23. Archer
Chapter twenty-three
Archer
Present
C racked and moisture ridden, my old phone screen stares at me with a sharp look of disdain, clearly admonishing me for not only keeping it alive though it’s on its last leg, but for scrolling through text messages I’ve never been able to delete from six years ago. I should’ve gotten rid of the old Motorola Razr after college but reading Sebastian’s old messages helps me relax.
A timer dings, and I get up from the couch and head to the kitchen to check on my Dr Pepper pulled pork in the crockpot. The scents of garlic and paprika float into my nose, and the liquid smoke I used gives the pork a hint of smoky flavor. Once it’s shredded, I grab the BBQ sauce and a cold beer before sitting at the table with the old phone in my hand.
Between mouthfuls, I scroll down memory lane, reminding myself of all the stupid shenanigans me, Jessie, and Sebastian used to get into: TP’ing our teachers’ houses, the massive bubble fan we stuck inside the principal’s office, and even taking our parents’ car out for a joyride.
Thumbing through the phone, I land on a thread of messages from a number I haven’t seen in years. Opening it, I realize it’s conversations between me and Tilly. We stopped texting daily after she and Jessie got together, and not too long after that I deleted her contact from my old phone. It was too much of a temptation, and I figured I could trick my brain into forgetting it was her number .
Deidre’s comment from the other day bounces around my head like a spiky ball, digging into the soft tissue and poisoning my thoughts. I grit my teeth, wondering if that song was sent to the radio at that exact moment by Sebastian up in heaven, his version of a joke. He would’ve gotten a kick out of embarrassing me like that in front of a woman, but that wasn’t the emotion I felt. A mixture of shame, confusion, and uncertainty swelled in my stomach, but on the tails of that came a blip of hope.
I nearly choke on my pork when my scrolling produces a picture of Tilly covered in yellow goo from head to toe. Laughing, I download the picture and send it to the phone I use now so I can forward it to Tilly.
She didn’t come back to the shop after Deidre left, and as much as I want to delve into the potential reasons why, I know it wouldn’t be good for me to go down that path. We’re barely on friendly terrain now, I don’t want to mess it up by insinuating she’s feeling something other than apathy.
I try to quiet the frenetic thoughts in my head as my finger hovers over the send button. Slowly, the ice between Tilly and me has started to thaw, but I know she’s like an iceberg. On the surface she’s been calm, fun to work with, easygoing as usual, but I can see there is still a glacier of hurt beneath the still waters from when I pushed her away. Like a schoolyard crush, I purposefully ignored the girl I liked because I was too scared to man up and tell her my feelings, and I regret it.
Suck it up and do it , I coach myself as I stare down at my iPhone, hovering over Tilly’s name on the screen.
Me: In my humble opinion, the yellow elephant toothpaste was one of your best looks.
The swoosh of the sent message immediately brings a bead of sweat to my neck and I lay my phone down. After taking a few more bites I pick it up again, shoulders falling when there isn’t a new message or any hint she even received it. I’ve always hated when people talk about turning on the “read” feature to see when someone reads their messages, but the temptation to do it now is almost unbearable.
Stomach now satisfied, I clean the dishes. A ding steals my attention, and the clatter of the plate inside the sink rings loudly in the empty house. I wipe my soapy hands on my jeans without sparing a look to make sure the plate isn’t broken and pick up my phone.
Tilly: If I remember correctly, we ended up getting a B on that project because you and Jessie kept trying to put extra stuff in the solution.
I laugh out loud, allowing a wide smile to take over my face. Jessie and I loved playing pranks on the goody-two shoes teacher’s pet. Unfortunately, our prank backfired when he and Tilly swapped containers because she wanted the yellow one.
Me: You can’t deny the prank was funny, even if it backfired.
Tilly: BACKFIRED?!?! It took three days to get it completely out of my hair!
Me: I told you to stick with the blue container I gave you.
Tilly sends me a gif of a little girl giving a massive side eye to the camera.
Me: But you looked adorable in your shower cap when you came to the study session.
Shit. I can’t believe I just told her she looked adorable. Could I make it any more awkward?
Tension inches up my spine as I try to decide whether to take it back or to pretend like it never happened. Three dots appear, and it feels like the countdown at New Year’s where I’m simultaneously thankful the year is over and terrified at what’s about to happen in the next. My phone dings.
Tilly: Umm…thanks .
Fuck.
How the hell do I fix this?
Another ding.
Tilly: I think I’m owed some retribution for the hardship of having to wash my hair three times in a row.
Me: I’ll wash your hair.
What the hell, Archer? That is not what you were supposed to say. I smack my forehead, cursing myself for making things uncomfortable again. How can we ever get closer if I can’t even talk to her like a normal human being?
A vibrating on the table breaks my pity party, and my heart rate takes off like it’s at the races when Tilly’s name flashes on the screen. With sweaty palms, I pick up the phone and debate on letting it go to voicemail. Is she calling to yell at me? To tell me I’ve crossed a line and she doesn’t want to work with me anymore?
I muster up the courage and press answer.
“Hello?”
“You know, in some cultures offering to wash someone’s hair is a declaration of marriage,” Tilly says.
I swear my gulp is audible. Flooded with images of Tilly standing across the aisle from me, beautiful in a lace dress and long veil, I forget to speak.
“I’m kidding, Arch.” She laughs, and it’s like walking into a warm room after being outside in the freezing cold. I haven’t heard that beautiful noise in far too long.
Pots and pans clank around in the background as I try to formulate a coherent sentence.
“What are you doing?” I ask, scoffing at the unoriginal statement.
“Getting my baking materials ready for tomorrow. ”
I walk over to the couch and get comfortable. “What are you making?”
“I’m not really sure yet, but I was thinking about doing a cake or some cookies…maybe I’ll try out a new recipe for a cheesecake or…” My eyes drift shut listening to the smooth timbre of her voice. I can tell she’s excited by her nervous but cute rambling, and the fact that she called me makes my heart stutter like a kick drum. “What do you think about that?” she asks.
I was so entranced by the sound of her voice that I forgot to listen to the actual words she said. “Uh, yeah. That sounds great.”
She laughs. “You weren’t listening.”
“Yes, I was,” I reply, lying down on the couch to get more comfortable.
“Oh yeah? Then what did I ask?”
Chewing on my lip, I stifle a smile she can’t see. “Something about cheesecakes.”
She growls, and I swear a swarm of butterflies fills my chest. “Should I make sticky toffee or cheesecake?”
I run a hand along my beard and try to squeeze the stupid grin off my face.
“Hmm…sticky toffee for sure,” I reply.
I want to ask her to dinner, but I know we’re not there yet. I haven’t proved I’m worthy of being her friend, let alone anything more. I’m no stranger to having to prove myself—a carpenter’s success relies on his work and word of mouth—but when you’ve spent so many years pushing someone away, making sure they don’t get close enough to see the pain in your eyes, it’s a chasm too daunting to cross.
While Tilly seems to have forgiven me for some of my actions, it’s not as easy to forgive myself. I want to be the type of man that deserves her love. Someone she wants to be around because she enjoys my company, not because she feels obligated. The fear of being a burden to her—like I am to my parents—makes my throat burn.
“Oh crap. I’ve gotta run to the store before it closes, but I’ll see you tomorrow?” she asks.
“I’ll be there.”
We hang up, and I rest my hands on my stomach and sink into the couch cushions. There’s a part of me that wonders if she’s forgiven me because I’m helping with her bakery and she’s just thankful, or if it’s because she feels what’s been brewing between us—what was there so many years ago left unkindled.