He raises a brow, letting his eyes roam around my face. I’m sure it looks like ground beef now.
“Yeah.” I touch my nose. “I’m fine.”
“Want me to set that for you?”
“And next week we’ll paint each other’s nails? I’ll manage.” I roll my eyes, and he cackles.
“Offer still stands. I could inflict some pain on you.” His brow quirks. “You know, the legal way.”
“And here comes the real reason for the offer.” I let a smile slip.
His face turns serious. “Are you gonna go check on her?”
I roll my lips. “I want to, but I’m not sure she wants to see me now.”
“I think you’re the only one she wants to see.” He smacks my back and walks away. “I’ll text you the address.”
Chapter Twenty-One
ARCHIE
I’m pulling into the driveway of her tiny house. Everything here is miniature and cute, like a little fairytale. It’s funny how small everything is here compared to her large personality. I think that’s what drew me to her in the first place. She is an absolutely gorgeous woman, no doubt about it, and I’m always hard around her, always. But it’s her presence that knocks me down every time I talk to her; every time I breathe the same air as her.
It was naive of me to assume that I would come out of this unscathed. I told her myself that time at the cabin was all we could have, and she agreed to it. I thought I’d just move on, but I couldn’t. That’s why I’m here, back in this town where I promised myself I’d never come. Alex is married now andmoving on with his life—I can’t drag him back to the painful past we both share. If he could find the power to forget and move on, so be it. I can’t do anything about that. I’m not judging, but I don’t think I can forget what happened on that mission that easily. Or ever. In the end, we came back alive while they didn’t.
There’s a light in one window. She’s not sleeping. Obviously. I didn’t come here right away after the diner—I couldn’t. I was sitting at the fuckin’ bridge we met at the first time and remembering her face when she got out of her car and walked up to me—a stranger on the road. Did I havethoughtswhen I was looking at the water? Fuck, I have constant thoughts; they never leave my brain. But I’d be damned if I ever admitted that to anyone. I don’t need the judgy looks. I’ve had enough of those in my life.
I watched the half-frozen river and cold, deep waters, and all I saw was her face. What would she think? Would she feel anything? Would she miss me? It’s fucking petty, I know, but I have to be honest with myself at the very least and accept that I’m fucked up. They say it’s the first step to getting help. All right, I accept it, but where would I move? There is literally no one out there who will miss me. No one. She told me that there is always one person out there whose life I irrevocably changed. I changed a few lives, all right. I changed them by killing their sons, husbands, brothers, cousins. I changed those lives for sure, and they won’t miss me. I’m sure they’d be happy to see me rotting in hell. That’s what I deserve.
The light turns off—I’ve been sitting here too long, so I get out of the car and walk toward her door, leaving footsteps in the fresh snow.
And then I notice other footprints. Clearly male. Heavy feet. I follow them. They go to the door, and the person stands there for a few moments, moving around a bit, and then walks back to the street, where the footsteps disappear into a big vehicle.Judging by the tires and the spread of the wheels—a newer truck. Delivery? It’s not unknown to have a delivery, even in Middle of Nowhere, Maine. So, I shove the footprints to the back of my mind and walk back to her door—having someone drop some boxes by the house is less concerning than having someone watching her in the woods in the middle of nowhere.
She opens on the second knock. Her eyes are puffy and red. Her nose swollen and pink. Her big, gray eyes are shinier than usual.
“Hey,” I say softly, trying not to scare her off.
“Hey.” She wipes her nose with the oversized sleeve of her gray sweater and steps aside, opening the door wider.
I walk past her and take my shoes off. She closes the door and walks to the kitchen.
“I was drinking tea. Do you want some?”
“In the dark?”
She glances at me but doesn’t say anything.
“Sure, I’ll have some,” I say, trying to suppress a smile at how cute she looks right now.
Her small feet pat toward the kitchen, and I can’t help but notice her adorable fuzzy socks. I look around. The place looks like her. Mostly neutral, with unexpected bursts of color here and there.
She puts the kettle on—she wasalreadydrinking tea, sure—pulls two mugs out of the cabinet and busies herself fidgeting with the teabags.
“Are you okay?” I finally ask when I can’t stand it anymore.
“Yeah,” she answers with a sniffle.
“He didn’t mean that.”
