Chapter 29
Archer
It’s early, so early that the sun has only started turning the Paris skyline a light bluish orange color.
I can’t sleep. Lying in Julian’s extra-large bed, I roll over and rest my head on my hand.
Beside me, Freya is curled into a petite ball, sleeping with her back to me.
On the other side, Julian is flat on his stomach, the fading moonlight picking up the gentle crests and valleys on his back.
Normally, I’m the one sleeping late, so I never get this perspective.
With a sigh, I stare at them. My heart feels so incredibly full when I’m around them, and what I said in the club with Julian was true.
I do love them. And yet I keep waiting for the moment when it stops feeling so exciting and fulfilling and starts feeling like a cage.
So far, I see no signs of it.
How could it be a cage when Julian nurtures the darkness inside me? How could it be a cage when Freya looks at me as if I hung the moon in the sky for her?
For all I know, it could be impossible to ever tire of this feeling.
Feeling restless, I climb out of bed and pad quietly to the window. For a moment, I stare out at the city below, and it dawns on me that for the first time in my life, I actually feel somewhat settled. I love it here. Someday I might want to run again, but for now, I could handle sticking around.
Finding my pants on the floor, I dig my phone out. There are various messages and notifications. One from my mom that I don’t even open. There are a few from Rex too.
Opening them up, the blood drains from my face as I stare at the photo on the screen. It’s a selfie of him. His eyes are both completely swollen. His nose is clearly broken, and his lip has an open gash that is bleeding down his chin.
“What the fuck?” I whisper.
Rex: I still won though.
Glancing at the time, I see it’s nearly seven in the morning, so there’s a slim chance he’ll be up. I ring his number anyway. Tiptoeing out of the room to let the other two sleep, I walk into the living room and pet Onyx on the couch.
“Chopper, you missed a hell of a fight,” Rex says. His voice is like gravel.
“What the fuck is wrong with you?” I snap in a harsh whisper.
“What are you talking about?” he replies, trying to laugh it off. “Didn’t you see my message? I won.”
“Did you go alone?”
“Of course I went alone. All those fuckers bet against me too. You should have seen their fucking faces.”
He doesn’t sound good. His words are slurred like he’s drunk and his tongue is suddenly too big for his mouth.
“You could have gotten killed, Rex,” I snarl into the phone.
He lets out a sigh, sounding bitter. “You’ve changed, man,” he complains. “I thought you were my friend, but ever since you found those two, you just left me high and dry. You don’t care about me, Archer.”
I huff angrily into the phone. “I wasn’t your friend. I was your cash cow. You only wanted me in those fights so you could cash in.”
“Fuck you,” he shouts. Then he starts spouting some even angrier stuff in French while I pace the living room, fuming. As mad as I am, I regret saying what I just said. It felt wrong, cruel actually.
“Jesus, Rex. Will you just listen to me? You can’t go to those fights alone anymore. You haven’t been training, and if shit goes down, you don’t have anyone there to have your back.”
“Guess I’ll just have to find another dumbass American with a death wish,” he barks.
I hear him guzzling something I assume is liquor.
“Rex, where are you?”
“Don’t worry about me,” he grumbles. “I’m just fine. Alone.”
The phone goes dead, and I stare down at it in frustration. I slam it down on the couch and pace around the living room while my mind spirals.
How could he be so fucking irresponsible? What if he had gotten himself killed? Doesn’t he think about how that would affect me? Or his family? He puts himself in unnecessary risk and for what? To take a few punches and prove he’s good enough alone?
Stopping in my tracks, I stare blankly ahead as it all comes crashing down in my mind.
“Jesus Christ,” I whisper.
This is how my friends and family feel every day? This is how Freya and Julian felt after my last fight? This feeling is terrible. This helplessness is debilitating, and all the while, this is what I have been doing to the people I care about most.
Soft footsteps grab my attention, and I look up at the bedroom door to find Freya standing there, wearing one of Julian’s shirts.
“Everything okay?” she whispers.
I force away all the worry and guilt and stress, and I plaster a grin on my face. “Everything’s perfect, Chef.”
“Then come back to bed,” she replies with a yawn.
“I’ll be right there.”
When I don’t move, she comes toward me, wrapping her arms around my waist. Her body is soft and warm. It feels like a gift.
So I let out a yawn and shove aside all the things I’ve been stressing about. Reaching down, I scoop her up in my arms and carry her back to bed. Once we lie down, she rests on top of me like my own security blanket.
And after a few minutes, it works. I close my eyes and drift off to sleep.
Three months later
“A little to the left,” Freya calls to the man currently hanging the sign over the awning of her restaurant.
“Right there,” Julian says before tilting his head to see it from a different angle.
The bright red awning shades the front of the restaurant as vibrant flowers and greenery cascade down over the side of the building. Her soft launch opening is in three weeks, and so far, everything is coming together pretty seamlessly.
My brother-in-law has helped me to get all the paperwork filed for licenses and inspections, so a process that could have taken eight months took us only five.
Amelia has been helping Freya with the design of the restaurant.
It blends the quiet sophistication of Freya’s style with the warmth of her family’s home.
A frosted rangoli design covers the front door windows, meant to welcome guests.
Inside, gold-leaf accents run along carved wooden arches, framing walls washed in deep marigold and indigo—the colors of her mother’s wedding saree.
Every detail holds memory. Nothing is ornamental without reason.
The single word épice hangs proudly over the door in brass. That was Julian’s idea. French for spice.
I glance over at Freya to gauge her reaction. She’s been noticeably tense lately, and I worry it’s about more than the restaurant. I keep thinking that her family should really be here for this occasion, but every time I bring it up, she changes the subject.
Rex hasn’t spoken to me in months. I send him texts from time to time, asking if he’d like to work out together or go grab a drink, but every single message goes unanswered.
“It looks amazing,” I say to try and excite her, but she only worries her bottom lip between her fingers as she stares at it.
“Are the flowers too much?” she asks.
“The flowers are perfect,” I reply.
“I don’t want to be too…ostentatious.”
Moving around her, I wrap my arms around her waist and hold her tight with my chin on her head. “Baby, you be as ostentatious as you want. You deserve it.”
She chuckles, leaning against me. “This all still feels so surreal.”
“It’s real,” Julian says, stepping closer to us.
“I still have so much to do,” she stammers before rushing inside. Watching her run around, trying to get everything in place, is exhausting. I’ve seen her to-do list, and it gives me nightmares. I can only help her so much, and there’s a lot she refuses to give up.
“All things considered, we’re ahead of schedule, right?” I ask while following her into the kitchen. She’s still unpacking supplies and trying to keep an inventory of everything at the same time.
“I don’t feel ahead of schedule,” she replies without looking at me. “I feel like I’m walking headfirst into a disaster.”
“Freya,” Julian says in a scolding tone. “Why would you think that?”
She unwraps a bundle of serving spoons and looks up at us with exasperation.
“Because I’m supposed to open a restaurant to the public in Paris in three weeks, and I still feel like an impostor, Julian.
I don’t have some high-up chef connections or the respect of my peers.
What happens when those food critics come in here and find out I’m a fraud? ”
“Whoa, whoa, whoa,” I bellow as I cross the restaurant and take the spoons from her hand.
Placing my hands under her arms, I hoist her onto the counter, and I force her to look me in the eye.
“That is my girlfriend you’re talking about, and I won’t just sit by and let you talk about her in that way. ”
She smirks with a shake of her head. “You’re ridiculous.”
“No, I’m not. I’m right. Aren’t I, Jules?”
He’s flipping through the new menus as he looks up and casually takes my side. “Of course.”
“Don’t encourage him,” Freya shouts to him.
“I know you’re being hard on yourself because you’re stressed and this is scary, but you’re not going to just beat up my beautiful, talented girlfriend because you’re feeling shitty. Got it?”
She chuckles, biting her bottom lip. “Fine.”
“I said, got it?” I repeat louder.
“Got it!” she hollers back.
“Okay, good. Now this is what we’re going to do,” I say as I pull her off the counter and back on her feet. “You’re going to let us help you unpack this box. Tell us where everything goes as we take it out, and we’ll be your humble servants.”
Crossing her arms in front of her chest, she tries to keep from smiling, but she can’t. “Okay fine.”
Reaching into the box, I pull out a stack of stainless-steel bowls.
After giving them a quick look, Freya points to a lower cabinet against the wall. “Down there.”
“Yes, Chef,” I reply obediently.
Julian rolls up his sleeves and joins us. He pulls out some whisks, and Freya points to a cabinet on the wall.
“Yes, Chef,” he says with a hint of coyness, making Freya blush.
For the next hour, we unpack three boxes worth of cast-iron pans, knives, and stockpots. The three of us get into a groove working together.
Freya blasts one of her bizarre psychedelic rock playlists, and soon we’re all moving like we were made to be this way.
With each task, we call back, “Yes, Chef,” growing louder and more intense with each one.
Freya laughs a little harder each time, and it’s so nice to see her smile.
This is how it was supposed to be. This is what Julian and I invested in, that look on her face. Her happiness.
“Are this many knives really necessary?” Julian asks as he places another along the magnetized strip on the wall.
Freya rushes over with a tense expression. “Yes!” she argues. “Leave my knives alone.” Then she meticulously arranges them in some order that she deems perfect. It’s cute to see her so in her element, and I’m reminded that she was made for this.
After we get the supplies done, we move on to the dry goods for the pantry. All her spices are arranged in round canisters, and after I open one, a puff of cinnamon floats out of the can like a cloud, making my eyes water and my throat burn.
Freya and Julian howl with laughter while I quickly replace the lid and shove it back on the shelf. “Ha ha,” I reply sarcastically as I wipe my eyes.
By the time we’re done, it’s late and we’re all feeling accomplished. In three weeks, this restaurant will be a real place. Freya will own a restaurant, but will she still have time for us? This business is going to require a lot of her time and energy. What will be left for this relationship?
With Julian working at the club and her working here, I worry that everything won’t be as perfect as it feels right now. Without them, I’ll fall back into fighting. Julian will put his walls back up. And Freya will never tell a soul about the time she had two boyfriends.
But as long as that day isn’t today, I’m not going to think about it. I could be wrong. Everything could be fine, and I could be worrying for nothing.