We Don't Talk Anymore (The Don't Duet #1) - Julie Johnson Page 0,22

determined to leave the “babies” in his dust.

It was Flora who stayed late on windy nights when I was scared of the dark, watching cheesy movies with me on the Hallmark Channel even after she’d worked a full day, putting her feet up on a coffee table she’d polished only hours before.

I don’t think I would’ve survived my childhood without them. I can’t count the number of times I ran through the maple thicket to Gull Cottage in need of assistance with something, be it algebra homework or a disastrous experiment with pink hair dye or a terrifying hissing sound in the basement that turned out to be an outdated water heater, not a monster at all. Warm hands and kind words were only a five minute walk; three if you cut around the pool and dodge across the tennis courts.

When my parents first hired the Reyeses, they were a young, childless couple seeking steady employment in a new country. I’m certain they never expected to still be working here two decades — two children — later. I’m equally certain they never anticipated their youngest son would befriend the daughter of their employers. But Archer and I… we were inevitable. Born one day apart, inseparable every day since.

For a long, long time, sheltered behind the gates of Cormorant House, running wild along the beaches with the wind in our hair, carefree in a way only children can be, we didn’t realize there was anything strange about our friendship. We didn’t see the differences between our families. Our socioeconomic situations. Our inherent opportunities.

We were just…

Best friends.

The truth is, I have far more in common with Archer than I ever have the pretentious kids who fill the halls of our private academy. Always have. Of course, none of them know Archer doesn’t come from money. They definitely don’t know my parents pay his tuition — a concession they made after I declared, with surprising conviction for a twelve year old, that I would not step a single foot into Exeter Academy of Excellence without him by my side. I was simply not willing to spend grades six through twelve in his absense, while he made a new best friend at the public school across town.

Selfish of me?

Surely.

Yet, for some reason, Archer agreed to attend and, in the end, despite enduring six long years surrounded by the spoiled offspring of privilege, Exeter actually gave him a boon in the form of our varsity baseball team.

It was there, last spring, under the stadium lights on a meticulously-groomed pitcher’s mound, that he threw his first perfect game against the rival academy. Propped on the cold metal bleachers, a cup of weak hot chocolate clutched in my hands, I watched his star begin to rise that night.

Every game after, it ascended a little higher. It wasn’t long before the scouts caught wind of him. They came from universities and colleges all across the country, touching down at Boston Logan Airport and trekking forty minutes north just to see Archer Reyes pitch in person.

Now, midway through a stellar senior season, he has his pick of any program he wants. Full financial ride, plus perks — like the truck from Vanderbilt, the hand-stitched glove from UCLA, the sleek set of bats from Florida State. No matter where he signs his official Letter of Intent, if he plays well enough over the next few years, there’s no question of him going pro in the MLB someday.

Would he have ended up here — world at his feet, more verbal offers than he knows what to do with — if I hadn’t dragged him to Exeter along with me? Or would his talent have gone unnoticed on a crappy public high school team without the resources to foster his skills?

It doesn’t really matter, I guess.

He’s here now.

He’s made it.

In my humble opinion, he was always destined for greatness, one way or another. It drives me crazy that the kids from school would look down on him if they knew his real background; if they realized he wasn’t actually my neighbor — one who magnanimously gives me a ride every day in his very shiny, very expensive truck — but the son of our staff.

“So, she lives,” Flora says, breezing into the kitchen, interrupting my reverie. “I thought you were going to sleep the whole day away.”

I lift my head from the tabletop, where I’ve been slumped for the past twenty minutes, summoning the energy to raid the fridge. “If only.”

“Mmm, I