Chapter 25 #2
Archie’s observations continue to come in a steady stream in a low voice, quiet enough not to disturb anyone else but loud enough for me to hear every word. “Romeo has the emotional regulation of a caffeinated squirrel. He was in love with someone else literally twenty minutes ago.”
But Archie goes quiet when Juliet turns to the nurse, desperate to know the name of the man she just kissed.
My only love sprung from my only hate.
Something twists in my chest.
I glance at Archie. He’s watching the stage, his profile lit by the flickering candles, and for a moment, I can’t look away.
My only love sprung from my only hate.
The words echo uncomfortably.
The thing is, I don’t hate Archie. I’ve never hated Archie. But I came into his life through an act of revenge meant for his brother, and everything between us has grown from that poisoned soil.
And now—
Now I don’t know what this is. I don’t have a word for my reaction when he laughs, or the way my hand keeps finding excuses to touch him, or the fact I can’t get enough of his running commentary on a four-hundred-year-old tragedy.
I don’t have a word to describe this man.
I don’t get the chance to look for one now either.
“She’s literally asking him how he got into her garden, and he’s just ignoring the question,” Archie whispers. “Red flag.”
My chest hurts from trying to stop myself from laughing out loud. I’m leaning toward him, my body angled like a plant toward light.
Archie’s playful side is catnip to me.
Maybe because I know it’s underpinned by intelligence. If he were just the vapid airhead he pretends to be sometimes, I wouldn’t be interested.
But because that’s just the surface layer of this man, I find myself enchanted by it. And I find myself playing back in a way I’ve never done before.
“The thing about the Montagues and Capulets,” he says during a scene change, “is that nobody even remembers why they’re fighting. The grudge has outlived its origin. They’re just performing hatred because that’s what they’ve always done.”
“That’s very insightful.”
“All of my comments are insightful. You just fail to appreciate them sometimes.”
“If I appreciated them aloud, you’d never shut up.”
“I never shut up anyway. You might as well enjoy it.”
“I do enjoy it,” I say quietly.
For a second, something flickers across Archie’s face. Quick enough that I almost miss it. Like he expected a different response and is recalibrating.
Then he grins and turns back to the stage, and his commentary resumes.
I tell myself to stop analyzing every micro-expression on Archie Mansley’s face and watch the play.
I do not watch the play.
I should have realized I wouldn’t get away with it.
Because as soon as Act Two finishes, signaling the start of the intermission, and we all stand to stretch, Andrew drags me toward the foyer, leaving Justin to make polite conversation with Elizabeth and Archie.
“What the hell is going on between you and Archie?” he demands to know.
“What do you mean, what’s going on? I told you before. We’re pretending to be together to fool his godmother.”
“Well, it’s the best pretending I’ve ever seen.”
I become very interested in the mechanics of candle maintenance. An attendant is lowering one of the chandeliers, trimming the wicks.
“I’m not sure what you mean,” I say.
“I’ve never seen you like this with anyone,” Andrew says.
I’m almost afraid to ask the question. “Like what?”
“So…entranced.”
Entranced. It’s an interesting word choice. But probably accurate if I’m being honest. Didn’t I just use the word enchanted? I’m fairly sure they are synonyms.
“I’ve never met anyone like him,” I say honestly.
“He’s not scared of you,” Andrew says.
“No. He appears to find me amusing.” I rub a hand between my eyebrows.
“Why the hell haven’t you told him about Vaughn? About the real reason behind his accident?”
“I tried to tell him, but he told me he didn’t want confessions. That he just wants to keep things between us light and fun.”
Andrew exhales slowly through his nose. The exhale of a man who has seen this movie and knows how it ends. “What do you mean, things between you? Please tell me you’re not sleeping with him?”
I grimace. “I could tell you that, but I’d be lying.”
“Shit, Leo, you realize you’re getting yourself into the same situation you spent months warning me about, right?”
“Oh, trust me, I’m living that reality.”
And the irony isn’t lost on me. I told Andrew that secrets were corrosive, that the longer you left them, the more damage they did. And I was right about that. What I hadn’t anticipated was how much you want to cling to a secret when the alternative means changing the way someone looks at you.
“The Revenge Club hasn’t turned out quite like either of us expected, has it?” Andrew says.
I give a dry laugh. Because I still remember Andrew’s and my initial discussion about getting revenge on our nemeses.
“Revenge plots have a way of changing everything, Leo. I should know,” Andrew continues.
“Oh, trust me, I’m aware of that fact. My revenge plot has somehow led to me wearing an inflatable dinosaur costume while six-year-olds critique my dance moves.”
Andrew snorts out a laugh. “I’d pay good money to see that.”
“I’m sure Archie has secretly filmed it, and it’ll appear in public at some point.” I rake a hand through my hair because I’m acutely aware of how there wasn’t a trace of irritation in my voice as I said those words.
Only affection.
And as Andrew and I collect drinks and head back to our seats, my eyes find Archie’s. He scrunches his nose playfully at me.
The moment I sit down, Archie’s hand finds my thigh.
“Hello again,” he murmurs.
“Hi.”
His fingers press lightly against the fabric of my pants. Not moving. Just…there. A point of contact that’s impossible to ignore.
I’m suddenly very aware of my own heartbeat.
“This play has given me ideas,” he says.
“That sounds ominous.”
“I’m just thinking it might be time for some Shakespeare-inspired themes for my children’s parties,” he says. “How do you feel about playing Hamlet’s ghost in a bedsheet while toddlers throw plastic skulls at you?”
“I feel like my death would be insufficiently tragic for an audience raised on video games.”
“You underestimate yourself. You have excellent dying potential. Very theatrical eyebrows.”
“My eyebrows are theatrical?”
“Extremely. They convey volumes.” He tilts his head, considering me. “Right now they’re saying, ‘I’m pretending to be annoyed, but I’m actually charmed.’”
I try not to blush. “They’re saying nothing of the sort.”
“They’re saying exactly that. I’m fluent in eyebrow.” He gives me a grin.
And I suddenly realize that this is what I crave the most about Archie’s company.
It’s not just the physical chemistry between us that burns so bright. It’s that interacting with him is like a mental chess match. He forces me to stay quick, stay present, stay engaged.
No one has ever made me work this hard.
No one has ever made me want to.
I chew over everything during the second part of the play.
At some stage, Archie’s hand starts to move up the inseam of my thigh. His hand moves slowly, inch by excruciating inch, while his eyes remain innocently fixed on the stage like he’s completely absorbed in the tragedy unfolding before us.
But he’s not absorbed in the tragedy.
He’s creating one.
Which means by the end of the play, I’m wound tighter than a violin string, and Archie knows it. The smug tilt of his mouth when the lights come up tells me everything I need to know about his intentions.
We’re making our way through the foyer when Elizabeth stops to greet an older woman in pearls.
“Margaret, how lovely to see you. You must meet my godson.” Elizabeth places a hand on Archie’s arm. “This is Doctor Archibald Mansley.”
I nearly trip over my own feet.
Doctor.
Doctor Archibald Mansley.
I keep my face neutral through sheer force of will, nodding along as Margaret says something about what a pleasure it is, and Elizabeth mentions something about Oxford, and Archie says something modest and charming that I don’t process because my brain is still buffering on the word doctor.
Elizabeth lingers to talk to Margaret, but I grab Archie’s arm and steer him out of Elizabeth’s earshot.
“You have a PhD? What the fuck? Why didn’t you tell me?” I hiss.
He shrugs. “I didn’t think it was relevant.”
“Not relevant? Of course it’s relevant. What subject is your PhD in?”
“Which one?”
I open my mouth. Close it. Open it again.
“What do you mean, which one?”
“Well, I have two. And they are in different subjects.” He has the audacity to look amused. “They don’t give you two PhDs for the same thesis. I’m pretty sure there are rules against that.”
“You’re twenty-three.” I’m aware that my voice has gone slightly strangled. “How in the hell do you have two PhDs?”
“I skipped a few years of school. Started college early.”
“How early?”
He looks slightly abashed now. “Uh…I was fifteen when I started college. And I read fast.”
“You read fast,” I repeat flatly.
“Eidetic memory, remember? It speeds things up.”
I drag a hand down my face. “What subjects are your PhDs in?”
“Evolutionary psychology and applied mathematics.”
Of course. Of course they are. Because why would anything about Archie Mansley make sense?
Elizabeth rejoins us then, and I stop my interrogation. Because she might be able to forgive me for not knowing my boyfriend has an exceptional memory, but I’m fairly sure Archie having two PhDs would have come up in casual conversation in a genuine three-month relationship.
I follow along as we make our way outside, but my mind is whirling.
Evolutionary psychology and applied mathematics. Started college at fifteen. Two doctorates by twenty-three.
He’s a fucking genius. Of course he is.
And he spends his days walking dogs and making balloon animals.
Why?