I shrug. “Yeah, maybe later.”
“Archer Wilde,” Freya snaps. “Call your mother.”
My eyes widen as I take in this new commanding tone of hers. Standing slowly from the table, I pull my phone from my back pocket. “Yes, Chef.”
“Good boy,” she replies sweetly as she stands from the chair and kisses me on the cheek. Then she and Julian head to the back to close up, and I slip out to the front of the building, pacing around the dark, quiet streets as I stare down at my phone.
Why is this so hard? Why does reaching out to the people who love me the most feel like a weakness? Because I want to? Because I want to hear my mother’s voice more than anything? Does that make me weak?
Maybe I’m not afraid of feeling weak anymore. Everyone’s a little weak sometimes.
With a deep breath, I punch her contact and let it ring. It’s late here but still a reasonable hour back on the East Coast. After only two rings, she picks up.
“Archer?” she asks, her voice full of hope and desperation.
The moment I hear it, something in me shatters. “Hey, Mom.”
“Oh, honey. Are you okay? Is everything all right? Where are you?”
“I’m fine, Mom. I’m still in Paris. I’m not in trouble or anything. Not hurt. I just…”
My voice trails, and it feels like I’m standing on the edge of a cliff. I could stay here where it’s safe, always guarded and afraid. Or I could take a leap of faith.
“I miss you.”
Uttering those words to my mother feels like soaring. The gravity of that grief and expectation is no longer dragging me down.
My mother doesn’t speak for a moment, and I almost fear I’ve lost the call when I hear her sniffle. When she speaks, her voice thick with agony, I nearly crumple to the cobblestones.
“Archer, I miss you so much, baby. We all do.”
“I’m sorry for not calling. For running away. For being a terrible son.”
She gasps. I hear echoed voices in the background, and I imagine her in the ballet studio, probably with a young class waiting for her instruction. When it grows quiet, I know she’s removed herself and found somewhere private.
“You were never a terrible son. We love you more than anything. You know that.”
“I know. It’s just…”
Why is opening up to the people we love so hard? Why do these fears and feelings have to bury themselves so deep they become secrets and shame instead of real human emotions?
“What is it, baby?”
“I can’t help but wonder… Did Dad want another Preston? Did I measure up? Was I a disappointment?”
“Archie, listen to me,” she snaps, using her old pet name to hold my attention. Tears prick my eyes as I wait. “You arenota disappointment. Not at all. And no, you know your dad never expected you to replace what he lost. He just wantedyou.”
“A good son would have stayed,” I murmur, staring down at my feet.
“Your father and I never wanted to hold you down or keep you here. He taught you all how to fly and gave you wings, for fuck’s sake.”
I chuckle. Hearing my mom cuss reminds me of growing up. We never were the proper sort of family people might have expected we were.
“My point is that you running away never disappointed us. That’s what made usproud.”
“Really?” I ask, feeling lighter all of a sudden.
“Of course. I mean, wouldn’t kill you to call your mother once in a while, but we were never mad at you for leaving.”
