We Don't Talk Anymore (The Don't Duet #1) - Julie Johnson Page 0,30

her best to pull it down from the heavens for you. Don’t take that kind of devotion for granted. That’s all.”

“I don’t take it — her — for granted. But I never asked for her devotion. I never asked for anything from her.”

She shakes her head. “Mijo. For such a smart boy you can be incredibly short-sighted.”

I hold up my hands in surrender. “I’m going to shower.”

Gritting my teeth, I force myself to walk out of the living room before I say something I can’t take back. Or worse — before the real reason for my bloody knees and battered heart spills out in a torrent.

Chapter Nine

JOSEPHINE

I can’t sleep.

My thoughts roar too loudly to ignore, clanging around inside my head like the pendulum of a grandfather clock. For hours, I toss and turn in my bed, agonizing over my fight with Archer. Wondering if he’s staring up at his own ceiling right now, going over it a million times inside his head.

Wondering if he even cares at all.

It’s late — past midnight — when I’m forced to concede that no matter how long I lie here, I’ll never be able to quiet my mind enough to sleep. Shoving back the thick duvet, I slip out of bed. I don’t bother turning on any lights as I slide my feet into flip flops. Moving into the hallway, I make sure to grab my favorite hoodie off its hook by the door.

My lips twist in amusement at the words printed across the front in all-caps. GREEN MONSTAH — an homage to Fenway Park’s most notorious feature. I pilfered the ridiculous garment from the box of old clothes Flora sorted together for donation last summer. A reject from Archer’s closet. I figured nobody would notice if it suddenly appeared in mine.

When I tug the sweatshirt on over my pajama set, it falls past the hem of my shorts, midway down my bare thighs. It doesn’t smell like Archer anymore, but the feeling of my arms inside his sleeves somehow makes me feel closer to him.

This time of night, Cormorant House is dark and totally silent. With my parents in Zambia and the Reyeses sleeping soundly a whole acre away, I am completely alone in the drafty mansion. The floorboards creak beneath my feet as I move along the hallway, down the grand staircase, across the vaulted atrium.

When I slip silently out the side door onto the stone terrace, I shiver as the crisp night air wraps me in its dark embrace. I’m glad I grabbed the sweatshirt. It may be almost June, but Massachusetts has not yet yielded fully to summer heat.

The manicured lawn is lit by moonlight as I make my way down the sloping gravel path. The sound of lapping waves grows louder with each step. I round a bend and the stone boathouse comes into view, silhouetted against a backdrop of ocean. Beside it, the dock juts out into the inky waters of the cove. Cupid is a mere shadow at the far end, bobbing against her lines, her mast swaying slightly with each swell.

The boathouse is my favorite spot on the property. An architectural feat, half its foundation is embedded in the rocky shore while the other half hangs out over the water. The arched entryway is just high enough to drive a small boat beneath. My father’s 29-foot Hinkley fits perfectly at the interior slip, sheltered from the elements in his absence.

The boathouse was built back in the 1800s, along with the rest of the estate. Not much about it has changed in all the years since. Except for a few necessary modern upgrades — lights to illuminate the dock, some electrical outlets — it looks like a relic straight out of some Newport high society period piece. No furniture, no running water. No heat or air conditioning. Just stone walls and exposed wood beams.

And the rafters, of course.

Archer and I discovered the lofted space by accident, ages ago. Accessible via a rickety ladder bolted to the back wall, it’s used mainly for storage — a set of Cupid’s extra sails, seat cushions for the Hinckley, spare engine parts, a few cans of paint. Between the boxes of tools and various equipment, there’s just enough space for two people to sit, legs dangling over the edge, and watch the sun set slowly over the cove, turning blue shallows to an orange-pink masterpiece.

It’s become our secret spot. A hidden clubhouse of sorts. As we got older, on the rare