occasions my parents were home or visiting relatives required my full attention, we’d leave messages for each other there, staying in touch even when we couldn’t hang out in person. As the years passed by, small items found their way up into the rafters, an eclectic accumulation of items stolen from the main house.
An old camping lantern to light the dark. A wool blanket for cold nights. A stack of books. A set of perfectly good pillows my parents put out to the curb approximately six minutes after purchase, convinced they didn’t match their new sofa.
I step into the stone boathouse, moving almost on autopilot. It’s pitch black inside, but my feet know the way. Past the Hinkley, floating in its slip. Along the interior wall. Grope until I find the ladder rungs.
Up.
Up.
Up.
One foot after another.
At the top, I heave myself through the gap and scamper into the loft on all fours. I don’t bother getting to my feet — the sloped roof is quite low in this section. Hands extended in front of me, I crawl my way toward the front of the rafters, where I know the lantern waits.
All around me, boxes of boat supplies are shadowy outlines in the darkness. If you stare at them long enough, your eyes start to trick you into thinking they look a bit like someone standing there, watching you. They don’t freak me out anymore. I’ve spent so many nights up here, I know every square inch of the place. The precise location of each humanlike coatrack and imposter mop handle. Which is probably why it’s such a goddamned shock when I move forward and my palm lands not on wood flooring, but something soft.
Squishy.
Alive.
The monster grunts as my hand slams into it. I scream and reel backward, but there’s nowhere to go. My back bumps into a crate, sending loose tools rattling in all directions. My heart, suddenly pounding twice its normal speed, is lodged so firmly inside my throat, I can’t even scream.
Panicked, I try to stand. To run. To get away from this horrid creature, at any cost. Instead, as I find my feet, my head bonks against something harder than a rock. I think it might be a skull.
The monster lets out another painful grunt as we collide. I’m not sure how it happens — I can’t see a freaking thing — but one of us trips over something and we both go down, our limbs tangled together like wisteria vines. I end up on top, the full brunt of my body landing hard enough to knock the wind out of my own lungs. Probably his as well, given the way he wheezes.
When I try to wriggle away, two arms wrap around my body like bands of iron, pinning me in place. Instantly, I’m rendered immobile. Pressed so close against him, I can feel every angry exhale of his chest, every furious pant against my lips. His features are still in shadow, impossible to make out clearly.
“What the hell!” the monster growls beneath me, sounding pissed as hell… and, it must be said, remarkably familiar.
“Archer?” I gasp.
“No, it’s the fucking boogeyman,” he snaps sarcastically. “Who the hell did you think it was?”
“Not you, obviously! What are you doing up here, lurking in the dark like an axe murderer?”
“I wasn’t lurking, I was sleeping! Or I was, until a crazy person barreled into me like a bull in a china shop.”
“Oh.”
“Yeah.”
Relieved I’m not about to be chopped into itty-bitty pieces, I relax against him. My pulse drops back to normal speeds. My breathing slows. But as my panic fades, something else arises in its place: acute awareness — of Archer’s hard body beneath mine, of the scant inches separating our faces in the dark, of how good it feels to be in his arms.
I should pull away. Create some space between us. But I don’t. And Archer doesn’t push me off, either. For a long moment, we simply lay there in the darkness, legs intertwined, breaths mingling.
Perhaps it’s because we’re here, in our spot… perhaps it’s because we can’t see one another properly… perhaps it’s simply because it’s the middle of the night, and the rest of the world is asleep… but for whatever reason, in this moment, it’s as though we’ve pressed pause on our fight. Set our anger aside in a momentary truce.
A temporary ceasefire.
“I’m sorry,” I murmur. “I didn’t mean to wake you.”
“Well I didn’t mean to scare you,” he murmurs back.
“Couldn’t sleep either, huh?”
His