Page 41 of Archer
For the first time all night, my legs regained movement and dragged me out of bed and toward the smell of the smoke. I didn’t want to talk much, but I wanted to feel some relief for this pain. As quietly as I could, in case I wanted to back out last minute, I opened my door and tip-toed down the hallway.
I remembered a time when I was eighteen, when my dad first put me in charge of running the store by myself, I was stressed. He told me I was an adult and that it was time I gained responsibilities. Even though I wanted to go to college, he insisted that we didn’t have enough money, so there I was, baking bread for a living. I wanted to study literature, to gain more depth and understanding of the fictional friends I spent my childhood with. I wanted to write my own. But bread was more important than college.
Overworked and upset with his disregard for my dreams, I walked into a convenience store, and without thinking, asked the cashier for a pack of cigarettes.
When I turned the corner, I saw Archer sitting at the counter with a cigarette and a book. Most of the lights in the kitchen and living room were shut off aside from the light above the stove, a floor lamp, and two scented candles. The vanilla and raspberry aromas wrapped around my senses, dragging me back to the fake rose petal night as I silently observed Archer.
I’d never had a moment to appreciate how handsome he was when no one was around. There was always so much energy that came off him, like he was always on his A-game, trying to impress. Whether he was cracking jokes or trying to make me comfortable, I’d never seen what Archer was like when no one was watching. The warm, gentle lights illuminated his strong jawline and cheekbones as he pored over his novel, flicking the cigarette against an ashtray. I’d never noticed before, but the indent he got between his brows when he focused made him look surprisingly sophisticated.
I didn’t know Archer could look sophisticated.
Finally, I continued toward him and asked, “What are you reading?”
Startled, he inhaled sharply and coughed before putting out the cigarette. Shifting on the seat, he set the book down and turned to me. Looking almost sheepish, he rubbed the back of his neck. “Ah, just some dumb detective book. They’re kind of a guilty pleasure of mine.”
That made my lips curl up. “Really?”
“Yeah,” he said. “Some drunk, washed up ex-cop winds up solving some big mystery. They’re usually pretty cliché, but I dunno, I like them.”
“I like that,” I said, unable to think of a better way to phrase it. “I was looking at your books one day and was, uh… impressed.”
“Yeah, well, I haven’t readallof them yet,” he said. “About a quarter left.”
“Whenever you came into the bakery, wearing your leather jacket,” I mimed the motions of tugging on the collar of a coat while grinning. “Flirtin’ with me. I never would have taken you for a reader.”
He scrunched his nose. “Wouldthathave gotten you to go out with me?”
I laughed, shaking my head. “Probably not. You were still pretty annoying.”
“Ah, well, good to know I didn’t miss a chance.” He glanced at the clock then back at me. “What are you doing up? It’s past midnight.”
I shrugged my shoulders. “Couldn’t sleep.”
“Everything okay?”
“Yeah, umm…” I glanced at the ashtray, a last strand of smoke twirling in the air. “Could I have a cigarette?”
Chapter Twenty-One
Archer
“Can I have a cigarette?” Rose asked me as she stood in front of me wearing a long oversized bright yellow t-shirt that brushed past her pajama shorts, making it look as though she was wearing a dress. When she broke me away from my book, I was surprised but pleased to see her. Assuming she was just making idle chitchat while grabbing a glass of water or cup of tea, I was relieved to see she was in good spirits. Although when she asked for a smoke, of all things, my eyes narrowed on her as I slowly closed the book.
“A cigarette?”
“Yeah,” she said, looking like it was the most normal thing ever. Gliding toward me, her face grew visible in the light and I could tell she hadn’t slept, her eyes alert and traced with dark circles. The yellow light from the stove matched her sunny t-shirt, though it didn’t match her glum expression.
“I’m not giving you a smoke,” I said plainly. “Your dad would kill me if you got hooked. Besides, you’re too pretty to smoke.”
Unfazed by my compliment, she said, “I’m not going to get addicted, and I’ve smoked before.”
My left eyebrow rose, and I looked at her as if she was messing with me. “You’ve never even gone to school, where the hell would you have smoked?”
She shrugged her shoulders and moved closer. “I don’t know. When I turned eighteen, if I was stressed out or mad, I’d sometimes buy a pack. It’d last me almost six months, but it was nice to have.”
I looked at her, eyeing her as I speculated whether she was lying, though I had no idea why anyone would lie about something like smoking. Shrugging my shoulders, I grabbed my pack of Marlboros from my pocket and pulled one out, handing the cigarette and a lighter to her. It looked strange seeing it between her lips, struggling to flick the lighter until it finally lit, and she coughed at the first hint of smoke. Tears sprang to her eyes as she hacked out her lungs, the smoke burning freely in her hands, and I couldn’t help but laugh. “You give smoking a new meaning of cool.”
Breathing deeply, she finally regained her composure and leaned against the counter with a hand on her hip, pulling the cigarette to her lips, trying to look smooth despite her eyes still bloodshot from the coughing fit. After a few drags, I noticed her body visibly relaxed, making it apparent how tense she was.
