I know.
I know I am.
And you deserve so much better than me.
“Well, then. Good talk,” I drawl sarcastically. I force my features into a condescending smirk. It feels like a lie on my lips. “Glad we had a chance to catch up after all this time, old friend.”
“Screw off, Archer.”
She stalks to the mouth of the shelter, as far from me as she can possibly get without standing in the rain. Blowing out a long breath, I stare up at the ceiling.
It’s going to be a long wait for rescue.
THIRTEEN
josephine
I’m vibrating — with rage, yes, but also with cold. It’s freezing in this dank little cave. And Archer’s icy disposition isn’t helping matters.
An hour of frozen silence passes, the only sound that of the pouring rain against the crumbling casino ruins and the occasional rumble of thunder. I stand for as long as I can at the outermost edge of the overhang, staring into the distance, straining my ears in vain for the sound of helicopter blades or boat engines, a portent of rescue.
Eventually, exhaustion overtakes me. I peel the wet poncho over my head, spread it across the mossy ground, and sit down, legs pulled close to my chest to stop my shivers. I’m utterly worn out. Every part of my body aches like I’ve been thrown down a flight of stairs. It’s not just physical, either — I am emotionally drained, a bone-deep sort of tired no amount of rest will cure.
A part of me knew if I ever saw Archer again, it would be difficult. But this is far more painful than I imagined it to be on the rare instances I’d actually allow my overactive mind to envision our paths crossing again. Maybe because, in my fictitious scenarios, we were always older. More time had passed. I’d be walking down the aisle of a grocery store in twenty years, reaching for an avocado, and there he’d be. Salt-and-pepper hair, a knowing smile. We’d nod politely and go our separate ways without a dramatic confrontation, no longer seeking closure or consideration. No mending of fences or water under bridges necessary, after so much time.
That, I could’ve lived with.
That, I could’ve swallowed without too much wounded pride.
That, I could’ve walked away from feeling, if not happy for him, at least at peace with the way it all played out.
But not this.
Anything but this.
This is…
Unimaginable.
One year was far too short. Too short for me to heal properly, and too short for him to have changed this much. He’s radically different — grown so cold, so indifferent toward me, it’s difficult to fathom we were ever inseparable. It’s almost impossible to reconcile this brooding, bearded stranger with the boy in my memories, who I adored with an all-consuming sort of madness.
I curl my arms tighter around my body, wishing I would wake up from this nightmare. Somewhere out of view, I hear Archer pouring water from his boots, shrugging out of his wet coveralls. I fight the urge to cover my ears with my palms like a child, blocking out every sound he makes. Even if I did, there’s no expunging thoughts of him from my head. My mind spins in dizzying circles, a torturous loop from which there is no reprieve. I’m so frustrated, I could pull my hair out at the roots.
Fall in love with your best friend. That’s what everyone always says — in movies, books, television shows, you name it. Fall in love with your best friend and you’ll spend your whole life laughing. Fall in love with your best friend, and you’ll never be alone. But no one tells you what to do if you fall in love with your best friend... and he doesn’t love you back. No one warns you how damn painful it’ll be to find the person you know, down to your bones, is meant for you… And he doesn’t feel the same.
A realization like that can throw your whole world off its axis. It can make you question everything — about your concept of reality, about the choices you’ve made. About what makes you you.
Fundamentally.
Viscerally.
Inherently.
I’ve always thought that navigating the world of relationships is a bit like scanning the radio waves for a good station. Ninety-nine percent of the time, you’re searching blindly — spinning the tuner with aimless fingers, seeking out a solid frequency amidst endless static. Occasionally, you might stumble upon one that comes in — not perfectly, not precisely, but clear enough to make out most of the words of whatever song they’re playing at the time. To sing along for a few muffled tracks before moving on in search of a better fit.
These stations are our casual relationships.
Flings.
Acquaintances.
Ships passing in the night.
Good enough to pass the time, but ultimately not worth sticking around for.
And so, you spin on.
Rarely — so rarely, you begin to think it might be an illusion or an urban legend or a figment of your imagination — your tuner will land on a frequency that shocks you with its clarity. A broadcast that matches your tastes so perfectly, it blasts straight into your soul, vibrates you down to your core until every atom shakes with the sheer bliss of sound washing over you. A startling pulse of pure energy.
These stations are our soulmates.
Best friends.
True loves.
The ones with whom you feel that elusive click of camaraderie and natural connection — the kind that cannot be forced or fabricated with any amount of time or effort. A wavelength you could ride until your last breath, content in the knowledge that nothing else will ever echo quite as perfectly in the chambers of your heart.
For me… there was only ever one person who made me feel like that. Right now, he’s standing six feet — and an emotional infinity — away from me.
Archer.
Freaking.
Reyes.
Last summer, when his frequency went dark without warning… when I found myself swimming solo through a world of meaningless static… a part of me shut down for good.
Closed off all connections.
Cut away all incoming signals.
I resigned myself to a life without love. Somehow, sitting in solitary silence felt safer than risking another erroneous bond. Being alone seemed infinitely smarter than letting someone in, only to get hurt again.
Better isolated by my own choices than cast aside by someone else’s.
It wasn’t until I met Oliver Beaufort last fall that I even considered opening up again. And, looking back, letting him in wasn’t really a conscious decision I made, an intentional act I undertook. It happened so fast — he happened so fast — I didn’t have time to put up any real resistance. He shot into my life like a brilliant beam of light in the darkness, chasing away my shadows with his sunny disposition and that southern twang and those charming manners before I realized it was happening.
And he stayed.
Despite the darkness, despite the damage. He waded straight into the static, grabbed me by the hand, and coaxed me back into the music. Every day since, for eight long months, he’s done his best to prove everything I thought I knew about relationships entirely wrong.
I used to believe passion and pain were intrinsically intertwined, that you could not have one without the other. But it turns out, devotion does not have to split your soul in half in order to be real. Just because a heart can break, does not mean it should. And those all-consuming passions? They only do one thing in the end.