Page 80 of Sunrise Arrows

I run my thumb and forefinger down the sides of my phone, turning it upside when I reach the bottom. Round and round I go, waiting for a call or a text, but nothing comes. Swiping it unlocked, I check our message thread again.

Nothing.

The last message from him was this morning. He’d sent me a video of Rowdy prancing in his stall and nickering at the sound of my voice from a recording I made for him.

I open it up and smile through the worry at my boys. I miss them. Somehow, the ache is worse now than it was before. I guess because I know what’s waiting for me, and it makes the days seem so much longer because there’s an end waiting for me and not just a deep buried hope.

The European leg of the tour has only been running for a few weeks, but I'm more sure than ever of my choice. What started as a desperate bargain with Archer so he wouldn’t leave me has now become my only way forward. I can’t go back to L.A. when the tour is over. At least not full time.

My heart has always been and always will be in Berry Falls with him. Wherever he is, that’s where I want to be as often as I can, for as long as I can.

I check the time again and it’s only been two minutes. I send another text and wait.

Another sixty seconds pass without a read receipt, response, or a call.

My finger hovers over the icon for a moment and I quietly beg, “Please pick up, Superman; you’re worryin’ me,” my accent growing thick as anxiety begins to clog my throat and uselessly spike my heart rate.

“This is Archer Hayes?—”

I end the call and press the corner of the phone to my painted lips, not caring if the strawberry color smudges.

Something is wrong. I can feel it like a gaping maw in my stomach. Archer is never,everlate. He’s incapable of it. The very prospect of it triggers his anxiety and makes his skin crawl.

The feeling only grows when I call Hunter and am sent to voicemail after three rings. Same thing happens with Ryder and even Eleanor.

I get up from the makeup chair and toss my phone at the couch. It bounces and lands with a hard thud on the floor. I’m pretty sure the screen is now cracked, but I can’t find it in me to care. So long as I can answer it when he finally calls, that’s all I need.

I pace my dressing room several times trying to calm down, but I can’t. Walking doesn’t help. Counting my breaths is useless. Feeling the various textures in the room only alerts me to how on edge my nerves are, everything feeling abrasive against my skin. I try to identify the smells in the room but there’s too many between hair and makeup products, various perfumes and colognes, plus those that are drifting in through the ventilation.

Finally, I snatch my lip balm from the makeup table and sit on the couch, beginning to chain-coat my lips.

I lose count of how many passes I make by the time Briar knocks on the door.

“Babe, it’s time,” she says entering the room, finishing off a text or possibly an email before closing out her phone and tucking it into the back pocket of her jean shorts.

“Archer hasn’t called,” I inform, forcing the cap on my lip balm before I apply the entire stick. “He always calls. 6:30 on the dot, every show, he calls me. We talk until 7:10 when you come and we say goodbye. And you call him for his set. And then he sends me a text right after so I have it when I come off stage. And when… and when…”

“TINSLEY!” Briar shouts, her hands on my shoulders as she jerks me one time. “Breathe. Come on, in… okay, out… in… out… again… good… good.”

She breathes with me until I can resume deep breaths and a sliver of the anxiety starts to leave me. However, when she steps back I feel clammy and my mouth floods with saliva.

Rushing over to the waste bin, I grab it and puke.

I squat down in my heels and cradle it to me.

“Something’s wrong, Briar. He’s late and no one is answering when I call.”

She sits down beside me, taking the small trash can from me and producing a tissue from her utility belt. Blotting at the corners of my mouth and then with a fresh one along the cold sweat at my hairline, she soothes, “Everything is fine, I promise. If something were wrong, I would know. They would have already called and told me.”

“But—”

“Shh… trust me. This is what I do. Can you trust me?”

I give her a jerky nod of my head and answer, “Of course I trust you; I just know him and?—”

“I know, babe, and I promise, I’m going to get this sorted out for you, okay? If I have to have Mikey and John call their old team and go full operator mode on BFE, Tennessee to find your man, I will. But let’s call that Plan B, okay? Until then, I need to know, can you perform?”

I swallow and let out a shaky breath, beginning to sort through the rush of thoughts and crush of emotions. Each one gets tucked into a box and locked away to be stacked in the corner. As the pile rises, I feel a false sense of calm creep in and take over until the placid artifice I relied on for nine years comes out.

---