My Darling Arrow

by A. Kent, Saffron

  He tugs at it, pulling me forward and making me arch my back. “I do, don’t I?”

  “Yeah.”

  His eyes sweep over my face in the usual way. My hair, my nose.

  My lips.

  He tips his chin. “What’s this one called?”

  “Sweet Little Sweetheart.”

  “Sweet Little Sweetheart,” he repeats on a whisper.

  “There’s a reason I chose it,” I tell him.

  “I know.”

  “You do?”

  His gaze comes back up and arrests all my breaths and heartbeats. “Because it’s been two years since I called you that and you like to celebrate every little thing like the needy girlfriend you are.”

  I gasp, dropping my ice cream – because who the fuck cares about ice cream when your boyfriend just said he remembers – and clutch his t-shirt with both hands. “You remember?”

  It has been two years since then.

  Since the night I went to see him in his motel room.

  Two years since I became his and he became mine.

  Our anniversary.

  Dropping his cone as well, he tugs at the chain again. “Why do you think we’re here?”

  “B-because I was bugging you to go see the show.”

  I have been bugging him. As soon as I knew Zach was going to be doing a show in California, so close to LA, I started begging Arrow to go.

  Not only because I’m a huge fan but also because Zach and Cleo belong to my hometown, Princetown, where I lived before moving to St. Mary’s.

  Arrow never showed any interest in going at all though.

  Not until one day he surprised me with the tickets.

  But I honestly didn’t think he had done it for our anniversary.

  “I thought the dates were a coincidence. You never said anything,” I say in a breathy, awed voice.

  “It’s called a surprise.”

  Tears sting my eyes. “You surprised me. For our anniversary.”

  A lopsided smile appears on his lips even as a grave emotion takes hold of his features. “Well, we haven’t spent much time together in the past couple of months. Because of my practices and things.”

  That’s true.

  The season is still on – they have the last championship game next week – and so he’s been really busy with soccer practice. Another reason why I thought he wouldn’t remember.

  Plus I’ve been busy with my own stuff.

  Yeah, I’ve got stuff now. Namely, college.

  It’s a little weird. I never thought I’d go to college. But then I never thought that I’d play on an actual soccer team at that school and I do that as well.

  After the summer program at the youth academy, I decided to stay in California with Arrow. Obviously.

  We got a great apartment and I worked for a while at a nearby café while I decided what to do with my life. College wasn’t on my radar until my friends from St. Mary’s told me to give it a shot.

  Arrow was supportive as well and I was like, why not.

  My mother had left me with a college fund and I had the best guy in the world to tutor me if I ever needed it, and so I started college earlier this year.

  It’s a lot of work and along with Arrow’s practices and hectic travel schedule, sometimes it’s hard to find any free time.

  But I understand.

  Even though we get busy at times, I know we love each other.

  I know it when I leave him sexy notes all over the apartment and he always replies back. I know it when he writes me sweet little poems and sticks them in my textbooks for me to find later.

  When we have impromptu picnics on our living room floor because we don’t have the time to go out to a restaurant or to the movies. When he comes home exhausted and we simply cuddle on the couch in silence before falling asleep.

  I know.

  “But it’s okay. I don’t –”

  “And I forgot,” he cuts me off. “Last year. But I didn’t want to forget again. I didn’t…”

  I cradle his jaw. “Hey, it’s okay. I know you’re busy. I know you forget things. But I don’t mind. I don’t, Arrow. It’s okay. You’re just trying to figure things out. We both are.”

  He is.

  God, is he trying.

  Just because he’s accepted that he wants more from life doesn’t mean it has been a fun change.

  Some days are easy for him. Some days Arrow remembers that he doesn’t have to be perfect all the time. He doesn’t need to constantly prove himself.

  But there are hard days too.

  When he’s on edge, on the warpath. When he gets this urge, this anxious, jittery feeling to work himself to the ground.

  On those days, I remind him that he’s my Arrow now. The guy I’m in love with, and he’s perfect the way he is. I remind him that he doesn’t need to be what they told him that he should be.

  He should be himself.

  Dr. Lola Bernstein helps as well. He still sees her but mostly they have Skype sessions since she lives in the east and we’re here in California.

  He also talks to his mom, trying to build a new relationship if possible. They talk about his dad a lot, about how he was before he died. I think he’s just trying to figure out his father, whose dream he was pursuing with such focus. He’s trying to figure out if his dad was really the man that his mother portrayed or was there more to him than the wish to play for the European League.

  In the meantime, European League is on hold for Arrow.

  He’s only focusing on his game here and trying to take it easy.

  “Things with us, with me, haven’t been easy,” he says, the lines of his features harsh and tight. “I never thought I could… live like this. That I could be someone. Someone else. Myself. I never thought I could feel so much. And for the past two years, that’s what I’ve done. I’ve felt. And felt and Jesus Christ, it’s fucking fantastic. My heart, I can hear it. I can feel the rush in my blood when you touch me. I can feel my breaths stopping and jacking up when I look at you. And when you smile…” He takes in my lips again and a puff of breath escapes him. “My chest hurts. It aches and I know that I have to kiss you or I’ll explode.”

  “Yeah?”

  He licks his lips and raises his eyes, open and shining. “Yeah and I’m scared that I’ll fuck it up. I’ll fuck it all up and you’ll realize that you’re better off and… I’d be lost all over again and –”

  I put a finger on his lips. “You won’t be. You won’t be lost, Arrow. Because I’m not going anywhere.”

  He swallows. “No?”

  “No. I’m Arrow’s girl, remember? The girl you kissed in front of the whole world.”

  He did.

  Last year at the championship game.

  When Arrow shot the winning goal, I was so freaking happy that I actually ran out onto the field to hug him.

  I’d always wanted to do that, you see. I always wanted to attend all his games and cheer for him from the stands and last year when he made his comeback after sitting out half the season before, I could.

  Only security stopped me.

  But I shouldn’t have worried because through all the chaos, Arrow somehow noticed my attempts to get to him and abandoning everything, he started toward me.

  He came to me panting and sweaty and freed me from the guards, from where they were trying to hold me off like a trapped bird. Then he picked me up and made me climb his body like he usually does and kissed the fuck out of me.

  In front of the whole world, the media gave me a new name: Arrow’s girl; his teammates still give him a hard time but he doesn’t mind because they’re his friends now.

  So yeah, I’m Arrow’s girl.

  Arrow’s eyes shine anew, this time with a possessive light. “Yeah, to tell them.”

  “That I’m yours?”

  “Fuck yeah, you’re mine.”

  This guy is crazy, isn’t he?

  And
I love him so much.

  So, so much.

  “See? You won’t have to be without me. I’m your girl. Now and forever. Your needy, crazy girlfriend and you’re my perfect, idiot boyfriend.”

  A slight smile flickers on the side of his mouth. “That you are. Needy. And crazy and perfect. My perfect.”

  I wind my arms around his neck and stretch up my body. “Say it.”

  His chest moves with a long breath, a long sweet breath, before he grabs my face and rasps, “My heart. My sweetheart.”

  ***

  All my life I’ve been taught to chase perfection.

  I’ve been taught to chase greatness and reject my flaws, my emotions. My heart. My very soul.

  But I’m starting to understand that our flaws, the design of our hearts, the fabric of our souls, are the very things that make us unique.

  That make us, us.

  That’s why some people study science while others study art. That’s why some people dance and others sing. Some people write poetry and others don’t understand the meaning of it.

  That’s why the world is big and vast and different. Because we all have something to offer.

  Because we’re all perfect in our own way.

  And I’m perfect too.

  Not in the conventional sense, no. But for her.

  At least, that’s what she tells me.

  She tells me that I’m perfect for her and these days, that’s the only kind of perfection I care about.

  Becoming her perfect.

  Her Arrow.

  The girl with thirteen freckles and witchy eyes.

  The girl who changed my life and taught me things about myself.

  The girl I’m in love with.

  My Sweet Salem.

  THE END

  (For Arrow & Salem)

  When: A couple of months ago; First sighting of Reed Jackson

  Where: Ballad of the Bards

  I don’t like whiskey.

  At all.

  It burns and it’s a masculine drink. Or at least, that’s what I’ve grown up believing because I’ve got four brothers – all older than me – and their choice of drink is whiskey.

  Me? I like cosmos or pina coladas or mimosas. Drinks that are purple and pink and orange and taste sweet and wake up your tongue and sizzle between your teeth. Not that I’m legally allowed to drink yet but still.

  Tonight though, I’m choosing to drink whiskey. And Jesus Christ, it’s awful.

  Awful.

  I hate it. But I hate him more. The guy because of whom I’m drinking this terrible creation.

  Reed Jackson.

  The liar. The guy who betrayed me and broke my heart.

  He is here. Somehow. At my favorite bar.

  I saw him standing in the middle of the crowded room, looking well and alive, not ten minutes ago. Looking like a dream.

  What the fuck – fudge – is he doing here?

  Okay, so I don’t curse. Well, at least I try not to. Because again, I’ve got four brothers who curse enough for the rest of the humanity. So I try to be a lady when I can.

  But it’s okay. I’m drinking whiskey straight from the bottle, aren’t I? So I can curse like a sailor too.

  I can curse and call him names, all the bad fucking names that I can think of because how the fuck is he here tonight?

  How. The. Fuck?

  Shouldn’t he be away, at college?

  He goes to college in New York City because that’s where all the rich kids from our town go, apparently. And it’s not even holiday season. It’s fucking September. People have classes in September.

  What the fuck is he doing here in fucking September? That fucking asshole bastard.

  That motherfucking asshole bastard.

  That motherfucking asshole douchebag bastard.

  I try to think of other bad words that I can call him as I take another pull of this terrible whiskey when a shadow falls on me, long and pervasive.

  Pitch black.

  I’m standing outside the bar, my spine propped against the brick wall, the liquor bottle clutched between my fingers.

  As soon as I saw him in the bar, I froze for a few seconds. I thought I was dreaming until my friends started asking me questions about him. And well, it wasn’t hard for them to deduce that he is the guy. He’s the reason I’m at St. Mary’s.

  And as soon as they realized that, I made a beeline for the whiskey, which I basically forced Will, the bartender and my brother’s friend, into giving me and got the heck out of there. Because I couldn’t be in the same room as Reed.

  So this shadow that’s rapidly growing closer could belong to anyone. A stranger. And since there’s no one else around except a row of trashcans on my left, I should be afraid.

  I’m not though.

  My heart isn’t pounding out of fear. It’s pounding out of anger. And knowledge. My breaths are spasming and breaking because I know that shadow.

  Even though I haven’t felt it in two years, I know it.

  I know the guy walking toward me, prowling even, in lazy, languid steps.

  Somehow I knew that he’d seek me out. I knew he’d come for me because just when I saw him, he saw me as well. And when he reaches me, I realize that maybe I shouldn’t have left the confines of the bar.

  I shouldn’t have come outside, all alone.

  Because in this moment, as he stands before me, I also realize that I was wrong before.

  I said that my heart wasn’t pounding out of fear. I lied.

  There is fear.

  Oh yeah, there is – among other things – and because of it, I’m not looking at him.

  I can’t.

  Maybe because as long as I don’t look at him, I can pretend that he isn’t here. That I didn’t see him at the bar and I’m not drinking whiskey because of him.

  It’s stupid logic but I think I’m allowed that because God, he is here.

  But anyway, I chicken out and avert my eyes from his large, dark frame and look at something else. Something over his shoulders, a bright white thing that practically demands all my attention.

  His white mustang.

  His baby. That’s what he used to call it when I knew him.

  It’s parked in the lot behind us and it’s so freaking shiny and posh and so out of place in this area of Bardstown that even if I wanted to look at something else, I wouldn’t be able to.

  So I look at his car.

  But no matter how hard I stare at it, trying to deny that he’s here, I can’t tune out the fact that he’s staring at me.

  I can’t tune out the fact that it’s been two years since I last saw him and I’d almost forgotten how powerful, how enticing, how bad his stare can be.

  How it could make me do anything.

  So despite all my silly logic and denial, I break down first because I want him to take his dangerous eyes off me and say, “Your baby looks good.”

  There. I said the first words and they totally sounded casual and breezy.

  I mean, it’s not as if I’m an expert at all things breakup. But I do know that when you encounter your ex-boyfriend, let’s say for the first time in two years after a super ugly breakup, the first thing is to look casual.

  And I think I did that.

  I did it, didn’t I?

  I sounded casual. Right?

  Oh my God, what if I didn’t sound casual? What if…

  “She does.”

  That’s all he says and I get my answer.

  I get that I did sound breezy. I did.

  Because he didn’t sound breezy at all. He sounded intense. His two words sounded heavy and laden with things. Things that make me think that he wasn’t talking about his stupid shiny car at all.

  He was talking about something else. Someone else…

  Like me.

  And then I have to look at him to confirm and I do and well, my friends were right. He is gorgeous.


  Damn him.

  He is shiny. Even shinier than his expensive car.

  It took me a lot of time to figure out why, back when I was naïve and in love. Why does he shine more than any other person that I’ve met? What’s the secret?

  It’s his very skin actually.

  It’s kinda pale. Almost silvery. Moon-like.

  You’d think that his pale, winter-like skin would make him look sickly or pasty. But no.

  God, no.

  It makes him look like one of those ancient statues made with marble by the Greeks or the Romans. Those statues, they are beautiful and resilient. Immortal. Awe-inspiring. They have withstood time and years and they still look the same, untouched and untarnished.

  That’s how he looks.

  He looks immortal. An otherworldly being with his gunmetal gray eyes and dark hair. A creature of the night and snow.

  Maybe even a Vampire. Corrupted and seductive. And yet, thrumming with life and energy, an inner sort of glow that comes from within.

  If only he was a noble vampire like Edward Cullen or something. A hero disguised as villain.

  But he’s not.

  He’s the opposite.

  And he’s staring at me like he wants to eat me.

  So I stop checking him out like a lovesick Bella and say, “Are you sure she’s safe though? Your baby. In this neighborhood.” I shake my head in mock concern. “People can be very dangerous.”

  My words only amuse him and his lips – soft and red in contrast to his marble-skin – stretch up slightly. “Can they?”

  “Yeah.”

  “What do you think they’ll do?”

  Drown it in the lake again.

  But I don’t say it.

  For one, I can’t believe my plan to ruin his baby forever didn’t work. Maybe I should’ve thought of something else, something more damaging than driving it into the lake. But then I wasn’t thinking at all when I decided to destroy it.

  I was fucking furious and in pain.

  “I don’t know, steal it? Again.” I clench my fingers around the neck of the whiskey bottle. “Slash your tires. Steal your rims. Spray paint your hood. Smash your windows. Douse the whole thing with liquor and burn it down once and for all.”

  His amusement only grows. “That’s… quite a creative list.”