He’s here.
And that means I’m going to be the best damn Sparkle McHornface these kids have ever seen.
Two hours later, the party has wound down. The living room is a war zone of balloon debris, cake crumbs, and glitter that Caitlin will be finding in her carpet for the next six months.
Trust me, I know.
After the last parent collects their child, Caitlin takes one look at me and Archie and herds Kimmy and Thomas out of the room.
“We’ll be in the kitchen,” she says. “Take as long as you need.”
Then she closes the door behind her.
The living room looks like a party supply store detonated. There are streamers draped over every surface, a half-deflated balloon lodged under the sofa, and a smear of cake frosting on the wall at roughly child-height.
Archie’s standing by the window. He’s still in his cape, the top hat discarded somewhere, his hair sticking up in four different directions. There’s face paint on his cheek—a remnant from where a child insisted on painting a star on Captain Giggles.
He looks ridiculous. He’s the most gorgeous person I’ve ever seen.
“Vaughn told me everything,” Archie says.
“I figured.” I pull the unicorn hood down off my head. It feels like the right thing to do. This conversation shouldn’t happen from inside a costume. “I’m sorry I never told you the truth about why I spilled the syrup on you in the first place.”
“I actually figured it out the day after my accident,” he says.
The sound that comes out of me is not dignified. It’s somewhere between a laugh and a choke.
Of course Archie figured it out. He’s a genius, after all.
“Why didn’t you say anything?” I demand.
“Because it was far more fun to see how far that guilt would stretch.”
I look down at my onesie. “Fairly far, as it turns out.”
He grins. “Yep.”
He picks up a stray balloon from the floor and bats it gently between his hands. Then his grin fades. “Vaughn also told me you recorded him confessing. You had proof that he stole your idea. Eight years of wanting justice, and you deleted it.”
“Yes.”
“You told him to be a good brother.”
“Yes.”
“You told Vaughn that there were lots of men who could love me, but I only had one brother.” Archie’s now holding the balloon still against his chest.
I swallow. It takes two attempts.
“I did say that.”
“But you forgot one important variable in the whole equation.”
He takes a step toward me. Just one. The streamer-littered, frosting-smeared, glitter-infested distance between us contracts by about two feet.
“What’s that?”
“There’s only one man I’ll ever love the way I love you.”
