
Abruptly, Archer pulls back. He’s panting, but he can’t resist kissing me in between each word he speaks. “In case it wasn’t clear earlier, I’ve never been with anyone else, I’ve never loved anyone but you. I’ve always been yours, Tinsley, and there hasn’t been a single day where I haven’t been in love with you.”
Slamming my lips back on his, I say, “I love you too. Now please bring me home and remind me how well we’ve always fit together.”