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)
Which is why, on a clear, mild evening in early April, when I come up to water the Buzzes, I draw up short at the sight of him, the man I haven’t seen in over a month. Archer’s hands are in his pockets, his head tilted backward as he looks up at the clear night sky.
He doesn’t glance my way. Of course he doesn’t. He’s Archer.
And yet, no part of this annoys me.
It’s simply him.
As he is.
He’s just… Archer.
I try to play it cool. As if the last time I saw him it wasn’t Valentine’s Day, and we hadn’t danced, and it hadn’t felt like… something.
“No easel tonight,” I say very casually, since there are no art supplies in sight.
He holds up his right hand without looking over. “Trying to prevent hand cramping. I’m putting the finishing touches on my series today and forgot to take breaks.”
“Oh, that’s great,” I say with enthusiasm, despite my mood. “Not the hand cramp. But finishing the series.”
Archer nods in acknowledgment, then hesitates a moment, as though debating something.
Finally he walks toward me, stepping up to the ledge of his roof so we’re face-to-face. He reaches into the back pocket of his jeans and pulls something out. Wordlessly, he hands it to me.
I take the black envelope from him and look down at the fancy wax seal with what I now recognize as the elaborate A. that serves as his signature. “Fancy.”
He gives an indifferent shrug, though the tension I feel radiating off him belies the casual gesture.
I slide a thumb under the envelope’s flap to open it and pull out an elegant invitation.
“It’s for my art show in SoHo in a couple weeks.” He shoves his hands into his back pockets. “They’ll be revealing my new series.”
“Oh, wow. Wow. I’m so happy for you! I can’t—”
I break off when I see the date of the show, feeling my heart sink in my chest. “I fly out to California that evening. My interview’s the next afternoon.”
His head tips backward slightly as he inhales. “So, you’re doing that.”
I sense a tinge of disappointment, as though he expected better of me, and I feel myself shift into a defensive stance, physically and emotionally.
“If by that you mean pursuing my dreams, then yeah,” I say, a sharp edge slipping into my voice.
In response, he merely gazes at me, and my temper flares.
“Okay, let’s recap tonight’s interaction,” I say, wagging a finger between us. “You tell me about a major career accomplishment, and I’m over the moon for you. I do the same, and you can’t even pretend to be excited for me?”
“Bullshit,” he says quietly.
My mouth opens in protest, but he steps closer, his eyes flashing with anger.
“You’re not looking for congratulations, and you don’t need me to be excited for you,” he continues. “You want someone to reassure you that you’re doing the right thing, to tell you what to do and how to live so you don’t have to make any actual decisions about your own life.”
“I—”
“Because that’s what you do, Miranda,” he says, more animated and angrier than I’ve ever seen him. “You make your life through a paint-by-numbers system. Someone else draws the lines, and you just follow instructions.”
“That’s absurd.”
“Yeah?” He crosses his arms and bends slightly so his eyes are level with mine, daring me to dig deeper. “So, you remember making a conscious decision to become a physicist? To go into academia? To pursue tenure track? Or was that merely a prescription that you followed to a T?”
“Maybe,” I say. “Maybe you’re right about that. Maybe I did pursue tenure a bit blindly in the past. But at least I can admit it, and course-correct. And let’s not forget that I took an entire year to deliberately step away from that so-called paint-by-numbers life.”
“Wrong,” he says furiously. “You think your Horoscope Project was brave and bold, and maybe it could have been. But all you did was swap one rule book for another. This wasn’t about you putting your faith in the universe having a plan for you. This was about you needing another step-by-step instruction manual after your last one didn’t go the way you hoped.
“Every part of your time here has been scripted,” he continues. “From your fish, to your meal choices, to who you want to be with. I’ve refused to be a part of that script, and guess what? I refuse to be part of the next one as well. You want to switch back to following the academic rule book because it’s easy, go for it. But don’t expect a standing ovation from me.”
Every word lands a painful blow upon my very soul, and there are whispers of truth in there that I’ll agonize over later.
But not before I make a few points of my own.
“You want to talk about easy, Archer?” I ask. “Who’s the one who’s locked himself away from the world so he won’t have to deal with it? You pretend it’s just part of being an eccentric, isolated artist, but we both know what it really is.”