“Yeah. My, uh, mother gave it to me. It was with our father’s things. Alyssa must have given it to him at some point. I’m surprised my mother didn’t burn it.” I attempted a rueful laugh but it petered out.
Archer looked back down to the photos, flipping a few more pages, his gaze moving from one picture to the next. He ran his hand gently—lovingly—over the plastic-covered page. I only have one photo of my mother, he said, raising his hands but not his gaze, seemingly unwilling to look away from the treasure in his lap.
The expression on his face reminded me of the way Haven had looked as her eyes had moved over the antique photographs of someone else’s family. Yearning.
“I know,” I said. I’d seen the picture of Alyssa Hale in a place of honor on the mantel in Bree and Archer’s home. I knew his mother hadn’t had much family to speak of, if any. Archer had his memories of her, good ones, I assumed, and the knowledge that she’d loved him, but no tangible items other than the one lone photograph.
I remembered how beautiful I’d thought she was. I remembered how she’d kneel down to my level when she spoke to me, and that she’d always listened closely to what I had to say, even though I was only a kid. She had loved my father and I was the child of another woman, his wife. She had to have had mixed emotions, and even pain, regarding my presence, but she’d never once treated me as though she did.
And I remembered my mother’s raging fury at her very existence, the woman who owned her husband’s heart no matter how many tricks she deployed or whatever manipulative plans she devised.
I remembered that I wished Alyssa Hale was my mother, instead of the one I was given.
Archer spent a few minutes turning the pages, his gaze falling from one photo to another.
Thank you, he said, and by the look on his face, I sensed the gravity of his appreciation.
“Yeah, of course. It’s yours.”
He closed the book, but kept it in his lap. He nodded to the file folder I’d placed on the rock. What else did you bring?
I began reaching for the folder of papers, but pulled my hand away. I ran my palms over my thighs.
“How long did it take for you to fall in love with Bree?” I blurted out, instead of the, my mother found some interesting documents, that had sat cold and heavy in my mouth like a handful of pebbles from the lake’s floor.
An amused smile twitched the corners of Archer’s mouth. He raised his hands. Five minutes? Maybe less.
I chuckled softly. “That long, huh?” I paused. “I guess it really does happen that way sometimes,” I murmured.
He considered me for a moment, leaning forward. Honestly? You’d probably know better than me. He smiled. I was a special case.
I breathed out a smile, a flicker of sadness causing it to die quickly. I was a special case, he’d said. But by the look on his face, that particular description of who he’d once been didn’t cause him any distress. He even looked more than a little proud of it.
Even more profound—and somewhat gutting for reasons that made me feel deeply humbled—he’d answered my question honestly and without rubbing my nose in the fact that I, the supposed legendary Travis Hale, was asking the once-upon-a-time town hermit for relationship advice, whether he realized that’s what I was doing or not.
How the tables had turned.
In so many ways.
“I think I’m a special case too when it comes to women,” I murmured. And probably regarding many other subjects too lengthy and complicated to bring up at the moment. As far as women though, I either picked the ones who were too available, or not available at all. Apparently. Archer eyed me curiously, but waited for me to continue. “How did you know you were in love?” I asked, more curious about Archer now, than my own situation. We’d never talked about these things, about his story once Bree Prescott had come to town and changed everything for him. “Especially considering you were a special case? How did you trust yourself?”
He tilted his head, his eyes moving to the lake in front of us. At the time, I didn’t completely trust myself. I knew how I felt, but I questioned whether I had anything to offer her. He paused, his eyes returning to me. But she made me want to become the man she deserved. She made me braver, and stronger. Because of her, I wanted to be the best version of myself. And that, I think, is what love does, if it’s really love.
I nodded, feeling strangely choked up, wondering if I even knew who the best version of myself might be. Could be.