Chapter 41
Archer
This entire weekend felt like a marathon.
Now, just an hour from closing, the restaurant is still going strong.
épice wasn’t just a success, it was a hit.
Julian has been in the back running numbers and discussing the reservation system with one of the staff members while I’m at the host stand, mostly turning people away at this point.
When the door opens at half past ten and I see a familiar face, a smile creeps across my cheeks.
“Table for one, please,” he mutters with a hint of embarrassment.
“Chunks, you made it,” I say as I come around to greet him.
“Sorry I’m late. I had to come see your girl’s restaurant. This place is impressive.”
“Thanks,” I reply, placing a hand on his shoulder. “Let me get you a table.”
“Are you sure?” he asks. “I don’t want to…”
“You’re a friend,” I say, cutting him off as I grab a menu and take him to one of the small tables on the patio.
As he sits, I wave down backup to man the host stand before I drop into the seat across from him.
I realize as I sit down that Rex and I haven’t properly eaten a meal together.
Except for street food on a late night, we’ve never truly hung out together without it being fight related.
I smile to myself because this feels like progress.
The server comes by, and Rex orders quickly. Then it’s just us and the opportunity to be real friends. For a while, we just talk. Rex updates me on his family because apparently, he has a sister with some health issues, and it makes me feel like an asshole for not knowing that.
Then he tells me about some girl he’s been seeing on and off for a while now. We laugh and relax, and it’s the most comfortable I’ve been with a friend in a long time.
“I was thinking,” I say, leaning back in my chair with my ankle resting on my knee, “about opening a gym or something.”
His eyes light up. “A gym?”
“A real gym,” I add. “Maybe we could host some real fights…you know, legally.”
Rex laughs, a handsome, wide grin on his face. “I like that idea. Does this mean you’re quitting the street fights?”
“Are you disappointed?” I ask, my brows folded inward.
Rex sucks his teeth and rolls his eyes in dramatic effect before rambling something in French that I don’t understand.
“What?” I ask.
“No, I’m not disappointed, you idiot. The fights were fun, but you never knew when to quit.”
“Yeah, well, I don’t like surrendering,” I grumble. “I still want to fight that Koszmar guy if you find him.”
“Give me a break, Chopper. You must be joking,” he howls with laughter.
“I’m serious,” I argue.
Then his face grows serious as he glares at me over the table. “Archer, I made him up.”
My jaw falls. “What?”
“I made him up. There is no Koszmar.”
“Why would you make him up?” I ask as my brows furrow.
“Because you were out of control. I thought if I made up a guy who was known for killing his opponents, you’d slow down or be more careful. I had no idea it would make you want to fight him more. That’s when I realized…you were not fighting to win, Archer. You were fighting to die.”
The world seems to stop turning around me as I stare at him, and it feels like everything from the stars above to the cobblestones at our feet pulses. Something about my brain accepting what it knows is true hurts like a motherfucker.
I wouldn’t say I was fighting to die, but I was fighting recklessly, and eventually that’s exactly what was going to happen. I was chasing a high that was going to lead me directly to the grave.
“I’m sorry, Rex,” I say with more sincerity than I’ve ever said anything before.
My best friend had to sit by and watch me nearly get myself killed night after night.
Sure, he could have tried talking me out of it or stopped cashing in on it, but he did what he could to keep me alive, and for that I owe him my life.
He grows uncomfortable with the sudden emotional weight of our conversation, so he clears his throat and looks away.
“So anyway. I like this idea for a gym. You should do it.”
“Will you help me? Help me run it.”
He scoffs. “You’re going to need my help.”
“I know.”
“Anything will be better than having to pop your shoulder back into place,” he teases.
With a laugh, I nod. “Don’t you think I fucking know?”
And just like that, things feel right again. Sure, I’ll miss the adrenaline rush of the fights and how good it feels to win. I’ll miss running in the dark streets of Paris with my best friend at my side. But I don’t need that to feel alive anymore.
When Julian and I pull down the gate to close the restaurant at the end of the night, Freya pops a bottle of champagne. It’s just the three of us left, and our exhausted cheers fill the empty space where diners and cooks filled it just moments ago.
We don’t even bother with glasses. We pass the bottle around in celebration, collapsing into one of the empty tables nearby.
“You did it, Chef. How do you feel?” I ask.
“Fucking exhausted,” she mutters while sinking against the table. “But I can’t wait to do it all again tomorrow.”
“We’re so proud of you,” Julian says to her with a rare smile. Even his smiles look evil somehow.
“So,” she says, propping her elbows on the table. “Care to tell me what you two got up to in the storage room?”
Julian’s expression doesn’t even flinch as he stares at her. Meanwhile, I’m grinning like a fool.
“If you’re going to get each other off in the restaurant, the least you could do is invite me,” she adds before letting out a big yawn.
“Any other night, we would, Chef.”
“It was so nice to see our families sitting together,” she says with a far-off look in her eye. “I think my mom really likes your parents.”
She’s obviously looking at Julian, but it makes my heart feel achy and heavy.
“They definitely loved her,” Julian replies.
“Your parents love everyone,” she laughs.
Suddenly, it feels like my phone is burning a hole in my pocket.
“Everything okay, Arch?” she asks with her caring eyes on me.
“Yeah,” I stammer after clearing my throat.
Julian’s watching me as if he knows what I’m thinking. He probably does. He seems to get me even when I think I’m keeping things guarded.
“You should call them,” he says softly.
I shrug. “Yeah, maybe later.”
“Archer Wilde,” Freya snaps. “Call your mother.”
My eyes widen as I take in this new commanding tone of hers. Standing slowly from the table, I pull my phone from my back pocket. “Yes, Chef.”
“Good boy,” she replies sweetly as she stands from the chair and kisses me on the cheek. Then she and Julian head to the back to close up, and I slip out to the front of the building, pacing around the dark, quiet streets as I stare down at my phone.
Why is this so hard? Why does reaching out to the people who love me the most feel like a weakness? Because I want to? Because I want to hear my mother’s voice more than anything? Does that make me weak?
Maybe I’m not afraid of feeling weak anymore. Everyone’s a little weak sometimes.
With a deep breath, I punch her contact and let it ring. It’s late here but still a reasonable hour back on the East Coast. After only two rings, she picks up.
“Archer?” she asks, her voice full of hope and desperation.
The moment I hear it, something in me shatters. “Hey, Mom.”
“Oh, honey. Are you okay? Is everything all right? Where are you?”
“I’m fine, Mom. I’m still in Paris. I’m not in trouble or anything. Not hurt. I just…”
My voice trails, and it feels like I’m standing on the edge of a cliff. I could stay here where it’s safe, always guarded and afraid. Or I could take a leap of faith.
“I miss you.”
Uttering those words to my mother feels like soaring. The gravity of that grief and expectation is no longer dragging me down.
My mother doesn’t speak for a moment, and I almost fear I’ve lost the call when I hear her sniffle. When she speaks, her voice thick with agony, I nearly crumple to the cobblestones.
“Archer, I miss you so much, baby. We all do.”
“I’m sorry for not calling. For running away. For being a terrible son.”
She gasps. I hear echoed voices in the background, and I imagine her in the ballet studio, probably with a young class waiting for her instruction. When it grows quiet, I know she’s removed herself and found somewhere private.
“You were never a terrible son. We love you more than anything. You know that.”
“I know. It’s just…”
Why is opening up to the people we love so hard? Why do these fears and feelings have to bury themselves so deep they become secrets and shame instead of real human emotions?
“What is it, baby?”
“I can’t help but wonder… Did Dad want another Preston? Did I measure up? Was I a disappointment?”
“Archie, listen to me,” she snaps, using her old pet name to hold my attention. Tears prick my eyes as I wait. “You are not a disappointment. Not at all. And no, you know your dad never expected you to replace what he lost. He just wanted you.”
“A good son would have stayed,” I murmur, staring down at my feet.
“Your father and I never wanted to hold you down or keep you here. He taught you all how to fly and gave you wings, for fuck’s sake.”
I chuckle. Hearing my mom cuss reminds me of growing up. We never were the proper sort of family people might have expected we were.
“My point is that you running away never disappointed us. That’s what made us proud.”
“Really?” I ask, feeling lighter all of a sudden.
“Of course. I mean, wouldn’t kill you to call your mother once in a while, but we were never mad at you for leaving.”
“Thanks, Mom,” I say as a tear slips over my smiling lips.
In my periphery, I see Jules and Freya, waving at me that it’s time to go.
“Mom, hang on,” I say before covering my phone with my hand. “You guys take the car. I’m gonna walk.”
“You sure?” Freya asks.
I hold up the phone. “Yeah, I want to catch up.”
This makes her smile, clinging to Julian’s side. The two of them disappear into the black car as I stroll along the streets toward home.
It’s a beautiful summer evening in Paris, the perfect night to catch up with my mom. While I walk, I tell her everything about Freya and Julian, from the elevator ride to the restaurant.
She catches me up on my sister, who is currently going back to school for her second master’s degree and is apparently taking over the family business and butting heads with Nash the entire way.
We talk about my brother a bit and how he’s been sending information back to my mother about me like some covert spy.
“I swear he acts like my dad more than my brother,” I complain with a lighthearted tone.
“Well, our family was never very conventional,” she laughs.
“No one’s is,” I reply. Her laughter makes me so homesick, the words blurt out of my lips before I can stop them. “You should come out and meet them. All of you.”
“Come to Paris?”
“Yeah,” I reply eagerly.
“Honey, we’ll be there in a heartbeat. All you have to do is say the word.”
“I’m ready, Mom.”
Stopping just before I reach my building, I pause on the street and stare up at the Eiffel Tower in the distance.
“Does that mean Paris is home now? No more running?”
My eyes glide up toward the building, landing on the top floor and imagining the people inside.
We might have been forced together by fate or karma or a broken-down elevator, but we were brought together nonetheless.
But we’re not stuck together anymore. It’s not like that night in the elevator when we couldn’t escape.
Now we have the choice to leave, but we choose to stay. That’s what really matters anyway.
These two are my home, my family, my forever. This is where I’ve landed.
“Paris is home now,” I say with certainty. “I’m done running.”