He called me Ace. That’s going to drive me crazy until I figure out why.
I’m practically gliding as I walk into the house. We had a conversation. He said single words at first, but then he formed sentences. I’ve been watching him out of my window for weeks and now I’ve officially met him. I don’t want to get ahead of myself and say we’re going to have a beautiful friendship, but we sat in my happy tree and that has to be good luck.
I want to jump up and down and do a little spin. My cheeks ache with the goofy smile he’s put on my face.
Kicking my shoes off, I head upstairs to read. I grab my paperback and sit on the seat beneath the window that my dad built. He made it because I love to sit and watch the rain…and Archer apparently.
We’re on talking terms now; it’s extra creepy to watch a friend. Or an almost-friend.
I’ve purposefully sat with my side against the window, facing the wrong way. Gone are my days of stealing glances of the mysterious Archer Brady. All eighteen days of them, poof, gone. I will be normal from here on out and wait until we meet in our tree.
I can absolutely do normal.
Opening the book, I remove my bookmark—there’s a special place reserved in hell for people who fold the pages—and continue where I left off.
Someone is about to die. The stalker is in the house.
I wonder if he’s in the backyard.
If this character falls down the stairs as she flees, I’m giving up.
Tap, tap, tap.
I lower the book. That wasn’t in my head.
Tap, tap, tap.
Sticking the bookmark back between the pages, I put the book down and look out the window.
My eyes swing to Archer’s window. He’s there. But what is that? I lean closer and almost bump my face on the glass.
Scribbled in red are numbers on his window.
He moves back in front of the window, eyes meeting mine, and taps once more on the glass. Then he walks off.
His cell number. That must have taken ages, he had to write the numbers backward.
Leaping off my seat, I dash to my bed to grab my cell. My heart is flying as I type the number in. I’m not even going to overthink this. I’m texting him right now. I’ll be cool and casual. He wouldn’t have given me his number two minutes after our first conversation if he didn’t want me to message him.
Chewing on my lip, I send a text and press the cell into my fluttering tummy.
Quinn: I hope you didn’t use a Sharpie.
The phone beeps and I jump so high that I almost launch it. Instant response. I open the message and a high-pitched squeal leaves my throat. Pitiful, Quinn.
Archer: It’s my blood.
I roll my eyes, my smile wide and moronic.
Quinn: Wouldn’t surprise me. Do you give your number to all of the neighbors that way?
Archer: No. I gave it to Jayde via carrier pigeon.
Jayde lives in the house on the other side of Archer. She’s a senior and even less of a people person than Archer. They would make good friends.
Quinn: You two would get along very well.
Typing the words makes my top lip curl. Calm down, you don’t own him. I don’t even know him and I’m jealous. That’s just great. Lockdown wasn’t supposed to send me crazy. I was going to sunbathe, swim, and read. I was supposed to come out of this with a swimmer’s body, Mensa mind, and golden tan. Instead I’m going to be green, with a mushy brain, and a Jell-O body.
Archer: We had a whole two-minute conversation with about three words. I’m not her people.
At least with me there is conversation. When I’m nervous, I talk, and Archer sure brings out the nerves.
Quinn: Who are your people? What was that coin you had in the tree?
Archer: My grandpa’s 20-year military challenge coin. He left it to me.
Quinn: That’s sweet that he wanted you to have it.
I wait. And wait. And obsess. He didn’t answer the question about who his people are. I’m obviously wanting him to say me. Take the hint, Brady!
How many minutes have passed since his last message? One? Two? A million?
I tap my leg while my phone does nothing at all. He’s not going to reply.
That’s fine. I have better things to do, too.
I put my phone down and head to find Mom. We make dinner together, eat with Dad, who tells us about his uneventful day.
It’s hard, but I don’t check my phone until I go to bed.
There is a message from him, sent ten minutes ago. I take a breath before I open it.
Archer: Night
Quinn: Night
We’re at the saying good night stage. I want to jump around my room, but my parents will hear. Dad will threaten Archer with bodily harm if he hurts me.
In the morning, I shower, get dressed, and give Dad a hug as he heads out to work at the fire station. Today we’re prepping for the home street party. I bound into the kitchen with a light heart, buzzing with energy.
Mom laughs. “It’s good to see that smile back.”
“I’m happy.” My heart is on a constant rhythm that beats Arch-er.
“I can tell. It makes me happy, too. I’m prepping the food. Can you put the lights up and write on the chalkboard?”
“Totally.”
Dad has hooks around the door and first-floor windows so it’s super easy to hook the lights on. I grab the box of colored lights and chalk sitting by the front door ready and take them out.
I put the box on the doorstep and take the chalk to the board. Before I get there, though, I hear his voice.
“Mornin’, Ace.”
I take a breath and look over my shoulder. He’s standing by his own chalkboard. The one
