So I went home, showered, crawled into bed, and watched dusk crawl across my bedroom walls. As day gave in to the pull of evening, I gave into my tears.
I cried for what might’ve been. I cried for getting myself into this mess. I cried for not having the courage to ask Archer to reconsider our terms. The sane part of my brain tells me the deadline I’ve given myself doesn’t have to mean anything. I can tell Barneythank but no thanks, but what then? How long before Archer begins to get itchy feet? How long before he gets tired of my attitude and quirks? How long before he gives up trying to fix me?
If he was interested in more thanfor now, he would have said.
Wouldn’t he?
At eight, my phone rings. I know who it is before I even reach for it.
‘Hey, sweetheart. How’s your head?’
‘Worse.’ I sound like I have the flu. Or possibly the black death.
‘You’ve been overthinking.’
I laugh. Unhappily. Because yes, yes I have. I’ve been thinking about all the things I wish I could change. How I’d do things if I was given the chance to do them over again.
I wouldn’t blackmail Archer into dating me.
I’d force myself to pluck up the nerve just to ask.
Ask, not demand.
God. Hindsight is a torturous bitch.
‘Are you still there?’
‘Yeah,’ I croak, pushing myself further up the pillows.
‘You love working for Miranda. You’ll probably love working for yourself in the same business even more.’
‘You think?’ If only my issues were my job. Miranda’s offer is a no-brainer; I hate my nine-to-five and I love my weekends. I know there’ll be a steep learning curve ahead—customer service, dealing with people, money and ordering and a million other things—but I also know Mir will be there to help.Just like Archer has been.
‘I know it. And Miranda will help. You won’t be on your own.’
Alone. Like I feel now. Alone in my decisions.
‘You in bed?’
‘Yeah. Yes. I am.’ I move the phone from my face and sniff quietly, wiping tears from my face.
‘Okay. Well, you tuck yourself in and I’ll tell you a bedtime story.’
I laugh. And I cry a little more.Silently. Why couldn’t he have pulled out something crass? Why does Archer Powell continue to slay me?
‘What would the story be about?’
‘It’s about a girl with a magic mirror.’
‘I think I’ve heard this one already.’ I could probably write a thesis on it.
Girls who wish on magic mirrors: a study of be careful what you wish for.
‘I don’t think you have, babe.’
‘I wish you were here.’ Did he hear the desperate longing in my sigh?
‘What would you do if I was there?’
