35. How to See Clearly
35
HOW TO SEE CLEARLY
O’CONNOR
I was experiencing the purest application of self-delusion.
I woke up on my side with my head nestled into the curve of Archer’s neck. I knew it was Charlotte who lay snug up against my back because the arm Archer had draped over me was petting something sleepily, and although I knew he was close to Mal and Ian, I was pretty sure they weren’t that close.
It was dark in the tent. We’d slept past sundown, and past the time when an awake person would have turned on a light.
So, it had been hours—prime daylight hours—since I’d checked my phone. At least some of the lures I’d set out for Archer’s high school classmates should have hooked someone by now.
But I was so warm. Relaxation had turned my bones to taffy. My muscles were lax and heavy. I couldn’t feel my blood pressure at all.
There was no reason to rush.
I could lie here for . . . a while .
It would be fine.
I dozed, feeling Archer’s breathing against my ribs and Char’s breathing against my back. A few times, Mal or Ian shifted on their air mattresses, and once Mal mumbled in his sleep. He said, “That’s just not going to happen,” and then he was silent.
It was Charlotte who woke us up in the end. She sat up abruptly and made her “time for a sniff-and-poop” noises.
Archer’s arms closed around me more closely, but then the dog’s message got to his sleeping brain. “I’m up, baby! I’ve got you. Let me find your leash.”
“I’ll take her,” Mal said.
“I’m up,” Ian said, rising to his feet and crouching under the ridgeline of the tent. “I’ll take her out.”
Like a cartoon of selflessness, the guys all left the tent, Charlotte prancing between them. In moments, I was alone in the tent.
I would have taken her if they’d let me. Such a relief to have her back.
I stretched under the unzipped sleeping bag. Sleeping in my clothes made me feel rumpled, except not this time. This time, I felt at peace.
Idly, I checked my phone.
Shit. Four classmates had messaged me back.
Including Maggie Danforth Ellis herself. Girl wants to talk at last , I thought with the buzz of impending victory zipping down my spine.
But—no.
Maybe not.
Maybe I’d just forget the whole thing.
What would that mean?
Was I seriously considering giving up the book? The publishing future? If I stiffed my publisher this late in the game, I’d close off that avenue forevermore. They’d set up a big marketing blitz for the Christmas book-buying season. It was too late to pull the plug without repercussions.
On the other hand . . .
None of the guys had even questioned my presence in the tent. It was assumed that I’d sleep on Archer’s mattress. Unless I made other arrangements, I’d be riding with them all the way to Minneapolis. I’d be in the crowd when they played at First Avenue. Every night, I’d lie down next to Archer. Every day, I’d ride in the BFT. I’d probably take over navigation from Mal, and I’d get us into some nice hotels on the way.
Filthy Charlotte would get the most luxurious dog bath.
Archer and I would . . . what?
Was I supposed to vet the groupies? Let him know if I thought they were worthy of a trip to the locker room? Would I stand by as he kept his fans happy? Would I take a stand and demand a serial womanizer find so much as a rumor of monogamy in his soul?
Did I want to get involved—or more involved—with someone guaranteed to break my trust?
And maybe my heart?
The questions were simply too big to consider until I’d at least brushed my teeth. I found my shoes and coat and went to find the key to the BFT’s cargo area, where my duffel had been stored.
All three of them—all four of them—were down by the camp gate, under the cone of light at the entrance. From this distance, it looked like they were fighting over who got to pick up Charlotte’s poop. I found I was sniggering helplessly in the chill. If I’d been down there with a plastic bag in my hand, I’d have been arguing for the privilege too.
This would be a perfect time to check my messages. Instead, I called Jane and had him research the best dog trainers in the New York City area who would work with someone both in person and virtually. By the time Princess Charlotte and her court made her way back to the truck, I had a list of four for them to consider.
That inspired a degree of research not one of them would have undertaken before losing Charlotte. Every dog-training website had to be explored; every canine philosophy had to be discussed. At least while the scare was still fresh in their minds, the casual “whatever, man” attitude that had typified Aftermath was buried under the concern of three extremely motivated and cautious men.
They were adorable. Archer the cutest of all.
Maggie Danforth Ellis receded in my mind. Where once she would have dominated my landscape, she was now a distant figure waving from an island far offshore. I was abandoning her.
Archer charmed his way into a diner—or rather, he charmed Charlotte’s way into the diner. Even with his prodigious appeal (and that wicked grin), it might not have worked if the assistant manager hadn’t seen the posts about Charlotte being lost and then found.
“Hey, that’s the Aftermath dog, isn’t it?! You all come right in. Take this big booth in the back! Can we get a photo with the staff? She was found right around here, wasn’t she? Man! I’m going to post this! We’re going to be famous!”
All right—maybe I’d check my messages a little.
The story of Charlotte’s wild adventure had done that remarkable, can’t-plan-it-but-can-hope-for-it phenomenon of going viral. Charlotte’s tale had gone far beyond the bounds of Opinionated O’Connor . We’d caught a rocket. Charlotte had temporarily taken over the internet, and the “we found her” photo I’d taken of the whole band together, morning sunlight glinting off their tears, was already being turned into memes, including one that said, “Find someone who loves you the way Aftermath loves this dog.”
“Hey,” Mal said happily. “We look good! ”
“We’re all crying,” Ian objected.
“But that’s good! Look how good you look, Brother Ianacus!” Archer peered into his phone at the shot. “And look how beautiful Charlotte is. Aren’t you, baby? Want to see?” The dog lying at his feet lifted her head, narrowly avoiding bonking the underside of the table as she licked a large tongue across his screen. “Yuck. Thanks, honey! Gimme that napkin.”
Not a single mention of how he looked himself, and he would have been justified. He looked good. Not so vain now, are we, Archer?
Patrons at the restaurant were whispering, and suddenly “The Salesman” was playing on the ceiling speakers. The assistant manager waved at us proudly, his phone hooked into the system.
“This is awesome,” Mal said. “We’re never going to get served, but this is still awesome. Look, Arch, your chat with Southdown is up!”
I paused, questioning what I heard. Nope. Couldn’t be.
I leaned over Archer to look at Mal’s phone. “Your chat with who?”
Archer grabbed the phone. “ Southdown’s Variety . She called me again while we were walking Char this evening. Man, everyone wants a piece of us! Here, look. On her feed. I took that photo of Char’s bandage myself. Pretty good, huh?”
Bella Southdown had stolen my scoop.
And Archer didn’t seem to care.
I put my hand gently over the phone to block Archer’s view. “You know she’s my competition, right?”
“What competition? You both post stuff. What does it matter?”
I dropped my hand and sat back. The waves of their excitement washed over me. They ordered food, and I waved off the waiter. Not hungry.
“What is it you think I do?” I asked Archer .
“What? Babe, you’re the queen of social media influencers! What are you talking about?”
I shook my head, a false calm dropping over me. Numbing my nerve endings. Slowing my pulse. “I’m not the queen, you know. Not even close. There are people with millions more followers than I have.”
“Yeah, but you’re the best. You’re always the best. Right, guys? What does it matter who we talk to? You’re the one who’s doing a whole series on how fabulous it is to be dating me, after all. I just told her about the pink bandage. No big deal.”
Mal and Ian had both fallen silent. They were watching Archer—and watching me. Their excitement was turning to tension.
Archer, on the other hand, was oblivious. A woman whose breasts were just about to fall out of her top came to the table to ask for a photo. Archer nudged me eagerly, all but pushing me out of the booth so he could get to her.
And since I was standing anyway . . .
I moved near the front door and called Jane.
“Get me a car. I need to get to the nearest airport. Hang on, I’ll get the manager to give you the address.”
Archer was still posing with the groupie. Maybe he could take her to the bathroom. She looked like she’d go willingly.
Jane figured out my flights. It would take almost half an hour for the car to get to me, so I had to go back to the booth and watch Archer enjoy being worshiped. Of course he did. He was an attention whore. This job was made for him.
Mal and Ian were both drawn into various photos, too, but Ian asked me if everything was okay, and Mal said he’d talk to Archer if I wanted him to.
I didn’t want him to. I needed Archer to be absolutely true to his base, essential nature. If he fucked a fan right there at the table, it would have stiffened my resolve even more .
I had phone calls to make. I had a book to write. I had a ride coming.
“Can I have the keys to the BFT?” I asked Archer the next time he sat.
“What do you need? Want me to get it for you?”
“Just my bag.”
“Huh? Why? You good? You’re good, right?”
“I’m good. My ride will be here soon.”
“Your ride?” Archer looked at me, suddenly (and too late) worried. “What ride?”
I shrugged, offering him an impersonal smile. “To the airport. I came to help find Charlotte, and here she is. Time for me to get back to my work. Can’t let others scoop me, you know?”
“Scoop you?”
“There are movie stars to interview, and clothing designers who want my time, and I imagine about a million hotels and restaurants all waiting for my approval, so I’ll need my bag. Can I get the keys?”
I thought I did a pretty good job of keeping my temper—keeping all of my emotions—under control, but Archer stuck out his lower lip and looked like he was going to be obstinate.
Ian held up a hand. “Get her bag,” he said.
Mal nodded. “You can’t keep her. You might want to, but you can’t. Either you get her bag, or I take the keys from you and I get it.”
Suddenly angry, Archer pushed out of the booth and stalked to the door. Charlotte tried to follow, and he grabbed her leash. “You come with me, dog.”
In the silence of his departure, Mal ducked his head. “We’re sorry, O’Connor. We won’t let him talk to her again.”
Ian nodded, but I shrugged. “Bella Southdown is very pretty. Archer will like her. Feel free to get them together. I think I’ve ridden this train as long as I need to. It was nice to meet you guys. Good luck with, um, you know. Everything.”
“O’Connor,” Mal tried, but I stood to stop him from being nice to me.
“See you, guys.”
I’d wait in the cold until the ride showed up. It would be better than watching women paw at Archer—and Archer enjoying it.
He saw me coming out and stopped at the truck’s tailgate, Charlotte firmly leashed to the hand that held my duffel.
“All right,” he said. “It’s just you and me. What’s going on?”
“Going on? What do you mean? I need to go.”
“What did I do?”
I couldn’t look at him when I reached for the duffel. “Nothing. You’re doing exactly what you’re supposed to do. You’re going to be a huge star, Archer. I wish you well.”
“Are you leaving me?”
“I’m leaving Ohio, yeah. Obviously. I live in LA, you know? Can I have the bag now?”
He handed it over, and I sat on the icy bench by the door. “You’ll freeze out here,” he said.
“I’ll be fine. It won’t be long.” My phone pinged, thank god. “See? My ride’s arriving now. There he is. I’ve got to go. Bye, Archer. Bye, Charlotte. Stay out of trouble.”
Maybe he tried to speak. Maybe he tried to stop me. I don’t know. I yanked open the car door and piled in. If this was some farmer coming for waffles, was he going to be surprised.
“O’Connor?” the driver said. “For the Detroit airport?”
“Yes. Just go.”
And off we went.
Was it too late to call Maggie Danforth Ellis?