22. Reece
Reece
T he silence is the worst part.
The elevator doors slide open and I walk straight into the dark. I don’t bother flipping on the lights. It’s muscle memory now… dropping my keys in the dish, heading to the bar, two fingers of scotch.
Nothing about the space has changed. No traces of her ever touched this place. She never left things here. Never stayed longer than the night. But it still feels empty.
I toss back the first drink without breathing. Pour a second before I even feel the burn. The city glows behind the glass wall in a smear of gold and steel. Below, Chicago is alive—traffic, noise, people going about their lives. Mine hasn’t moved. Not really.
It’s been weeks since I told her not to come back. Since she stood in the center of my living room, wearing nothing but lace and desperation, and I let her leave. I shut her out. And I’ve been trying to convince myself it was the right thing. That protecting her and Archer meant walking away.
But that’s a lie I’ve told myself before. When Lauren died. When I buried my grief in twenty-hour workdays and forgot what it meant to feel anything. Skye cracked me open. And I’ve been bleeding ever since.
I turn from the window and head down the hall, the scotch still in my hand. I should go to bed. Should lie down and force myself into the four hours of sleep that pass for rest lately.
Instead, I stop outside my home office. I haven’t sat in here in days. Not since Archer called me “fucking disgusting.” Not since Skye disappeared from my life without another word.
I open the door, walking past the desk without sitting, heading straight for the wall cabinet built into the far side. The drawer sticks when I try to open it. Of course it does. It’s been years since I touched it. Not because I forgot what’s in there but because I remember exactly.
I pull harder until it gives, the old wood frame groaning like it’s protesting too. There it is. The small black box. Smooth leather, corner fraying. A time capsule I’ve avoided since the funeral. I sit down at the desk and place it in front of me like it might detonate.
I don’t know why I’m doing this now. Maybe because pretending the past doesn’t exist hasn’t gotten me anywhere. Maybe because I don’t trust myself to move forward without understanding what the hell is holding me back.
I open the lid.
The scent hits first. Faint. Old rose. Lauren’s perfume. She used to dab it behind her ears, swearing it made her feel “like a rich bitch with nothing to lose.” I remember laughing when she said that.
My fingers graze the silver pendant nestled inside. Still on the chain. Still tangled the way it was when the hospital returned it to me. I never untangled it. Just shoved it in here like if I didn’t look, I wouldn’t feel. I set it aside and flip through the stack of photos underneath.
One of her on our wedding day, standing on the courthouse steps in a cream dress that didn’t fit right, holding a bouquet from the grocery store and smiling like she won the damn lottery.
Another one of her and Archer, sprawled out on a blanket at Montrose Beach, sand everywhere, laughing with ice cream smeared on both of their faces.
And then one I almost forgot about. Lauren in the kitchen, holding a wineglass, half smiling at the camera.
It was one of the last photos I took of her.
The lighting’s shit. Her hair’s a mess. But I remember thinking she looked beautiful.
I place the photo face down on the desk and lean back in the chair, staring at the ceiling like it might give me some kind of answer.
I loved her. She was the first person who ever really saw me. Who called me out and pulled me close in the same breath. She was warmth and chaos and all the edges I didn’t know how to soften on my own. When she died, I told myself it would be selfish to want again.
But Skye—Skye is not a replacement. She’s not some ghost I’ve projected a memory onto. She is chaos. Fire. Smart-ass comments and sharp tongue and tender hands. She infuriates me. Excites me. Challenges me. And I feel more alive in her presence than I’ve felt in years.
I close the box gently and push the drawer shut. Then I sit there, still, the hum of the city barely bleeding in through the windows. I was afraid that loving someone new would dishonor the past.
But not loving her? That dishonors everything Lauren ever taught me about showing up. About choosing someone, even when it’s hard. Especially when it’s hard.
I don’t know if Skye will ever forgive me. But I know now, I’m done letting fear speak louder than truth. And the truth is simple. I want her. And I have to start acting like it. I have to fight for her.
I check my phone for the third time in ten minutes. Still nothing. No text. No call. Just the last read message from two days ago that I sent Archer.
Me: You free Friday afternoon? Boat ’ s docked at Belmont Harbor. Thought maybe we could talk.
I didn’t expect a yes. But I still showed up just in case.
I’ve had the engine running for twenty minutes, just drifting in the slip. The water’s calm today, early summer sun glinting off the surface in slow, blinding ripples. The kind of quiet day you don’t waste. Unless your son hates your guts.
I glance at the dock. Empty.
My stomach knots tighter than I’d like to admit. I don’t know what I’ll do if he doesn’t show. Probably go out on the water anyway, pretend I enjoy the silence. Maybe drink too much and convince myself I’m better off alone.
I’m halfway through talking myself out of it when I hear footsteps on the wood.
“You always invite people like it’s a business meeting?”
I turn. Archer’s standing at the edge of the boat, arms crossed, sunglasses on, expression unreadable. Relief and tension collide in my chest.
“No tie, if that’s what you’re worried about,” I say.
He doesn’t smile. But he steps on board. It’s the closest thing I’ll get to a peace offering.
We untie and drift out slowly, the marina slipping behind us as we head for open water.
Neither of us talks much for the first ten minutes.
I let the hum of the engine and the occasional cry of gulls fill the space.
Archer kicks his feet up on the side rail like he’s done a thousand times before, but everything about him feels different now.
When we’re far enough out that the shoreline’s just a silhouette, I idle the engine and let us drift.
“You really come out here alone?” he finally asks.
“Sometimes.”
He nods once.
“You didn’t have to come,” I say quietly.
He glances over at me. “I almost didn’t.” He watches the water for a moment. “I figured if I didn’t, you’d just keep showing up like nothing happened.”
I shake my head. “No. I wouldn’t.”
“You always get what you want,” he says.
“Not this time.”
There’s a pause. Then he pulls off his sunglasses and looks at me directly.
“Do you love her?”
I hold his gaze. “Yes.” No hesitation. No apology. His jaw tightens. “I didn’t expect to,” I add. “And I didn’t plan it.”
“You keep saying that.”
“Because it’s true.”
He sits back slowly, eyes narrowing. “She used to be everything to me.”
“I know.”
“I don’t think you do,” he says, voice flat. “She was my first love. My best friend. I thought I’d marry her someday.”
“I understand that better than you think.”
Archer looks away. His hands clench loosely in his lap.
“I didn’t bring you out here to convince you,” I say. “I just wanted to be honest.”
“Honest would’ve been telling me before I walked in on her half-naked in your penthouse.”
Fair.
“I wanted to protect you,” I say.
He scoffs. “You were protecting yourself.”
I nod. “Yeah. I was.”
That catches him off guard. He doesn’t speak, but something shifts in his shoulders. Slightly less rigid. Slightly more curious.
The boat drifts. We’ve been out on the water for a while, the engine idle, the Chicago skyline now a haze behind us. But there’s something I can’t keep inside any longer.
I glance at him. “Can I ask you something?”
He lifts his chin, eyes shaded by sunglasses. “You’re already going to.”
I ignore the edge in his voice. “Why did you cheat on her?” He shifts uncomfortably.
“I’m not trying to throw it in your face,” I add, keeping my tone steady.
“I just… when I asked her what happened between you two, she didn’t go into detail.
But she said it was you who ended things. And that you hurt her.”
“I know I did,” he says, voice low.
He doesn’t meet my eyes.
“I’m not proud of it,” he adds after a pause. “I was immature. Entitled. I had someone incredible in front of me, and I was too fucking arrogant to see it.”
I nod slowly, waiting.
“I didn’t know what it meant to have someone love me like that,” he continues. “I thought I’d always have time to fix it. That I could mess around and come back to her when I was ready.”
“And when she walked?” I ask.
He laughs bitterly. “I realized too late I wasn’t ready to lose her. So I transferred schools like a coward.”
The wind shifts slightly, cooling the sweat at the back of my neck. “She forgave you,” I say.
He looks over sharply. “She said that?”
“She did. She’s moved on. She let it go a long time ago.”
His shoulders sag, like hearing it lifts something off his chest.
“I haven’t forgiven myself,” he says, his voice heavy.
“Maybe it’s time.”
We fall into silence again, but this one is different. Easier. Less sharp around the edges. And that’s when he asks, voice quiet, “Why didn’t you ever date again after Mom?”
I sit with the question for a moment. The answer’s always lived just under the surface, but this is the first time Archer’s actually asked me.
“I couldn’t,” I say finally. “Not for a long time.” Archer watches me, quiet. “Losing her…” I pause, my throat thick. “It gutted me. There was the grief, yeah. But also the guilt. She was everything… smart, driven, kind in this wild, fucked-up world. And she loved me like I hung the moon.”
I glance down at the wheel, my hands still resting there even though the boat’s adrift.
“I didn’t know how to let someone else in after that. It felt wrong. Like I’d be betraying her. Like if I moved on, I was letting her go and that meant losing the last piece of her I still had.”
Archer’s face softens. He doesn’t say anything, but I can tell he’s listening. Really listening.
“I buried myself in work,” I go on. “Told myself I was doing it for you. For the future. But truth is, I was hiding. From everyone. Including you.” He nods, just once.
“I thought I was protecting both of us by staying empty,” I admit.
“But that kind of numbness… it doesn’t protect anyone. It just isolates.”
Archer looks out at the lake, then back at me. “Then what changed?”
I don’t have to think about it. “Skye. She didn’t try to fix me,” I say. “She didn’t ask for anything but honesty. And the more I gave her, the more I realized I wanted to give. I wanted to show up.”
He’s quiet for a long time. The water slaps gently at the hull, steady as a heartbeat.
Then, finally, he replies, “It’s still fucked up.”
“I know.”
“You’re my dad,” he says, his voice tight with emotion. “She was mine first.”
“I know that too.”
He takes a breath, shaking his head. “And I was an asshole to her. I hurt her. Then I see her with you, and you’re treating her like—like gold. Like something I never even knew how to hold.”
“She is gold,” I say quietly.
He exhales, dragging his fingers through his hair. “It’s hard to watch.”
“I don’t expect you to be okay with it. Not right away.”
Archer nods. His mouth presses into a thin line. “But I don’t want to lose you.”
“You won’t,” I say. “I won’t let that happen.”
His eyes meet mine. They’re full of things he’s not saying. Pain. Confusion. Some bruised part of him that still hasn’t healed. But beneath all that, there’s love too. It’s quiet. Tense. But it’s there.
He nods slowly. “I’ll try.”
That’s all I need. I look out at the water again. Let the wind move across my skin. And for the first time since this whole thing began, I feel something that almost resembles peace. It’s not fixed. It’s sure as shit not perfect. But it’s a start.