Chapter 25
Chapter Twenty-Five
Archer reread his last text from Elton, from more than a day ago.
Which would normally worry Archer. In the two months since Pride weekend, they’d been making two-a-day calls with dozens of texts in between.
But Elton had warned him that he’d be out-of-pocket several days this week; one look at the news told Archer why.
The organization Elton had spent his entire professional life working for was being used as a sledgehammer in countless unjust ways, the opposite of protecting the vulnerable.
And anything Archer considered texting seemed inconsequential and would likely only make Elton feel worse.
How’s it going? . . . Obviously not well.
Wish you were here . . . Me too.
What can I do to help? . . . Vote, march, donate, call your reps, throw another party.
All of which were regularly on Archer’s agenda now.
He glanced around his office, looking for any inspiration.
His gaze caught on the refractometer he’d left on the corner of his desk.
The next couple of months were Archer’s favorite in the vineyard, his favorite part of the job, tending the grapes as they struggled through the dry, hot summer, their Brix inching up each day, until that perfect moment when they reached peak ripeness.
Each morning, Archer drove through the foggy vineyard blocks, testing and tasting, a view to the rest of his growing season sharpening, the time window for harvest becoming more and more narrow.
Did Elton have those moments? Maybe not now, but in the past? There must have been something he loved about the job to stay with the Bureau for so long.
If you could go back to a time in your career that was perfect, when would that be? he texted, no intro, no platitudes, just the way they still started every conversation, still getting to know each other, a question there for Elton to pick up if and when he had time.
Which turned out to be five minutes later.
2018-2019. But that was all the surprising answer he provided for the next hour, reply dots staying interminably on-screen until finally the rest of his answer appeared.
DC was still mostly leaving us alone out here, and there was a case that was personal.
I opened myself up. Got some good friends out of it and put away the bad guy.
Was that what you liked most about the job? Archer replied. Putting away the bad guys?
Reply dots appeared right away, and Archer ducked away from Ezra’s side, cutting through the crowd around the farmers market stand where Ezra was haggling with the purveyor.
“Sorry about him,” Archer said, offering the others in line an apologetic smile.
“You can take the boy out of the bodega but not the bodega out of the boy.” A few of the patrons laughed, others rolled their eyes.
Archer paid them no further attention, skirting across the blocked-off street and around the corner of a building to a quieter, shadier spot.
Just in time for Elton’s answer. No, that was just a particularly nasty one. When I was a field agent, it was solving a case. Once I became an AD, it was visiting new places in my jurisdiction.
Archer was typing his reply—What’s the favorite place you ever visited?—when a flurry of pictures came through.
Stoplights in small towns from across California, judging by the terrain and the vegetation; Archer knew it all well.
The photos were impressively consistent, the same golden hour lighting and off-center composition in each.
If Elton ever put them together in a wall collage, they would look like an intentional series.
Did you study photography? he asked.
Good eye, Elton sent back with a wink emoji. Thought I was going to be a crime scene photographer until I decided I liked solving crimes better.
Which of these is your favorite place you ever visited?
None, Elton replied, followed by My favorite with a picture from the upper block of La Montagna Nebbiosa, the morning sun a backdrop for the low-lying fog snaking through the rows of vines, the ground beneath them covered with yellow and white flowers.
Archer thanked all that was holy he was no longer standing beside Ezra, because his best friend would never let him live down the lovesick grin that stretched across his face.
Kiss-ass, he replied, keeping the tone teasing, wanting to keep Elton engaged and in a positive headspace, anything he could do to help him, to make the load lighter from three thousand miles away.
Elton sent the kissy-face emoji back.
Which made Archer grin wider. It’s a gorgeous picture. You should frame it.
I did. Come to my place when I get back, and you can see it.
I’d love that, he texted, heart pounding with anticipation. Soon, he hoped. Any idea when? he asked.
Friday. Sooner than Archer had thought. I don’t care, Elton continued. Need a break.
Archer’s heart pounded harder—a reunion only two days away.
The time apart hadn’t been as long this time, Elton returning twice since the end of June, but that whole falling hard and harder for the man on the other end of the text thread was making any absence feel too long.
Did Elton feel as strongly? For a man who missed travel, who considered that one of his favorite parts of the job, was Archer expecting too much, asking too much?
What did the future look like for them? What do you want the rest of your career to look like?
Elton answered with a picture taken during his last visit. The stoplight downtown, Archer leaning against the pole, making eyes at the photographer after a dinner of excellent food and too much wine.
Archer didn’t worry about their future any longer.