I’ve always loved the symbolism. I’ve long believed that true love, like that knot, is unbreakable. Not merely capable of weathering the worst of life’s storms, but stronger because of them.
Or… so I used to believe.
So I used to hope.
After my heart shattered last summer, I lost some of that naivety. Some of that romantic sentimentality slipped out of my disposition. But here, in my hands, I find it returned to me. Cast in gold. Covered in dust. Forgotten for a time, but not gone. Merely tucked away, out of sight, until I was ready to rediscover it.
There’s a message printed on the inside of the lid — gold lettering against white silk.
Josephine —
I saw this in a shop window and knew it was yours.
Like my heart.
Happy 18th Birthday.
— Archer
My heart is in my throat. I don’t think it’s beating, anymore. I don’t think I’m breathing, either. And I don’t care. My mind is one big blank, the buzz of static between my ears impossible to think through. I don’t need to think, anyway; my hands are moving on autopilot, no executive functions necessary.
Pulling the necklace from the box.
Reaching beneath the thick curtain of hair around my shoulders.
Clasping the tiny chain.
Allowing the pendant to settle against my skin.
It’s the perfect length, hanging just long enough to nestle in the hollow where my breasts curve inward. The gold is warm against my skin, radiating heat beneath the fabric of my thin pajama top. For a long moment, I press my palm flat against it, wondering why this gift — one that arrived a year too late, one I was likely never meant to receive in the first place — was so very easy to claim as my own… when I could not accept a far more significant piece of jewelry offered to me mere hours ago.
The sound of a car door slamming jolts me back to reality. I need to get back to the house before Oliver comes looking for me. The last thing I want to do is give him a tour of the boathouse right now. Bending swiftly, I rummage beneath the nightstand once more, eventually locating the ring box in the darkness. I tuck it into the pocket of my sweater without opening it — alongside the now-empty necklace box — and hurry toward the ladder. My hands are clammy on the rungs as I descend. My heart beats a strange song I do not recognize.
Half hope, half terror.
A haunting, inescapable percussion that follows me all the way up the lawn. My bare feet make no noise on the cold flagstones. I cross the terrace to the side door into the kitchen; it swings inward on silent hinges. But the stealth goes to waste. When I step inside, Mrs. Granger is already in position at the stove, brewing a pot of coffee. She glances at me, brows arched to her hairline. Somehow, she manages to pack a thousand snide comments into that one fleeting look.
“Oh. Hi.” I gulp like a fish out of water. “Good morning.”
“Miss Valentine.”
“I was just out getting some fresh air.”
“Mmm.” Her eyes narrow a shade. “Will you be in need of breakfast?”
“Just coffee for me, thanks. But my boyfr—fianc—“ I break off, coughing nervously. “My guest Oliver may want something.”
“Mr. Beaufort already left for the day.”
“Excuse me?”
“We crossed paths in the driveway as I was arriving several minutes ago. He asked me to inform you of his plans to work from the VALENT offices in downtown Boston today.” She pauses for a beat. “He attempted to say goodbye, but you weren’t in your bedroom.”
I press my eyes closed, sighing. “Like I said, I was out getting some fresh air.”
“He was worried.” She pauses. “Perhaps because it’s so unusual for you to rise before noon.”
It’s a struggle not to flip her off as I stalk to the coffee pot and pour myself a massive cup. Lord knows I’m going to need it. I manage to keep my snarky replies trapped behind a frigid smile as I leave the kitchen and stomp my way upstairs. The guest bedroom door is shut tight; no sign of Oliver. My pace hastens as I pass by, eyes fixed toward the end of the hall. My own door is slightly ajar. I know for a fact I left it closed. I can almost picture Ollie standing there at the threshold, one hand on the knob, confused gaze searching for me in the empty room and coming up short.
God, what must he think of me?
I don’t let myself look too hard for an answer to that question. Once inside, I close the door with a firm click and lock it for good measure — just in case Mrs. Granger gets any ideas about walking in unannounced. I need a shower, but first… I need to find a place for the two jewelry boxes burning holes in my sweater pockets. I can’t keep carrying them around. They’re heavy as anvils, an emotional weight I’m ill-equipped to bear.
I slide open the middle drawer of my desk, shove aside a stack of pens, and drop the velvet boxes in the very back. Out of sight, out of mind — that’s how the saying goes, isn’t it? Somehow, I doubt it will be that simple to stop thinking about the two pieces of jewelry — or the two men who purchased them for me — but I’m willing to give it a shot.
The drawer is already half-shut when my eyes catch on something buried beneath a pile of crumpled receipts. A thick notebook with a sage green cover. My old sketchbook. Not the design portfolio I submitted to Brown when I applied for their arts program; this one I used as an outlet for random bursts of creative energy during my junior and senior years at Exeter Academy. Its margins contain everything from cartoon doodles to charcoal self-portraits to paper collages cut from magazines.
Familiarity courses through me as I pull it free and flip it open to a random page. The drawing that greets me sends a jolt through my whole body. Archer stares out at me, inked with a blue ballpoint pen. His brow is furrowed in concentration. The line of his jaw is so sharp, just running my fingers across it might give me a paper-cut.
I turn the page.
Archer again — younger this time, sketched with pencil. He’s on the pitching mound with a glove in his hand.
I turn another page.
Two kids in shades of pastel sit in the rafters, legs swinging in the air, shoulders pressed tight together. Even in profile, the girl’s expression is brimming with adoration.
Page after page after page, I find different variations of the same thing. Archer. Archer happy, laughing, head thrown back with joy. Archer sad, hazel eyes burning with feelings. Archer frustrated. Archer frowning. Archer grinning.
Archer, Archer, Archer.
I slam the sketchbook closed with a pained laugh.
No wonder I left it behind. It’s basically a tribute to my unrequited love for Archer Reyes. If he ever saw this — if anyone ever saw this — they’d think I was some sort of obsessed stalker, in need of psychiatric deprogramming. I shove the book back into the drawer and slam it shut with so much force, a picture frame rattles off my desktop. When I bend to retrieve it, I see it’s a black and white photograph of two kids, no more than six or seven, sitting beside a sand castle down by the cove.
The little girl’s blonde hair is in messy, braided pigtails. She’s laughing. So carefree, it hurts to look at her. The little boy is more serious, a solemn counterpart to her airy delight. His hands are steady as he shapes a turret with a plastic shovel. His eyes aren’t on his work, but on the girl sitting across from him.