Total pages in book: 71
Estimated words: 69877 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 349(@200wpm)___ 280(@250wpm)___ 233(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 69877 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 349(@200wpm)___ 280(@250wpm)___ 233(@300wpm)
He looks at me a second longer, debating something, then he nods, almost to himself, and comes around the kitchen counter.
Wordlessly, he holds out a hand to me.
Wordlessly, I take it.
And then I’m dancing.
Dancing to a quietly old-fashioned love song on Valentine’s Day, in my kitchen, with a neighbor who is a friend, who is… everything.
For now.
My cheek finds its way to his chest. His to the top of my head. His heartbeat warm and steady, his presence solid and so dear to me that I find my eyes watering.
“Randy,” he murmurs, shifting his head slightly so his mouth brushes atop my head.
“Yeah,” I whisper.
There’s a moment of silence. “I have to work the next few weeks. A lot. You may not see much of me.”
“Oh,” I say, trying to hide my disappointment. We only have a few more months before I need to move—either to California, if the job works out, or back to the city, if Stanford doesn’t want me and I return to Nova.
But I remind myself not to be selfish. My work has always been the most important thing to me. I can’t begrudge him for feeling the same about his own.
The hand at my waist pulls me slightly closer, the thumb of his other hand brushing over mine. I don’t think he’s aware of it, which makes it sweeter somehow.
“I just…” He swallows. “I just want you to know. I’m not avoiding you, not really. I just need to go sort of heads-down on the art for a while.”
“I understand,” I say.
Though I’m not sure that I do understand. His words make sense, and I respect his creative process. But I feel like I’m missing something; that something else is going on that he can’t tell me. Or won’t.
For the next minute, we just dance. Except it doesn’t feel like dancing so much as clinging to each other. To a moment we can carry with us when our lives inevitably diverge.
Finally, as the last of the music fades out, I start to step away, but his grip tightens, as though reflexively, holding me near.
“Archer?” I say softly, because I can feel conflict radiating from him; I just don’t know the cause.
His jaw works for a moment, and then with an impatient shake of his head, he releases me and steps back.
“I’ve gotta get back,” he says.
“Oh—sure,” I say, disappointment mingling with confusion at his strange mood, even as I try to remember that he’s probably just distracted by his work deadline.
Archer heads toward the front door, everything about him radiating an unnamed frustration.
He pauses before stepping out of the kitchen, bracing his palm on the doorjamb, giving it an impatient tap, before turning back around.
With purpose he walks back toward me, and for a thrilling moment I think he’s going to kiss me, to claim my mouth with that same searing passion I felt on New Year’s Eve.
Instead, when he dips his head, it’s to brush his lips over my cheek. His mouth pauses near my ear, uttering a gruff whisper. “Happy Valentine’s Day, Randy.”
He steps back, and his walk out of the kitchen is more purposeful this time. He doesn’t turn back.
“Happy Valentine’s Day, Archer,” I finally manage to echo, though the front door’s already slammed shut.
I lift a hand to my cheek, a little startled to realize that I’m crying.
Because that Happy Valentine’s Day, Randy?
It had felt an awful lot like goodbye.
ARIES SEASON
The storm you’ve been subconsciously bracing for bears down tonight, darling Gemini. Not all is what it seems.
Archer is good on his word. I hate that he is, but he is. I hardly see him over the next few weeks. Not coming or going from his apartment. Not from the roof.
Objectively, I know he’s just hard at work, as he warned me he would be.
But it feels as though he’s done with me in the process.
And perhaps that’s for the best.
Because I need to be done with Archer, too.
I spend March in what feels like nonstop phone and video interviews with the entire Stanford Physics Department. Trying to impress without seeming like I’m trying to impress. Already identifying who’s a Friday night happy hour possibility, and whom I should avoid at all costs.
The interview process is going well. I can feel it.
What I can’t seem to feel is any particular excitement about it.
Achievement, yes. Pride, yes. It feels good to be wanted in the academic space again. To feel like the past twenty years of my life haven’t been a waste of time.
But excited?
I’m working on that part.
Spring weather’s been knocking at the door every so often for the past couple of weeks, so I’ve been spending more and more time up on the roof lately. With my telescope.
Alone.
Well, I have the Buzzes.
But somehow the stars through my telescope seem a little less bright without the man and his charcoal on the neighboring roof.