Bree was sitting on a blanket near their table, the stroller parked next to her, and I wandered her way, sitting down, stretching my legs out in front of me, and leaning back on my hands.
Bree peeked under the blanket draping the stroller, where Averie had apparently fallen asleep. An electric fan, clipped to the side and making a soft whirring sound, was keeping her cool as she napped. “Beautiful day,” I said, scanning the laughing, strolling people in the near distance, moving from one booth to another, my eyes peeled for a walking stick or a halo of blonde hair or maybe a pair of overly large overalls. But mostly, looking for a head of chestnut curls, mostly constrained into a braid. Archer stood nearby, his hands moving briskly in the air in front of him, turned away so I couldn’t see exactly what he was saying to the couple he was speaking with. Whatever it was, he was making them laugh, the woman’s hands rising in response, though her husband spoke with his voice. The twins ran around Archer’s legs, playing tag as their father simultaneously—and expertly, it had to be said—used his hands both to speak and keep his energetic duo under control with a gentle pat here and an arm block there.
I had a vision of him as the quiet recluse he’d once been, shoulders drawn in, shaggy head down, utterly alone and ignored, walking down the streets of Pelion, and a sharp pang of regret burned through my gut.
I’d been one of the people doing the ignoring.
That burn intensified.
What’s wrong with you?
What’s wrong with you?
“Hmm?” Bree asked, bringing me back to the present, her eyes glued to her husband, that soft, gooey look she still wore on her face all these years later when she watched Archer interacting with others. Or fathering their children. Or breathing air. Just existing.
“Hmm what?”
She glanced at me, a worried frown replacing the look of love she’d just worn. “You just mumbled something.”
Had I said it out loud? I gave my head a small shake. The memory had been so shockingly strong, I’d zoned out for a minute there. “I said, what’s wrong with you,” I answered. “It’s what my father said to me the day before he left.” I paused. Haven had said the same thing to me at Gage’s party after the possum incident and it’d suddenly come back to me, the hurt of those words. I could feel Bree’s gaze on the side of my face as I continued to stare—blindly now—into the crowd, my mind cast back . . . back. “My father always seemed so concerned about Archer, gave him all this attention. I was jealous.” Another pause. It hurt to say this out loud. It felt good to say it out loud.
“You were seven, Travis,” she said gently.
“I didn’t want to share my dad. He was the only parent that felt stable, the one who didn’t confuse me. I didn’t want to be second best,” I murmured. Even before my mother had given me those words, I’d felt it. I’d known my father’s heart was split between the two of us. And why should it be? He was my dad. I’d only learned the truth later. “I was mean to Archer. I tripped him and he scraped his knee. My father knelt down and took my shoulders in his hands and gave me this hard, little shake.” I sat up and mimicked the action, replacing my hands on the blanket behind me. “He looked so damned disappointed. And he asked, what’s wrong with you? I still find myself asking that question sometimes, only there’s no answer. Just that same feeling. The feeling of being a disappointment.”
The next day he’d left me without a goodbye. He’d left me and taken Archer with him, the son he really wanted. Left me behind. Forever.
“Oh Travis,” she said softly, “he didn’t mean it. He said it in anger and frustration. Believe me, I get fed up with those wild children of mine a hundred times a day.” But the way she was looking at them run circles around their father, such open adoration in her eyes, told me everything I needed to know about what kind of mother she was.
“I know,” I said, because I did. On some level, I knew that. But I’d still acted on that feeling far too often over the years. Why? Had I let the lingering fear of not being good enough in the eyes of the one person who really mattered to me, rule my behavior?
The couple Archer was talking to turned to each other momentarily and I watched as Archer glanced somewhat longingly to the place Bree and I were sitting. The place devoid of people, except those he felt comfortable with, and perhaps that even meant me. The expression was fleeting, his smile returning as the couple’s attention focused back on him, but it suddenly hit me. Archer's life wasn't perfect. Sure he'd gained confidence and social skills over the eight years since he'd inherited the town. He had a family now, friends, a full life. But surely he also still carried the part of himself that had once lived as a complete loner, and perhaps he even missed some aspects of that life.