We Don't Talk Anymore (The Don't Duet Book 1)

by Julie Johnson

“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 head shakes. “Nah. Too much on my mind.”

  “The scouts?”

  “Among other things.”

  I recognize the strain in his voice. It’s more than just our fight. Pressure is mounting for him to make a decision regarding college baseball. Most athletes have long-since signed their letters of intent, locking in their offers as soon as they received them. But Archer is leveraging his senior season in his favor, letting the best universities in the country woo him until the final hour with incentives — both financial and educational.

  Last I checked, he’d narrowed his many options down to Florida State, Vanderbilt, Ole Miss, and (my personal pick) Bryant University. As his sole New England choice — and, coincidentally, a mere thirty minute drive from my dorm at Brown — I’ve been not so subtly rooting for him to join the Bulldogs in Rhode Island since the day they made their first overtures.

  “Have you narrowed your list down further?”

  “Not yet.”

  “Deadline is coming up,” I tell him needlessly.

  “Mhm.”

  Everyone expects him to announce his decision at the end of the season — preferably, after he’s led Exeter to a State Championship title. I can practically see it now: him holding a gold trophy aloft in front of a swarm of press, grinning as he shakes his new coach’s hand. With just two regular games left before playoffs, that gives him mere weeks to make the biggest commitment of his life.

  “It’s a big decision. It’s normal to be nervous. But you’ll make the right one,” I assure him. “I know you will.”

  His voice grows achingly soft. “Sometimes… it feels like I’ve been handed this amazing stroke of luck and at any minute, it’s all just going to evaporate from my grip.”

  “It’s not luck, though. It’s training. It’s years of hard work.” I sigh. “How many times did I drive to the field and drag your ass home after a full day of practice? How many mornings did you go for a six-mile run, even in the rain and snow and sleet? How many nights did you make me watch YouTube clips with you, studying footage and learning technique?” My lips twist. “You aren’t lucky, Archer. You’re talented.”

  He’s quiet for a long moment. My body rises and falls each time he takes a breath, a boat upon a sea of rolling swells. When he speaks again, his voice is low. Full of gravel.

  “Right now, I feel pretty lucky.”

  I suck in a sharp breath. If I didn’t know better, I’d swear he’s talking about something besides baseball. My heart, only moments ago in danger of combusting from terror, is now in danger of combusting from another emotion entirely.

  Not a platonic one.

  Tension mounts in the air around us, almost tangible. I wonder if he feels it, too. If he feels anything at all besides innocent friendship. I’m not sure what possibility scares me more — that he’s totally oblivious to this state of emotional suspense… or that he does feel it, but would rather pretend otherwise.

  “Lucky?” I say lightly, forcing a laugh. “Even though I nearly flattened you?”

  His arms tighten around my back as he snorts. “For such a small person, you land with a surprising amount of force.”

  “Hey! Are you calling me fat?”

  “No. Just… dense.”

  “I am not dense!” I scowl. “You’re dense — in the head!”

  His chuckles vibrate my entire body. “Good comeback, Jo.”

  “Oh, shut up,” I hiss, even though I’m fighting off chuckles of my own. “I guess in the future, we need to sort out custody of the rafters. Write out a contractual agreement for who gets to use them whenever we have a stupid fight. How ‘bout I get to sulk up here on weeknights, you get weekends? We can rotate major holidays. Do you want Easter or Christmas?”

  I’m joking, but he doesn’t laugh. Beneath me, his body goes stiff — as though he’s just remembered to be angry. A second later, his arms unlock from the cage they’d created around me and drop to his sides.

  Ceasefire, over.

  I instantly want to snatch back my stupid words. To rewind ten seconds to the quiet sanctuary of his embrace, when things actually felt normal between us for the first time in far too long.

  From the unyielding set of his muscles, I know there’s no point in even trying. Biting my tongue, I force myself to roll off him. To sit up. To reach into the darkness, seeking out the familiar metal edges of the camping lantern.

  I turn the knob and dull light suffuses the loft. I blink at the sudden change in brightness, my eyes struggling to acclimate. When they do, I see Archer is already sitting at the edge of the rafters with his back to me — spine ramrod straight, staring fixedly out the windows to the ebony ocean beyond. Dressed in gray sweatpants and an Exeter t-shirt, his bare feet swing in the air. His dark hair is tousled with sleep.

  “You can have it,” he says haltingly. “Full custody. I won’t come here anymore.”

  Tears spring to my eyes. I blink them away before they can fall. Taking a deep breath, I try to steady my voice before I respond. “What does that mean?”

  He doesn’t say anything.

  “What does that mean, Archer?” I repeat, scooting closer to him. I’m careful not to brush my shoulder against his as I swing my legs over the edge.

  I stare at his face in profile. He looks tired. Deep shadows are etched beneath his eyes, evidence of more than one sleepless night. As I take in the uncompromising set of his jawline, the rigidity of his posture, I wonder how his mood could shift so quickly from laughing with me to loathing me.

  The truth is, as hurt as I was on Friday, as angry as I was afterward… there was never a doubt in my mind that we’d work through this fight. That, eventually, we’d smooth things over and they’d return, if not totally to normal, than at least to a semblance of it. But as I look at him now, in this moment, I feel the first tendrils of uncertainty begin to swirl inside me.

  Maybe he doesn’t want to fix it.

  “It means exactly what it sounds like,” he says in a hollow voice. “I don’t need this place anymore.”

  I flinch, as though he’s dealt a physical blow. He might as well have. He said, I don’t need this place anymore. Didn’t he mean…

  I don’t need you anymore.

  “W-why?” My voice quivers. “Why are you being like this?”

  “Like what?”

  “So— so cold to me. I don’t understand what’s happening. I don’t understand why you’re acting like such a jerk lately!”

  He doesn’t look at me as he takes a breath. His voice is empty of all emotions, stripped down to its most essential elements — vowels, consonants, meaningless letters. “I’m just being realistic. We aren’t kids anymore. No matter what school I end up at, I’m not going to be able to run to the rafters and hide whenever things go wrong in my life. And neither will you.” He pauses. “It’s time to grow up. It’s time to move on.”

  “Fine,” I retort thickly. “If that’s how you really feel.”

  “It is.”

  “Great!” I’m trying very hard not to cry. “Then leave. Get out of here. Go ahead and grow up and move on—” My words crack off. My hands fist in the thick material of my sweatshirt, just so I can stop their shaking. When I remember it once belonged to him, I’m overwhelmed by the desire to peel it off my skin, to toss it dramatically into the sea.

  In the static silence, Archer climbs slowly to his feet. He’s so tall, he has to hunch slightly to avoid the low ceiling. He takes two steps, then stops. He’s still not making eye contact. His shoulders are as rigid as his words.

  “Don’t stay out here too long by yourself. It’s late.”

  I swallow down an incredulous scoff. “As if you care?”

  His hands clench at his sides. He doesn’t say another word. He just walks to the ladder, crouches down, and slides h
is legs through the gap in the floor. I don’t say anything as he grips the upper rungs and begins to descend. But as I watch the top of his head about to cross the threshold, I can’t hold my tongue anymore.

  “I always knew you were destined for better things. Fame. Fans. Fenway Park. I always knew you’d leave this little town behind. Always. I just… I never thought you’d leave me behind, too.” A tear slips down my cheek. I scrub at it angrily with my sleeve. “I thought we meant more to each other than that.”

  Apparently, Archer doesn’t agree. Because a second later, he vanishes from view. Down the ladder. Out of my sight.

  Out of my life.

  I sit in the boathouse until the sun comes up, crying long past the point of tears. When the sky finally breaks open, unfurling into pale blue-pink petals, the new day dawns alongside an entirely new reality.

  One in which Archer Reyes is no longer my best friend.

  Before full light, I head back to the house, climb into bed, and don’t move — not when my alarm begins to blare, not when Flora comes to check why I’m not downstairs in my uniform, ready to leave.

  “I’m sick,” I tell her, my voice muffled beneath the heavy duvet. “I’m not going to school today.”

  I must sound as terrible as I feel, because she doesn’t push me. She doesn’t even take my temperature. A gentle “Okay, mija” drifts to my ears before the door clicks closed. I’m grateful for the privacy. The last thing I want to do is explain why my eyes are so red and puffy.

  I strain my ears, listening for the telltale rumble of a truck engine, for the distant click of the front gates that assures me Archer is gone for the day. All I can hear are birds chirping outside my window, building summer nests in the weeping willow trees.

  Exhaustion clutches at me, a relentless suitor. I let it pull me under, thinking I might escape my misery with sleep. But I only dream of things that make my heart ache — narrowed caramel eyes, full lips spitting cruel words.

  It’s time to move on.

  I jolt awake, eyes watering.

  Flora comes up with lunch on a tray for me. I send it away untouched. I have no appetite. I feel half alive. Hollow. Like someone’s taken a commercial fishing hook and gutted me, right through the stomach.

  I tell myself I’m not waiting for Archer to text me. To call me. To show up at my door and apologize. To beg forgiveness for being such a jerk, plead temporary insanity, and assure me he’s back to his normal self.

  He does none of those things.

  Crazy as it sounds, even after everything, a small part of me was hopeful he’d try to mend things between us. Every hour that ticks by without hearing from him, I feel a little more of that hope wither inside my chest.

  Eventually, I summon enough energy to pull my laptop beneath my sheets. I click on The Great British Bake Off, losing myself in the comforting monotony of strangers competing to create the best blueberry custard tart. The light outside fades, shadows lengthening as the day wanes from afternoon to evening and finally to full night.

  Flora brings more food for dinner. It grows cold on my bedside table before she takes it away.

  My laptop runs out of battery halfway through episode eleven. I don’t bother locating the power cord. I curl more deeply beneath my cocoon of blankets, close my eyes, and, for the first time, allow myself to consider what the following day will bring.

  Today, I got away with avoiding everything; tomorrow, that free-pass officially expires. I’ll have to go to school. To face my life.

  To face him.

  And if I want to get through the day without dissolving into pathetic tears in front of the wolves that roam the halls of Exeter Academy of Excellence…

  I’m going to need a contingency plan.

  Chapter Ten

  ARCHER

  Fuck.

  My.

  Life.

  Chapter Eleven

  JOSEPHINE

  Tuesday morning dawns clear and bright.

  I blink awake six minutes before my alarm. Kicking off my duvet, I practically vault out of bed and race for the bathroom. I speed through my shower, leaving my damp hair to dry naturally. No time for blow dryers, today.

  I throw on my uniform — pleated green and black plaid skirt, coordinating blazer, crisp white shirt. My stockings have a tear, which delays me a bit rummaging around for fresh ones, but a glance at the slim silver watch on my wrist shows I’m still on track.

  With a heavy stack of textbooks pressed to my chest, I creep down the grand staircase, grimacing at every creaky step.

  Historic houses make sneaking around a varsity sport.

  At the bottom, I pause, straining to hear any sign of Flora in the kitchen — faint humming, the clatter of pans, a refrigerator clicking shut. But there’s nothing.

  All clear.

  I step off the landing, round the atrium corner, and slink down the hall to my father’s study. Inside, it smells of old leather-bound books and fresh furniture polish. I find it odd that there’s no dust; that the imposing mahogany desk shines brightly even in its neglected state. I suppose Flora still cleans in here, even if my father isn’t around to appreciate it.

  The top desk drawer isn’t even locked. And the key fobs are exactly where I thought they’d be — in plain view, nestled in a small box. Mine for the taking.

  I grab one at random, caring less about my mode of escape than the act of it. My thumb traces the design engraved on the fob’s surface: a pair of wings inset with the letter B. As I pocket it, a fissure of exhilaration quakes my rule-oriented foundations.

  I’ve never stolen a thing in my life. Not a pack of chewing gum, not a hotel bathrobe, not an apple from the produce aisle. Certainly not a car.

  How many years in the slammer do you get for grand theft auto?

  Today, I’m willing to risk it.

  Backtracking my steps, I find my way to the side door off the atrium that leads to the garage. The fleet sits there, tucked beneath satin dust covers like thoroughbreds left to wither in their stalls. A shameful waste of horsepower.

  I sort them by their distinct shapes — the low-slung Porsche, the stately Rolls Royce, the angular Aston Martin, the sharp-edged Tesla. And, at the far end, my destination: the boxy Bentley.

  My father has more automobiles than any one man requires — especially a man that’s rarely even on this continent enough to get behind the wheel. I suppose that works in my favor, though. It would be much harder to steal one of his cars if he were actually home to notice.

  I yank the dust-cover off the Bentley and pile it in a corner. Clicking the fob, I grin as the headlights flash in response and reach for the door handle.

  “I wouldn’t take it if I were you,” a voice says casually.

  I jump about a mile into the air. The fob clatters to my feet, then skitters beneath the chassis. Whirling around, I come face to face with Miguel. I didn’t even notice him crouched down by the front of the Porsche, a tire-pressure gauge in his hand.

  “I—I’m not—I wasn’t—”

  “Stealing your father’s Bentley? Sure you were.” Miguel chuckles. When he does, his caramel eyes crinkle up at the corners — just like his son’s. Looking at him is like staring into the future. He’s Archer in thirty years. Salt and pepper hair, a few wrinkles gathered around his temples. Still handsome in that roguish way that makes women on the street turn their heads.

  “You’d make a pretty lousy criminal, JoJo,” Miguel tells me cheerfully.

  “I’m sorry. I just…” I trail off. I have no reasonable explanation to offer him. I chew my lip as I wait for the axe to fall. Miguel never gets angry — not that I’ve seen, at least. But his quiet disappointment is infinitely worse than any raised voices or raging words.

  “What was the plan? Sneak in here and steal a car to avoid riding with Archer?”

  I blink, stunned. “How did you—”

  “My wife talks. A lot. She indicated you and my son have been… at odds lately.”

  Of cours
e Flora told him. I’m surprised she hasn’t taken out a billboard in the center of town.

  JOSEPHINE AND ARCHER HAD A FIGHT!

  I sigh deeply. “I just thought… maybe… a little space might not be the worst thing. I’m sorry. It was a stupid idea, and I definitely didn’t think it through.”

  “That’s true.” Miguel nods slowly. “I mean, for starters…” He jerks his head at the car beside me. “The Bentley’s basically out of gas. You’d make it about three blocks before you ran out.”

  “Oh.” Color floods my cheeks. “I didn’t know that.”

  “Figured as much. That’s why I stopped you.”

  “That’s why you stopped me?”

  “Well, sure. I’ve got a busy day ahead of me. I can’t be playing your knight-with-shining-gas-can, rescuing you from the roadside.” He reaches into his back pocket, pulls out a key, and tosses it my direction. Baffled beyond belief, I manage to catch it with my fingertips before it clatters to the cement floor.

  “Uhh…”

  “Take the Cabriolet,” Miguel says, pulling off the cover, revealing a hunter green convertible with a tan ragtop roof. “She’s got a full tank and fresh oil.”

  I walk toward the Porsche. Even if you know nothing about cars, it’s spectacular — a vintage 1965 model, with a front trunk compartment and round, buggy headlights. It reminds me of something Audrey Hepburn or Elizabeth Taylor would drive around in, cruising down Hollywood Boulevard between movie sets.

  Nothing else in this garage can hold a candle to it. Not the Rolls Royce with its regal glamour or the Bentley with its astronomical price point or even the brand new Tesla with it’s self-driving pizzazz.

  “Miguel, I can’t take the Porsche.”

  “Sure you can. It’s warm today — perfect for riding with the top down. Just do me a favor? Don’t crash it. This car costs more than most people make in a year.” He pauses. “More like two years, now that I think about it.”

  I swallow hard. “No pressure.”

  “JoJo.”