“Hey, Mal! Thought I saw your light on in here. What are you doing open on a Sunday?”

Phil pushed in through the front door of my shop. He waved when he saw me behind the counter.

“Morning, Phil. Just waiting for someone before I head out. Thought I might as well open the place while I’m here.”

He nodded, smiling, hands in his pockets. When he reached the edge of the counter, he leaned his elbow against it and looked at me. “You look like you slept well for the first time in years.”

I grinned. “Might have.”

“Oh, anything new and exciting you want to tell your buddy Phil? I swear, if I hear about one more Crock-Pot recipe from Nancy or one more thing about the latest picture app from my kids, I’m gonna snap.”

“Heading to group this afternoon with an old friend.”

“An old friend, huh?”

“Yeah. Well, I guess, sort of. Not really a friend. Well, yes, a friend. A friend of Danny’s. Stayed with me a while back and happens to be in town again.”

“Ahh,” Phil said, clacking his knuckles against the wooden countertop. “You sure know the nicest places to take your dates. Bereavement groups. Cemeteries. Hey, I think they might let you sneak a picnic basket into the morgue if you tip the coroner. He’s a buddy of mine.”

“You’re hilarious, Phil. Real charmer.”

He winked at me before turning around and leaning against the counter. “So, why are you meeting here?”

“Long story.”

The glance he threw me over his shoulder made me a bit nervous.

“Seriously?” he asked. “C’mon, Mallory. I don’t get any good gossip at home with the girls. You’ve gotta cut me some slack. Throw me a bone, here. I’m dying for some real human interaction.”

I laughed. “You interact with people who come into your shop every day.”

He groaned. “Most of them just want to talk about bread.”

“Well, you do sell bread. And make bread. I think that’s probably where they got the idea.”

The moment I heard the front door bell chime, my heart began racing. I glanced over Phil’s shoulder to see Archer standing in the front doorway of the store, looking a little nervous.

“Hey,” I called out to him. Immediately, I darted around the counter, past Phil, and went to stand in front of Archer. “You made it.”

The quirky little smile on his face sent jolts down my spine.

“I’m surprised the address on the business card didn’t lead to the pub,” he said.

“Nah, that’s my other card. I gave you the safe one.”

It took me a moment to remember Phil was there. When I turned, I found him looking at us oddly—me especially.

“Oh,” I said, extending my arm toward Phil. “Archer, this is Phil. Phil, Archer. Phil and his wife, Nancy, own the bread shop next door.”

The two men stepped toward one another and shook hands. Phil grinned broadly and slapped Archer on the shoulder. That was the kind of man Phil was—friendly. I think he reminded me of Danny. Maybe that was why I liked him so much.

“Nice to meet you, Archer,” Phil said.

“You too,” Archer replied.

“Mallory says you’re from out of town. Just back visiting?”

Archer shoved his hands into his pockets. He wore a dark, faded pair of jeans and a black pullover hoodie that made him look at least five years younger than he was. The youthful look was only completed by the tattered pair of Converse sneakers on his feet.

“Sort of. Here working on an indie pop-up project. We’ll be gone by the end of the summer, though.”

“Oh, sounds interesting. So you work in…”

“Business. Marketing, mostly. For small businesses. Can’t really talk about the project, unfortunately. Legal reasons.”

“See, Mallory,” Phil said, gesturing toward Archer, “this is exciting. Very cloak-and-dagger business deals. Secret meetings. Mysterious people from the past.”

Archer laughed. “It’s not that exciting. I promise.”

“Ah, don’t worry. I won’t press you for information. So by the sounds of it, you haven’t been to Mallory’s shop before? Never stepped foot inside the place?”

Archer, as though remembering where he was, twisted at the waist and began looking around the shop. “No. I haven’t.”

“Hey,” I said to him softly, placing my hand on his shoulder for a moment. “Don’t let us stop you. We’ve both seen all this crap a million times before. Look around.”

He smiled a little, then walked off to the far side of the store and began looking at some of the bookshelves leaning against the oddly angled corner.

I couldn’t help but watch him as he ran his hands over the sides of the wood, the way he touched it so gently, as though it were made of spun sugar.

Out of the corner of my eye, I could see Phil watching me. I didn’t care. Archer had said it himself: he’d be gone in a few months. And if this was the only time I had left with him, I was going to take it all in.

He moved toward one of the dining room sets. It was a rectangular oak table with six chairs to the set. Each chair was unique. The coloring of one ended up a little darker than the others, while another had tree rings, which seemed to perfectly encircle the seat.

Archer moved his fingers slowly along the back of one chair, pausing and fixating on something.

“I see you’ve picked up on Mallory’s little obsession too,” Phil called out to him, lightness in his voice. He crossed his arms over his chest and winked at me as he talked to Archer. “Don’t know what it is, but this guy can’t seem to stop carving little arrows into everything.”

At first, Archer didn’t move. He continued to stare at the etched pattern of arrows around the back of the chair.

And then he looked up at me.

No. This wasn’t one-sided. This—we—were magnetic. Between us ran a ley line. It was heady and deep, thicker than the Earth’s crust and hotter than its core.

“Hey,” Phil chimed in. “Since your name’s Archer and all, maybe Mal will give you a deal.”

Archer treated him to a small smile. He went back to looking over the furniture, touching each and every piece as he passed by.

“Well, I’ll leave you two to it,” Phil said.

I walked Phil to the front door to lock it shut behind him. But when we reached it, he tipped his head toward outside, so I followed.

Phil slapped the side of my bicep with a smile on his face and said, “Didn’t know you were gay, Mallory.”

I looked at him. “I’m not.”

“Well, I didn’t know you liked men, then.”

Thinking it over for a second first, I nodded. I hadn’t given it much thought before. Before, there was Sophia. And after, there was Archer. They were people—two beautiful people. That was all I knew and all I cared about.

“Yeah,” I answered smartly. I glanced over my shoulder to look through the front shop window at Archer through the glass. He stood in front of a vase, staring at it as if all the world’s answers to life were pooled inside.

“One, in particular, I take it,” Phil added.

I turned back to him. “Yeah.”

He hit me on the arm again, grin still in place. “Glad to see you happy, Mal. Nancy and I thought you might’ve been the loneliest man on the planet.”

“Hopefully not for too much longer,” I answered.

“Hopefully not.”

When Phil left, I went back inside the shop and locked the door behind me.

Archer stood in the corner staring down at the chair closest to the front window—the one I’d found myself looking at and thinking of him only a day ago.

I went up behind him, needing to feel close to him, needing to feel the heat of his body and hear the sound of him breathing.

“Ready?” I asked.

He pressed the pad of his finger against a small arrow carved into the arm of the chair. “This is beautiful,” he said softly.

To which I replied, “You can have it.” Another step closer. “Anything.” And then another. “You can have anything in here—anything you want.”

He didn’t turn. “Anything?”

“Yes.”

He pulled his hand away from the chair and said, “I’m ready to go.”

---

“Look familiar?”

Archer shrugged, looking around. “Nope.”

“Didn’t think so,” I said, my shoulder brushing against his. “It’s been a long time.”

We stood on the outskirts of a group of people I’d come to know over the years. The last time we’d been here was years ago. I still remembered that moment—the moment we held hands—and I felt like maybe, just maybe, things would be okay.

Archer stood two steps behind me, shadowing himself in my presence from the other group attendees who walked by us and said hello.

I knew this must be hard on him.

“Thanks for coming, Archer,” I said.

He looked up at me for a moment, his hickory-colored eyes twinkling. “You know what I just realized?”

“What?”

“I don’t think you’ve ever called me Ace.”

I felt my brow furrow. “So?”

“Don’t know. Everyone else does.”

“Archer suits you.”

“Whatever you say, Mal.”

The sound of my laughter drew a few looks our way. The sight of his smile kept them.

“Okay,” Pamela, who was leading the group today, said loudly. “Everyone ready?”

All around us, people began arranging plastic chairs into the center of the room. A few people, myself included, went off to the side and grabbed a couple off the stack. I sat Archer’s and mine down next to each other.

The bereavement group was still held in the same place. The room had a new paint job since last Archer was here, but it was the same. Low ceiling, motivational posters on the wall. It wasn’t depressing or clinical like some doctors’ offices were. It felt well used and cared for. On one of the corkboards against the far wall hung an array of family pictures of lost loved ones. Sophia’s picture wasn’t up there, though I’d been told a few times it was okay to put a picture of her up there with the rest of the families.

There were about twenty people today—a good-sized group. Whenever the group was bigger, it left a bittersweet flavor in the air. It was good that more people were at the group, here to talk, exchange, interact, and inevitably get better. But, also sour because it meant all these people—these new faces—had lost someone close to them.

“You gonna talk today?” Archer asked me in a whisper.

It took me less than a second to think about and answer. “I think so.”

“Do you talk often?”

“No, not often.”

A young woman started the group talking about her late husband who’d died overseas a few years back. I’d seen her a time or two, even been introduced, but had forgotten her name.

She talked of Thanksgiving dinners and inside jokes with their families. And about missing him but finally being ready to move on with her life.

That was always the easy part: talking about moving on. The hard part was actually doing it.

A few other people spoke, some simply announcing new things in their lives and how well they were doing, others mentioning their sadness as of late.

Pamela spoke. She told us a bit about her job at the hospital helping patients, and how thankful she was that she’d been there for her husband in his final days battling cancer.

In some ways, those of us who’d been able to say goodbye were lucky—if you could call that luck. There were countless people like Archer who lived each day without that closure.

“Anyone else want to speak?” Pamela asked, brushing her blonde hair behind her ear and wiping a stray tear from her eye.

“I will,” I said, standing.

Not everyone stood. You didn’t have to. Some people felt more comfortable sitting in their chair, staring at the ground. I didn’t blame them. That had been me a few times before.

But not today.

“Hey, everyone,” I said. “Most of you know me, but my name’s Mallory. I lost my wife to cancer years ago.”

There was a collective murmur of acknowledgment through the group. It would surprise you what that simple sound could do to let you know that there was someone out there who was listening, someone who cared.

“But I’ve been getting better,” I continued. “Better at accepting that my wife left this world all too soon and accepting that she wouldn’t want me to spend the rest of my days moping around because of it.”

A few people chuckled.

“And I…” Suddenly feeling like my skin was prickling, I reached behind my head and scratched my neck. “I met someone. And for even that, I felt… like I was tarnishing her memory.”

Pamela said, “Many of us have been right where you are, Mallory. It’s a difficult time and can be a bad experience, for sure. But none of our loved ones would ever want us to remain unhappy and alone just as I’m sure we wouldn’t want that for our loved ones.”

“No,” I agreed, “you’re right. I know that now. But I think I got it wrong.”

I glanced down at Archer. He wasn’t looking at me. His arms were folded across his chest and his gaze stayed locked on the back of the plastic chair in front of us.

“I’ve realized recently that I’m ready, fully ready to move on. I won’t be forgetting her by loving someone else. I’m ready to find happiness again.”

I sat down in my chair, and soon after, someone else began talking. When I glanced over at Archer, he still wasn’t looking at me. That was okay. I didn’t think he would.

I’d once asked Archer if he’d ever spoken at a bereavement group. He’d told me that his mother used to say—half jokingly, half not—that if you didn’t have anything positive to say, don’t say anything at all.

So, no. He hadn’t ever spoken at a group meeting.

It was a shame. There was something about spilling your guts that helped to cleanse the soul.

But I wouldn’t push him. Not with this. Not with anything—ever.

The rest of the time passed with a few other people speaking, sometimes asking advice, always getting replies. Archer watched each speaker like the words falling from their lips were covered in gold lacquer. It looked almost like he was trying to memorize their stories.

When the group finished, I helped stack up chairs, like I always did, and a few of the other members came to me, telling me how far I’d come or how happy they were for me and couldn’t wait to be there themselves one day.

They smiled at Archer and he tried to smile back, but his gaze kept drifting toward the door.

We left soon after, Archer beelining for the truck, me following behind. No words were shared between us as I started the car, put on some classic rock, and pulled out of the parking lot.

Evening swept over and all around us. Flicks of stars twinkled on the darkened horizon behind the sharp angles of the Canadian Rockies. We each rolled down our windows the moment we got to the highway to let the warm summer air flow into the cabin and mix with the heartbreak melodies sung by old rock legends.

The world around us was nothing but blacks and blues. But if you looked hard enough and long enough, you could still see a little green.

“Will you pull over?” Archer asked quietly.

I quickly shot him a look. And then another.

One hand was on the steering wheel while my other was on the edge of the car door, half hanging out the window.

“Okay?” I asked.

“Knee’s bugging me.”

I pulled off as soon as I could, into one of the spots on the side of the road for tourists to get out and take pictures or long-haul truckers to sleep for the night.

The moment the truck went into Park, Archer was out his door. I rushed to follow behind him, unsurprised that he’d hopped the metal railing along the edge and gone down toward one of the lakes.

He stopped at the shoreline, put his hands into his pockets and said, “Well, this is fucked up.”

I stood in the spot next to him. “Yep.”

Because it was.

“I’m sorry about your wife, Mallory.”

“I’m sorry about your parents. And your arm. And your jackass brother. Hell, I’m sorry about your whole damn life.”

Archer started laughing. The sound rang out against the mountain range and ricocheted off the glass surface of the still lake spread wide in front of us.

“I’m sorry you didn’t stop me from leaving three years ago.”

“Me too, Archer,” I said, looking out into the legion of onyx sky. “Me too.”