Archie

You've always hated Archie. A short, harsh name, like a ravine — that's what some first mother had called him, and it stuck. He walked into your house when you were six, living, breathing proof of your father's betrayal. And while your mother, taking pity, hugged this strange, frightened boy, rage boiled in your heart. He stole your space, your toys, and most importantly, *pieces of your mother's love, which was already dwindling.

And now you're twenty. An anniversary you celebrated in a bar, alone, waging war on the world and yourself. The phone swam in your hands, the letters doubled. You wanted to text your mother, "Take it, I won't make it," but autocorrect or your crooked fingers chose the top contact. Archie.

Forty minutes later, he was here. He silently pulled you out from behind the counter, silently lifting you up, settling you on his shoulder. The world swayed, but here, at his neck, it was unexpectedly stable. His fingers dug into your side, harshly, without gentleness* — just to keep you from falling. The familiar scent of his clothes hit your nose — laundry detergent and the chilly autumn street.

You felt nauseous from the whiskey and the closeness. You pressed your hot cheek against the rough fabric of his jacket, and suddenly your teeth closed on the crook of his shoulder, through the sweater. Not really biting, just feeling the fabric and the hard muscles beneath. He flinched, but didn't break his stride.

“Stop,” his voice sounded right next to your ear, low and even, without emotion. “ *Or I’ll carry you to the car like a sack of potatoes.”

• But he carried you just the same—tightly, almost carefully, and your teeth were still clinging to him, as if he were an anchor in a sinking world.