Page 4 of Knights Like These
I finish my wine. “I should probably get some sleep. My flight’s at seven.”
“I’ll drive you.”
“You don’t have to—”
“I’m driving you. End of discussion.” She stands and starts clearing the containers. “And Syd?”
“Yeah?”
She pauses in the kitchen doorway. “Call me when you get there. And I mean actually call. Not a text that says ‘landed, I’m fine’ with a thumbs-up emoji. An actual phone call where you use words and tell me the truth.”
“I always tell you the truth.”
She gives me the look one more time—the love-you-but-you’re-full-of-crap look she’s been giving me since we were twelve.
“Sure you do,” she says, disappearing into the kitchen.
In Lauren’s spare room, I brush my teeth, wash my face, and get into bed. My suitcase is already by the front door, packed with two weeks’ worth of clothes, maybe three. Everything I need for however long “a while” turns out to be.
My phone buzzes on the nightstand.
Archer:Flight still at 7?
Me:Yep. Landing around 11 your time.
Archer:I’ll pick you up.
Me:You don’t have to. I can grab an Uber.
Archer:I’m picking you up, Syd.
I stare at the screen. Three dots appear, disappear, and then appear again.
Archer:The kids have been asking about you all week.
I read that text four times. The kids have been asking about you. Not I’ve been thinking about you. Not I’m glad you’re coming. The kids.
Which is fine. Obviously. Because this is about the kids. That’s why I’m going.
Me:Tell them Auntie Syd is coming and she’s bringing presents.
Archer:You don’t have to bring presents.
Me:I’m bringing presents. Don’t argue with me.
Archer:Wouldn’t dream of it.
I put the phone face-down on the nightstand and stare at the ceiling.
Everyone always thought we’d end up together. My mom, my dad, Lauren, our teachers, every mutual friend we’ve ever had. For years, it was the running joke—when are you two just going to admit it?—and I’d laugh and roll my eyes, insisting it’s not like that, until people stopped asking.
They stopped asking around the time he got engaged to Bree.
I turn onto my side. Lauren’s spare room is dark and quiet, and the sheets smell like her fabric softener. I’m thirty years old, sleeping in my best friend’s guest bed because I don’t have an apartment, a job, a boyfriend, or a plan.
What I do have is a 7 AM flight to a man I’ve known since I was fourteen.
And maybe there was a time—a long time ago—when I was young enough to believe that wanting something badly enough could make it happen. Back then, I let myself believe we’d end up the way everyone expected. But I learned to let that go. I had to. You can’t spend your whole life waiting for someone who isn’t coming, and Archer was never coming. He loved me the way he loved me—as a best friend, and I told myself that was enough. I got so good at convincing myself of that, I almost believed it.
