Page 30 of Knights Like These
“Is he lonely?”
I think about the kitchen at six in the morning, Archer in his sweatpants, pouring coffee in silence. The way he stands at the window when the twins are with Bree, looking out at the street.
“Yeah,” I say. “I think he is. He just doesn’t know how to say it.”
Winnie nods. She doesn’t push further, which I appreciate, because the follow-up question—are you lonely too?—is one I’m not ready to answer honestly over lunch.
That night, after the twins are in bed, I find Archer in the kitchen loading the dishwasher. I lean against the counter and wait for him to finish because I want to tell him, and I want to see his face when I do.
“I found a thing today,” I say.
He closes the dishwasher and turns around. “A thing?”
“A class. At the community center down the street. They had an opening for a senior activities instructor, and I walked in and pitched a hip-hop class, and they said yes.”
“Hip-hop.” He crosses his arms and leans against the opposite counter, and I can see him working through this. “For seniors?”
“Mondays and Wednesdays. Ten to eleven, when the twins are at preschool. Twelve people showed up to the first class, and one of them added a hip pop I didn’t choreograph, and it was the best hour I’ve had teaching dance in months.”
His face changes. It goes warm—his eyes soften, his jaw relaxes, and he looks at me the way he looked at me in the living room when I was dancing with the twins, except this time there’s no surprise in it. This time it looks like pride.
“I’m glad, Syd,” he says, and he reaches out and puts his hand on my back.
His palm settles between my shoulder blades, warm and solid through my t-shirt. And then his thumb moves. Once. A single, slow stroke across my shoulder blade, deliberate and gentle and so unhurried that I feel every millimeter of it travel across my skin.
It lasts maybe two seconds. Then his hand drops, and he turns back to the sink and says, “You want tea?” like he didn’t just rewire my entire nervous system with one thumb.
“Sure,” I say, and my voice comes out steady, which is a miracle of modern engineering because my legs are not steady, and my hands are not steady, and the spot between my shoulder blades where his thumb traced that line is still tingling.
He fills the kettle. I stand at the counter and watch him, replaying the touch in my head—his hand on my back, the weight of his palm, the single movement of his thumb—and I know I’m going to replay it again when I get to the guest room, and again when I’m lying in bed, and probably again in the morning over coffee.
I’m in so much trouble.
Chapter Ten
The Dinner Party
Archer
I don’t throw dinner parties. I want that on the record. The last time I had more than two adults in this house was Bree’s birthday in March, and she planned the whole thing while I stood in the kitchen holding a bottle of beer and nodding when people talked to me.
But Sydney suggested it, and the twins are at Bree’s this weekend, and the season starts Tuesday, which means this is the last normal Saturday any of us will have for seven months. So I called a caterer, bought too much wine, and asked Maria to come an extra day this week because having people over when your house regularly looks like a toy store exploded requires backup.
The guest list is small: Zayden and Tori, Banks and Winnie, and the rookie Logan, who invited himself the second he heard the words “dinner party” and has been texting me about it all week.
Logan:Should I bring something?
Me:No.
Logan:Wine? Dessert? A cheese board?
Me:Just bring yourself.
Logan:What’s the dress code?
Me:Logan, it’s my living room.
Logan:Smart casual. Got it.
