Chapter 6
ARCHIE
Ididn’t think of myself as particularly brave.
That’s something people liked to say when you survived something quietly.
But surviving isn’t the same as being unafraid.
It just meant I learned which parts of myself weren’t allowed to move.
My mother taught me that.
Not on purpose.
She would hate the idea that she passed anything broken on to me. But when Abel disappeared, fear moved into our house and never left, and I learned early that loving someone doesn’t mean you can save them.
You can’t love someone’s trauma away.
You can only love them with it—on good days, bad days, and the long nothing days in between.
I got really good at that.
I learned how to be calm when she wasn’t. How to shrink my needs down to something manageable. How to exist in ways that didn’t ask her to follow me out into the world.
I loved my mother… but loving her always felt too much like pretending I wasn’t hurt. Like pretending nothing was missing. Like agreeing, over and over again, that the house was safer than everything outside it.
It was safer for her.
For me, it felt like standing in a room where the air never moved.
Like if I stayed too long, I’d forget what breathing felt like anywhere else.
That was why I struggled to visit. Every time I went home, I felt myself reverting into the version of me who learned how to survive someone else’s fear instead of his own grief.
My childhood home was my prison, and none of the trauma courses I’d taken so far could tell me how to deal with how fucked up I felt each time I visited.
Mom’s house was yellow in an aggressively optimistic way, with white trim and a porch that looked like it belonged in a stock photo labeled Safe Suburb, Spring.
There were bikes leaned against mailboxes up and down the street, chalk still smudged into the sidewalk from some kid’s abandoned hopscotch grid.
It should’ve been safe.
The driveway was still narrow and cracked down the middle. Abel and I used to sit right there, backs against the garage door, feet on the warm concrete, blasting each other with neon water guns until my mom yelled from the porch about slipping.
Otto Keller still lived across the street.
He was one of the detectives assigned to Abel's case. For a while, it was him who came over to give my mom updates.
Before everything fell apart, he used to wander over sometimes while we played, coffee mug in one hand, squinting at the water guns like he was investigating a crime scene. “Reckless use of high-pressure weaponry,” he’d say, crouching down to inspect the puddles.
Even after he retired, Otto never really stopped checking on us. Sometimes it was practical things—fixing the porch light, shoveling the walkway. Sometimes it was just standing on the porch talking to mom longer than necessary.
I used to think he might be in love with her.
Not in a dramatic way. Just… the quiet kind of love that waits around and hopes the other person eventually looks up.
My mom never noticed. Or maybe she did and didn’t know what to do with it. Grief rearranged her world into something smaller, and Otto patiently waited outside the borders of it.
Poor guy was still waiting.
I sat in my car for a second longer than necessary, fingers flexing against the steering wheel before I finally killed the engine and dropped my keys in the cupholder.
Peeling my hands off the wheel, I shoved the car door open and stepped out. Beads of sweat already lined the back of my neck as I moved up the walk.
The front door swung open.
Of course.
Mom didn’t do surprises, so I scheduled my life in a way that never gave her any. I texted when I left campus. She replied with a thumbs-up emoji, which meant she’d been watching the street since noon.
“Archie.” The skin around her eyes tightened as she looked me up and down. The moment I was within arms reach, she cupped my face and pressed her thumbs into my cheeks.
“You look tired,” she said.
“I’m a grad student, Mom. Exhaustion is a requirement.”
She exhaled through her nose. Short, dark hair skimmed her forehead with the movement. Rhys said she had perfect bone structure for a pixie cut.
I never thought about that when I looked at her.
I noticed her cheeks, and the way they didn’t lift quite as high as they used to. The absence of her dimples and how she never smiled wide enough to display them.
Not anymore.
Taking a step backward, she left one hand on the doorframe and gave me just enough space to slip inside the house.
It smelled like plants and warm air and the herbal tea she drank religiously—something green and vaguely medicinal that tasted the way a dentist's office smelled. If Abel or I even thought we might be getting sick, she’d pour that shit down our throats.
Mom locked the door behind me, and I felt the familiar pinch in my chest.
Not fear exactly, but something older. Something that remembered being stuck.
Breathe, Archie.
She can’t keep you here anymore.
She used to be an elementary school teacher—the kind with laminated lesson plans and infinite patience. Now she tutored online from the spare bedroom, headset always charged, and digital worksheets pulled up in tidy little folders.
God.
It made me sad for her.
She moved into the kitchen, toward the stovetop and kettle. “How’s Rhys?”
“Mom.” I laughed into a smile, nearly rolling my eyes. “We both know he texts you updates about my well-being.”
“I ask about his well-being too, Archibald. I’m a mother, not a stalker.” Her nose wrinkled as she reached for two teacups. “I love that boy, but I can’t always keep up with him. He talked my ear off last week about synergy.”
I barked a laugh, leaning against the counter. She was calmer during our visits. My presence was stabilizing, and I learned at too early an age that being reliable was a form of love.
Mom loved me. Of course she did.
She just felt the world a lot more than most people.
“I’m glad you’re home.”
“Me too,” I whispered, and it was true.
It just didn’t mean that I would stay.
I climbed onto the stool at the counter. My knees bumped the cabinet when I sat, and I placed my hands flat against the laminate, waiting.
The kettle clicked off.
Mom poured the water slowly, careful not to splash. Steam curled up between us, fogging my glasses for a second before I nudged them up with my knuckle.
She slid a mug toward me, the same chipped one I always used, green glaze worn thin at the rim. The tea bag string dangled over the side, and she waited until I wrapped my hands around it before turning back to her own.
The window over the counter was open just a crack, letting in the sound of kids yelling somewhere down the block and the faint whir of a lawn mower.
Mom relaxed against the counter across from me, adjusting the cuffs of her sleeves before wrapping both hands around her mug. Her wedding ring caught the light when she lifted the cup. She’d never taken it off.
Not after Dad died.
Not after Abel disappeared.
It was as constant as the rest of the house.
I blew across the surface of the tea, then took a careful sip. It was a breath away from being too hot, but I liked the way the heat slid down my throat and settled in my chest.
“So,” she said, clearing her throat. “Rhys told me about your new job.”
Hell.
I shifted on the stool, one foot hooking around the rung to steady myself. “It’s just an assistantship, Mom, and I told you I was hired.”
“Mhm.” She tilted her head, watching me over the rim of her mug. “But you didn’t tell me your professor was handsome.”
The tea went down wrong.
I coughed hard, jerking forward as my hand flew to my mouth. Heat burned up my throat, eyes watering as I fought to get my breathing back under control. The mug rattled when I set it down, sloshing dangerously close to the edge.
Mom reached for a napkin and slid it across the counter without comment, lips pressed together like she was holding something back.
I wiped my mouth, mortified. “Mom.”
She raised an eyebrow in a way that made me feel about fourteen years old. “What?”
“That’s—” I coughed again. “That’s not relevant.”
She took a sip of her tea, eyes never leaving my face. “It sounded relevant the way Rhys told it.”
“He’s my boss.”
“And handsome.”
I groaned, scrubbing a hand over my face. “Please don’t do this.”
She smiled then—not too wide, but enough to soften her features. One dimple tried to show, but didn’t quite make it. “I’m teasing. Mostly.”
Mostly.
I adjusted my grip on the mug, thumb tracing the chipped rim, then forced my shoulders to loosen. My body had gone alert without my permission, muscles braced because this was something I needed to manage carefully.
“It’s a good opportunity. The work is… intense. But interesting.”
She nodded, fingers fidgeting with the string of her tea bag. “You’ve always liked work that makes you think.”
I shrugged and took another sip.
Across the counter, she continued to watch me like she was memorizing me in case something changed when she wasn’t looking.
“So, are you seeing anyone?”
I froze with the mug halfway to my mouth. “No.”
“You’re twenty-four, Archie. You’re allowed to have a love life.”
“I’m aware.”
“And,” she added, casually, “you’re only his assistant until the end of the semester.”
For shit’s sake.
“Did Rhys put you up to this?” I demanded.
Her mouth twitched. “He didn’t have to.”
I sighed, tipping my head back for a second and closing my eyes.
Grant me patience.
She watched me in a way that made it impossible to deflect without feeling like an asshole.
“I just want you to be happy.”
“By dating my professor?”
She winced a little. Not at the word dating—but at the implication. At the danger she heard tucked inside it.
“I’m not encouraging anything reckless.”
“I’m not reckless, Mom.”
I’d never allowed myself to be.
Her eyes moved over my face like she was checking for a fever. “You get quiet when something matters.”
Henry crowded my thoughts immediately.
I think I… missed him, which was fucking absurd. It had been hours, not weeks.
Didn’t stop my brain from pulling him back in anyway.
The slope of his shoulders when he took off his jacket. The way his collar gaped when he leaned over his desk, just enough to expose his pulse. The faint, unmistakable scars against his skin, starting on his hand and creeping up his wrist.
I wanted to trace them. Slowly. Just enough to see what he’d do.
The thought made my pulse kick.
“Archibald.”
I blinked, pulling back into my body. Clearing my throat, I pushed my glasses higher on my nose just to buy myself a second.
“What?”
Mom tilted her head. “You’re blushing.”
Fuck.
“I am not.”
A beat of silence passed between us, and then she nodded like she was willing to accept the lie for now.
“All right. Tell me more about the job.”
“It’s research-based. I read a lot, mostly transcripts. I organize notes and help prep interviews.”
“Sounds like a lot of work.” She hummed. “Are you sleeping eight hours and remembering to eat?”
“Yep.”
“Archibald.” She pinned me with a look that said, ‘I’ve been your mother for twenty-four years; don’t try to lie to me.’
“Mostly,” I amended, and she laughed into her mug.
“Were you going to tell me the handsome professor you’re working under is Henry Rothwell?”
My shoulders went rigid before I could stop them.
The thought of Henry—of being under him in any context—did something dangerous to my focus.
“I didn’t think it mattered.”
Mom’s brows drew together, just enough to signal she didn’t buy what I was selling.
“You didn’t think it mattered…”
“It’s just a job,” I said, a little too quickly. “Who I’m doing it for doesn’t change the work.”
It changes… something. Just not anything I’m ready to say out loud.
“Or… you didn’t think I needed to worry.”
My grip tightened on the edge of the counter. “I didn’t want it to be a thing. He’s… public. Everyone already has an opinion. I didn’t see the point in adding another.”
“When you decide something ‘doesn’t matter,’ it usually means it matters more than you’re ready to name.”
I didn’t trust myself to answer.
“Archibald.” She breathed, like she was choosing her words. “I know who Henry Rothwell is.”
I winced.
“The whole country knows who he is.” She took a step toward me. “Did you think I didn’t know you had his novel hidden beneath your pillow?”
Damn.
“That was years ago.”
“And you’ve been circling the same questions ever since.”
“I didn’t tell you because the minute I did, it would turn into something bigger than I can control.
You would hear his name and start worrying.
Not because of his past but because of what he studies and the way it fascinates me.
And then suddenly it’s not just a job anymore.
It’s a story. A risk. A version of me you think you have to protect. ”
Shit.
I pulled at my shirt like it would give my lungs more room.
“I wanted to just… do the work and be good at it. I wanted to prove I earned the position without his name making it feel loaded.”
“I know what you study, Archie.” Her hand found my wrist, thumb sweeping over my skin. “Henry Rothwell or not, this is who you are.”
She squeezed once.
“I just worry about how quickly you disappear into other people’s pain.”
“Mom.”
“Your pain matters too, Archibald.”
Did it, though?
I’d grown up learning how to tune myself—to feel things only on a frequency she could handle.
If my hurt came from being left out, from rules that kept me inside when everyone else got to leave, I swallowed it.
I had to.
Because her pain had always been bigger than mine.
“I’m okay,” I said, and meant it. “Really. I like the work. It’s hard, but it’s good. It feels like it matters.”
She searched my face, looking for cracks.
“I’m not drowning, Mom. I promise. I’m learning a lot. Helping, even. I think I might actually be useful.”
“Of course you’re useful. Did this man make you feel like you wouldn’t be?”
Her fingers twitched against my skin, already halfway to a strongly worded email she’d never actually send.
I smiled.
Because no—Henry hadn’t made me feel small.
If anything, he’d done the opposite.
I thought about the way he’d looked at Judith when she’d dismissed me too quickly. The way the room had shifted, like gravity recalibrating around him.
He hadn’t raised his voice.
Didn’t have to.
Henry made it very clear he wasn’t someone you pushed. Realizing he’d unlocked that energy on my behalf was—
—super fucking hot, actually. Which felt like a personal problem future Archie would have to unpack.
I shook my head. “No. He’s been good.”
“Good,” Mom said, satisfied, but only because she’d text Rhys later.