Arrows Through Archer

by Nash Summers

That murky morning I pulled the sheets away, stood, and looked out at the fog caressing the sharp-tipped blades of grass on our front lawn.

Starting off with purple prose, oh no.

My father always used to tell me that I was like an onion made of glass. You couldn’t peel away my layers; you had to chisel them away, slowly, carefully.

What, lol.

And the nights—God—the nights were darker than the hearts of twisted men. I’d never been somewhere so void of lights and noises and senses.

So much wordy angst in the opening chapters.

“He would think of me differently.” “Different isn’t always bad.” “No, but it is always different.”

“So,” I said slowly, staring at the amber flames snapping in front of us. “What do you do all day?” Leaning back in his massive chair, gaze nowhere near me, he said, “Go to work. Try to fight off the overwhelming loneliness. You?” “Hang out with your son. Pretend I’m not gay. Wallow in self-pity.”

That was the strange thing about misery: it loved company. We began to laugh.

“Do you know how to peel potatoes?” he asked. “I’m a bad cook, not a moron.”

But Mallory insisted on making extra portions so Danny would have leftovers for days. Apparently, it was his favorite part of Thanksgiving dinner.

Isn't that everyone's favorite?

“You two are astoundingly boring. I honestly feel like you two could bore me to death if I spent an entire week in your combined company.”

“Don’t you want to be happy, Ace?”

This was a really annoying question to me.

“Because the only way I can sleep at night is imagining that my parents might be proud of me for doing so.” “Archer.” She leaned forward, eyes locked on my face. “Putting yourself through something you don’t enjoy wouldn’t make your parents proud. It’s not going to bring them back, and it’s not going to bring you happiness.”

He kept grinning a little too wide at the pretty young woman behind the bar, which probably contributed to our long wait for drinks.

Ha.

But Mallory just nodded. “People feel what they feel and deal with it the best way they know how. There’s no right or wrong when it comes to hurt.”

“I wish I hadn’t hurt him.” “Ah, Archer. We always hurt the ones we love.” “Why’s that, do you think?” “So that we know they love us too.”

That's some logic.

“How are you feeling?” Mallory asked, walking slowly toward the side of the bed, hands shoved deep into his pockets. Alone. Hopeless. Exhausted.

“I’ve never shot a gun in my life.” “No?” Mallory shook his head. “Never even held one or seen one up close.” “Ever wanted to?” “Not particularly.”

“Can’t say I’ve ever understood the appeal. Is it a power thing?” I thought about it for a moment. “No. Not for me. It’s a control thing. It’s about seeing something you know is so far away and still being so close to it. It’s hard to explain.”

Sometimes when you’re alone all the time, you forget what it’s like having someone else near.

It was hope. Hope was easy to hear, easy to see, but almost impossible to feel. At least for me.

Sometimes, words meant nothing. Other times, they meant far, far too much.

YES, this is true in this book. 😂

“I am good at it. Carpenter, remember? I’m good with my hands—both of them.”

He toyed with his glass, eyes fixated on it. In reply, he said, “She doesn’t like puzzles. Or whiskey.”

“So,” Mallory said eventually. “So, I don’t know. You like puzzles and whiskey. And you listen to classic rock with me, although I’m painfully aware you don’t like it. And you love those chocolate cupcakes I brought home from the bakery last week, but you hate the bran muffins I make. And you like running and guns and silence, and Sarah doesn’t like any of those things.”

“She doesn’t like puzzles.” Finally, Mallory turned to me, his eyes alight. “I want to be with a woman who likes puzzles.”

“You look so damn happy sitting at the kitchen table, puzzle pieces scattered around.”

He ignored my question as he stared down at his now-empty glass. “Puzzles make you happy, don’t they?” Sharpshooter by nature, my instincts told me to go in for the kill. “It’s not the puzzles that make me happy, Mallory.” Immediately, his eyes locked with mine. “Don’t do this to me, Archer.” “Okay.”

“If our positions were reversed, you’d be singing a different tune.” “You have a fixation on your age.” “No, I have a fixation on yours!” Mallory yelled.

“What are we doing, Archer?” Mallory asked. Falling in love, I thought. But instead I said, “Kissing.”

He said, “I’ll only be a minute. Wait here to make sure I don’t get towed.” “So that’s what I am? A boot for your truck.” “Exactly.”

“I watched a video online of a carpenter using a card scraper to smooth out the top of this piece of wood. It’s like sandpaper—but not. Wouldn’t mind trying to learn how to use one of those some day.” Mallory put his hands over his face and groaned. “Don’t talk dirty to me in public, Archer.”

“Do you know how beautiful you are? And not just this.” He traced his finger along my jawline, the tip of his thumb brushing my bottom lip.

“You’ve got this old soul, and it’s serene and hushed and reminds me of the smell when it’s storming outside.”

“I can’t give you what you’re asking for. Please don’t ask me to. I don’t want to say no to you.”

“There are a million and one reasons why.” “Because I’m a man? Because I’m younger than you? Because I’m your son’s best friend?” “Yes, Archer.”

“Don’t give me some bullshit excuse about pushing me away because you know what’s best for me.”

Here comes the whitefanging! Weeeee.

He sighed heavily, his shoulders sagging. “Because you’re still mourning the loss of your father.” “That isn’t what this is.” All emotion drained from my voice. Mallory smiled at me sadly. “I think it is.”

“The way I feel about you has nothing to do with losing my father, and fuck you for even suggesting it.” “I’m sorry, Archer,” was all he said.

“You don’t think what we feel towards each other is worth taking a chance on?” I asked. He paused briefly. I watched a hundred expressions flicker across his face. And then, “No.” “No?” “No.”

“Why do you even want my forgiveness? You made it perfectly clear years ago that you didn’t want anything to do with me.”

He said, “You look different.” “Yeah?” “A bit more gray in your hair.” “Age’ll do that. I’m practically on my deathbed now.” “I see your age obsession is still thriving.”

Archer faced the door, turned the knob, and pulled it open. From over his shoulder, he looked at me. “Don’t bother coming after me this time, Mallory. It was last time that mattered.”

“You sure know the nicest places to take your dates. Bereavement groups. Cemeteries. Hey, I think they might let you sneak a picnic basket into the morgue if you tip the coroner. He’s a buddy of mine.”

“I’m sorry you didn’t stop me from leaving three years ago.”

“Real cute, Archer.” “You think I’m cute?” The smile on his face was ridiculous. I never wanted that smile to leave. “I think you’re stunning.”