I see Archer’s shoulders relax; he’s heard this so many times before, it’s lost all its meaning. “Who?” he asks, sounding disinterested.
“Gabby Pines,” Randy replies, his voice pitched, offended that Archer wouldn’t already know this.
My brother blows out a long, tired breath—like he’s finally growing weary of his own games, of the love he encourages, then must try to fend off. “Give it a month, man,” he says, reaching forward and patting Randy on the shoulder. “Soon enough she’ll lose interest in me and go back to you.”
I see Randy’s mouth gape open, about to say something else, but Archer closes the door in his face. My brother turns, shaking his head, and I can’t help but smirk. Randy looked so dumbfounded—maybe he thought he’d have to fight Archer for Gabby’s love, or maybe he was ready to drop to his knees and plead with Archer to leave Gabby alone. He didn’t realize that Archer couldn’t care less about most of the people who fall for him. And when the tulips finally sink back into the soil, the attraction that others feel for Archer will fade. He’ll still be a Goode—he’ll still be a touch more irresistible than anyone else in this town—but the charm will be diluted enough that someone like Gabby will likely go back to her boyfriend. The one she’s meant to love.
I sink onto the couch as Archer starts for the kitchen, when there’s another sound outside—a car this time, coming up the driveway. Archer frowns, flashes me a look, before turning back. “Who the hell…?” he says, pulling open the front door.
I push up from the couch to get a better look.
And I see what he does: an old white Chevy truck kicking up dust as it roars toward the house, then lurches to a stop near the creek.
My throat dries up.
My heart stops beating.
Dad… is home.
I watch, unblinking, as our father ambles stiffly out of the truck, his face sunburned, looking tired—like he’s been driving all night—and when he peers up at the house, I feel my lungs cease to draw in air.
Archer and I watch as our father steps over the swollen creek and climbs the stairs. His brown hair is windblown and uncombed, and the sleeves of his green flannel shirt are rolled up to his elbows, revealing skin that’s dark and weathered from working long hours on a fishing boat off the Pacific coast. He reaches the front door, shoulders dropping as he exhales.
“I saw the article,” he says, raising an eyebrow at us. “One of the guys I work with found it online, showed it to me, remembered that I used to live in Cutwater.”
He tips his eyes at us, waiting for a response, but both Archer and I are mute, standing side by side as if we were ten years old again and had been caught sneaking Mom’s peanut butter cookies from the cupboard in the middle of the night.
“Start talking,” he says.
Archer tells him everything. Every last detail about the stolen flowers and how we traded the real Goode tulips for fake ones.
Dad is quiet, eyes heavy—he seems exhausted. But finally he rubs his hands across his sun-scorched neck, then walks into the kitchen for a glass of water. He looks like he’s been at sea for some time, his back always bent to haul in the nets, seawater in his hair, the salty air in his lungs.
“It’s late,” he says finally, staring down at the floor. “And I’m tired.”
Archer gladly retreats to his room, but I stay, watching Dad walk out onto the back porch, where he stands at the railing, breathing in the muggy summer air. I follow him out and lean against one of the rotted wood posts that hold up the roof. It’s a strange thing, seeing my dad here, in this house that he tries so hard to avoid. He used to visit once a year, near our birthday. But since Mom left, he’s been coming more often. He worries about us, I suppose, but not enough to stay. Not enough to save us from this house. This life.
He wants out just as bad as I do. And he makes sure to stay away more than he’s here.
“Looks like they got quite a few of them,” he comments, nodding to the headless stalks.
“I may have cut down a couple as well,” I admit.
He nods, like he understands—like he’s considered destroying the garden a time or two himself.
I clear my throat, looking up at the man who feels more like a stranger each time I see him. “We could sell it,” I say, an idea I’ve considered over the years. A way out. “This whole place. Then we’d be rid of it.”
The garden did this to us, broke us all apart, sent us scattering. He was a victim of this house—of the woman he loved one summer with a Goode last name.
A woman he wastrickedinto loving, because of the tulips.
But if we sold the house, the land, we could walk away—all of us.
His eyes sag, and he draws in a long inhale. “It can be hard toseparate the difference between right and wrong. Between fate and free will.” He stares out at the rows of perfect blooms, the flowers that have ruined all of us. “I don’t know what this garden is, why those tulips have a way of wrecking everything, but I know that this home belongs to you and Archer. And it needs to stay that way.”
I want to tell him that he’s wrong; I want to remind him of how Mom let him fall in love with her even though she knew it all would end when tulip season was over. But mentioning Mom hurts me as much as it hurts him, so I keep my mouth shut.
“I’m sorry…,” he starts to say. “I’m sorry I’m not here more. I’m sorry for leaving—it’s just too hard for me to…” His eyes begin to water.
