Two ten-year-olds sitting side-by-side up in the rafters, legs swinging as they pick out starry constellations in the night sky.
Those three bright ones are Orion’s Belt, Jo. Do you see them?
Two twelve-year-olds learning to tie bowline knots with frayed dock lines.
Pretend your rope is a rabbit, Archer. Through the hole, around the tree, back down the hole. Pull tight!
Two seventeen-year-olds fumbling for buttons and belt buckles in the darkness, limbs shaky with lust.
This might hurt, Jo, the boy warns softly. If it does, just tell me to stop.
I trust you, Archer, the girl whispers back.
God, what a lovestruck fool I was. I handed Archer Reyes everything on a silver platter — not just my body or my virginity, but my brimming, beating heart. And he happily took it all… only to disappear from my life the very next morning with no more than a halfhearted goodbye scrawled in a letter he wasn’t even man enough to give me himself.
Before I left for Switzerland last summer, I tore that letter to shreds and dropped it into the ocean, piece by piece. Watched the waves swallow it whole, disintegrate it into pulp. I couldn’t bear to keep it — I knew if I did, I’d just wind up reading it over and over again, tracing the lopsided letters of his penmanship, seeking hidden meanings amidst his bland rejections.
Unfortunately, destroying the note didn’t make a damn bit of difference in the end. His words are burned forever in my brain, a painful brand I cannot erase. They play across my memory in a relentless stream.
Dear Jo, he wrote, with a stiff formality reserved for obligatory pen pals and awkward acquaintances. I thought it would be easier to put everything down on paper, so there’s no confusion.
My pulse picks up speed, thudding dangerously fast as more words stream through my mind.
As soon as I woke up the next morning, I realized we’d made a terrible mistake.
I’m sure you realized it, too.
I shake my head vigorously, trying in vain to clear it. Trying to stop the words, but they keep coming.
I hope you know, I value our friendship so much.
Too much to risk it with something as meaningless as a hook up.
I close my eyes, trying to keep gathering tears at bay.
Have a nice summer.
My chest aches like I’ve been sucker-punched straight in the ribcage.
Best,
Archer
And that was it. I haven’t heard from him since. Not a single word. No calls, no texts, no emails. Not even a damned snail-mail letter.
His silence speaks louder than any words ever could. His absence tells me everything I need to know.
He did not wake that morning in the aftermath of our lovemaking and feel joy. Those moments we shared in the darkness last June were not transcendent, effervescent, incandescent. To him, sleeping together was simply…
A mistake.
A regret.
An error in judgment.
I crane my head up toward the clear blue sky to keep from dissolving into a weepy mess. I told myself long ago I would waste no more grief on that boy. But, God, how can it still hurt like this? How can the pain of his absence feel as fresh as it did that morning when I woke alone in bloodied sheets, the scent of him lingering on my skin, my lips still swollen from the kisses he regretted in the cold light of day?
Deep down, I know the answer to these questions. Even after all this time… all this space… all this silence… my stupid, stubborn heart refuses to let go of the hurt it’s harboring. Within me, Archer is a jagged scar that will not heal, a shard of glass straight through the fabric of my soul.
If he were someone else — anyone else — I might be able to forget anything ever happened between us. But I do not even have the luxury of forgetting him — not without erasing parts of myself. Until last summer, our lives were so thoroughly intertwined, it’s difficult to separate the girl I was from the boy I loved; difficult to recall a single pivotal moment of my existence that did not also include him there, by my side.
There is no Josephine Valentine without Archer Reyes.
Bypassing the boathouse — and all the ghosts it contains — I jog down a short flight of stairs onto a private pier that extends out into a small rocky cove. My heart lightens as I catch sight of Cupid, my 20-foot red Alerion sailboat, bobbing happily at the end of the dock. It shouldn’t surprise me to see she’s been well cared for in my absence — the house may’ve fallen into dusty disrepair, but my father would never let the boats suffer a similar fate. I’m sure his Hinckley is ship-shape at its slip inside the boathouse.
Whoever’s been caring for the boats seems to be doing a fine job — Mrs. Granger’s snide comments aside. Cupid’s dock lines are tied in neat coils. Her sails are perfectly rigged. Her wooden seats are freshly varnished. Her poppy-red paint is buffed to a lustrous shine.
Kicking off my flip flops, I climb aboard. The boat sways lightly under my weight as I move around the narrow cockpit. My sea-legs are out of practice — it’s been a long time since I’ve been sailing — but the muscle memory of a million past days on the water eventually kicks in as I hoist the halyards and unwind the dock lines from their cleats. Taking hold of the tiller, I trim my sails until they catch the wind. Cupid picks up speed as I point her bow out of the small cove, toward open water.
It’s a perfect summer day — steady breeze, minimal chop. I find my spirits soaring as I chart a southward course toward Salem Sound. The sun shimmers on the surface of the water, dazzling gold ripples so beautiful it takes my breath away. With the wind in my face and the sun warming my skin, I feel alive in a way I haven’t for far too long. Alive and free. Switzerland, for all its alpine beauty, could never quite capture my heart the way the wild Atlantic manages with such ease.
My smile slips a bit at the thought of Geneva. I wonder how my parents are coping with my sudden departure. Likely better than Ollie, who’s left two voicemails and sent six texts this morning alone, wondering how I’m settling in. I haven’t yet dared check my email but there’s no doubt when I do, I’ll have at least one message from [email protected] in my inbox.
It’s sweet of him, I tell myself, gripping the tiller tighter. Not the least bit smothering.
Most girls would be overjoyed to have a handsome boyfriend so invested in their wellbeing. Most girls wouldn’t feel suffocated despite several thousand miles of distance. Most girls wouldn’t look into the future and see two paths diverging in opposite directions — to the left, independence at Brown University; to the right, an early engagement and familial acceptance at VALENT — neither of which she can picture walking down with any sort of confidence.
Turning into the breeze, I allow the fresh salt air to sweep those thoughts from my head. I focus on the present as I tack my way across the stretch of sea abutting Beverly. Soon enough, the Misery Islands come into view. Despite their rather unappealing name — credited to an unfortunate shipbuilder who found himself stranded there for three miserable days during a storm back in the 1620s — Great Misery and Little Misery are both quite beautiful in a wild, uninhabited sort of way. Several other sailboats have dropped anchor in the cove on the northeastern side of the larger island and taken their dinghies ashore. Day-trippers, most likely, eager to explore the hiking trails and sweeping views of Massachusetts’ craggy coast.