“I forgot she was listed as my emergency contact,” I tell her. And it’s the truth. I really had forgotten. For most of my childhood, Flora and Miguel were a fixed constant in my life — far more so than my biological parents, often half a world away on one of their extended business trips. It made much more sense to call the Reyeses in the event of a medical crisis. It never occurred to me that I’d need to remove them from my medical files after they moved away. “I’m sorry, Mrs. Granger. She never should’ve bothered you. I know it’s late, and—”
“Bothered me?” There’s a fissure of strain showing in my housekeeper’s unshakeable composure; her upper lip trembles with something that, in anyone else, I’d describe as downright disgruntlement. “It’s my job to manage the Valentine household. This certainly falls under that purview.” She takes a few steps closer, her posture stiff as a board. “Now, if you are quite ready, allow us to take our leave — preferably before the drunkard across the room shatters my eardrums with his bellowing.”
“There’s still insurance paperwork to fill out—
She waves away the clipboard. “I’ll handle all the particulars tomorrow morning. Come along, now. We’ll get you back to Cormorant House and into a proper bed. One with actual sheets and pillowcases without stains from Lord only know’s what. Honestly, the sheer nerve of calling this—” Her eyes cut a scathing path around the room. “—a hospital ward. I’ve seen prison systems with better aesthetics.”
“I think the doctors are more concerned with saving lives than interior decor.” I gasp with faux-outrage. “Where on earth are their priorities?”
She frowns at me. “There’s no need to be glib, Miss Valentine.”
“Sorry. I’m just tired. It’s been a long day, what with nearly dying and everything.”
“Mmm. In any case, I do hope you’ve saved some energy to speak to your parents. They’re expecting your call.”
My mouth gapes. “You told my parents about this?”
“Of course I did.”
“Why would you do that?”
Mrs. Granger looks genuinely baffled by the question. “They’re my employers. Why would I ever withhold information about their daughter from them?”
“They’re very busy people, in case you hadn’t noticed. There’s no need to bother them with something this trivial.”
“Nearly dying is trivial?”
I sigh. “Let’s just say, when it comes to my general wellbeing, my parents are mainly concerned with things that could affect my academic performance and future earning potential.”
“I’m certain that is simply untrue.”
“Agree to disagree then.” I swing my legs over the side of the hospital bed and slide my feet into the scratchy microfiber slippers Nurse Laura was kind enough to leave for me. “Let’s go.”
Mrs. Granger looks pointedly at the wheelchair waiting by the end of my bed.
My eyes widen. “You cannot be serious.”
“As you’ve no doubt learned by now, Miss Valentine, I am rarely one to play practical jokes. Now, take a seat.”
“But—”
“Take. A. Seat.”
I heave a martyred sigh.
And then I take a seat.
It’s been the longest day of my life. I’m in no mood to argue. Frankly, I’m in no mood to do a damn thing except crawl beneath the covers of my bed and sleep for the next hundred or so years. Unfortunately, an unpleasant chat with my parents separates me from a solid night’s rest.
Mrs. Granger drives me home in her beige-on-beige sedan as I begrudgingly dial the number of the executive office at VALENT headquarters from the passenger seat. Blair and Vincent take the call on speakerphone. They seem both annoyed I’ve interrupted the start of their workday and displeased that I’ve managed to sink my sailboat. They are altogether less worried by my brush with death and subsequent visit to the ER.
My father mumbles something about filing an insurance claim to recoup some of the financial loss, while my mother makes a pointed comment about how this never would’ve happened if I’d merely stayed in Switzerland, where I belong. By the time we hang up, my soul feels as battered as my body. I don’t have any energy leftover to call Oliver. Which truly should make me feel a modicum of guilt. But I’m too tired even for self-condemnation.
Telling myself I’ll contact him the moment my eyes spring open tomorrow morning, I take a scalding hot shower and collapse face-first onto my bed without bothering to change into pajamas. Given how tired I am, I assume I’ll fall asleep instantly. But as ten minutes turn into twenty… as one hour ticks by, then two… sleep remains frustratingly out of reach. I toss and turn in my bed, unable to find a comfortable position. More though, unable to quiet my mind long enough to drift off into a blissful state of unconsciousness. Not with every waking thought wrapped up in Archer Reyes.
Here, safe in the silent darkness of my childhood bedroom, without the distractions of the storm, without the need to fight for survival… my battered brain begins to piece together some of the more puzzling elements of my day. Details I overlooked in the shock-laced aftermath of Cupid sinking are now lodged at the forefront of my mind. And they are not so easily dismissed.
I turn a single question over and over, examining it from every angle, like an archaeologist trying to make sense of an inexplicable artifact at a dig-site — an arrowhead from the wrong age embedded firmly in the topsoil, eons away from where it belongs.
Why the hell is Archer working on a lobster boat?
A star baseball pitcher at Bryant University wouldn’t choose to spend his summer break hauling traps for minimum wage. Not even Archer, who has never shied away from a hard day’s work. It doesn’t make a shred of sense. Nor does the way he looked — which, to be honest, was like a shadowy mirror of his former self. Barely recognizable.
It wasn’t merely the beard, obscuring his sharp jawline, or the fishing garb, or even the rather thin affirmation he gave when I questioned his chosen employment. It was something more. A look in his eyes that was never there before. A bitter darkness that reminded me a bit too much of his older brother, Jaxon.
Jax.
I haven’t thought of him in ages. Last time our paths crossed, he was fresh out of prison — and seemed determined to land himself back there as soon as humanly possible, judging by the seedy company he was keeping. He’s always run with a bad crowd, even back in high school; somehow, I doubt his fellow inmates provided any positive reinforcement.
For Flora and Miguel’s sake, I hope I’m wrong. I hope he’s managed to turn his life around and stay away from some of his more addictive habits.
Like heroin.
And fentanyl.
And oxycodone.
It always amazes me that two sons of the same blood could turn out so different. Where Archer is warmth and good humor, Jaxon is wrath and biting malcontent. Polar opposites, even before Jax developed a drug problem. At least, that’s how it used to be. Something in Archer changed last summer. Something peeled away some of his happy outer shell and revealed a darker layer I never knew was there, hidden underneath. One I could not decipher, despite my best efforts. One that narrowed a bit of that demarcation line between him and his older brother.