After a few seconds when I realized he was going to remain still, I looked up at him questioningly.

How's Anne? he asked.

I brought my hands up. She's going to be fine. Her sister will be here in the morning. I sighed. I'm so sorry that whole episode scared you. I didn't want to leave you there, but I didn't want to leave Anne alone either.

Archer brought his hands up. I understand, he said, his eyes still shuttered.

I nodded, biting my lip. Are you okay? What are you sitting here thinking about?

He was quiet for so long that I thought he wasn't going to answer me, when he finally brought his hands up and signed, That day.

I tilted my head. That day? I asked, confused.

The day I was shot, my uncle came to take me and my mom away from my dad.

My eyes widened, but I didn't say a word, just watched him and waited for him to continue.

My dad was at a bar… supposedly busy for a while. He paused, looking off behind me for a second before his eyes found me again. He hadn't always been like he was at the end. He'd been fun, full of charm when he wanted to be. But then he started drinking and things went downhill from there. He'd slap my mom, accuse her of things he was the one doing.

Either way though, my mom only loved one man and that was my uncle Connor. I knew it, my dad knew it, the whole town knew it. And the truth of it was, I loved him more too.

He was silent again for a minute, staring past me. Finally, he continued.

And so when he came for us that day and I learned that I was his son, not Marcus Hale's son, I was happy. I was elated.

He looked down at me, regarding me with little emotion, as if he was deep inside himself, hidden. My uncle shot me, Bree. Marcus Hale shot me. I don't know if he meant to or if the gun just went off when I ran toward him in anger. But either way, he shot me and this is what it did. He brought his hand up to his throat, running it over the scar.

Then he gestured his hand to indicate all of him. This is what it did.

My heart sank. "Oh, Archer," I breathed out. He continued to look down at me. He seemed almost numb.

"What happened to them? To your mom?" I asked, blinking up at him and swallowing down the lump that was threatening to choke me.

He paused for only a second. Marcus had hit our car from behind in his attempt to run us off the road. Our car flipped. My mom was killed in the accident. He closed his eyes for a minute, pausing, and then opened them and continued. After Marcus shot me, there was a standoff between him and Connor in the road. He lapsed into silence again for a minute, his eyes looking like deep, amber pools of sorrow. They shot each other, Bree. Right there on the highway, under a blue springtime sky, they shot each other.

I felt weak with horror.

Archer went on. Tori showed up and then I vaguely remember another car coming along a minute after that. The next thing I remember is waking up in the hospital.

A sob moved up my throat, but I swallowed it down. All these years, I shook my head, unable to grasp the torment he must have experienced, you've lived with that all these years–all by yourself. Oh, Archer. I sucked in a huge breath, attempting to keep hold of my own emotion.

He looked down at me, emotion finally flashing in his own eyes before it moved away again.

I scooted closer to him and gripped his t-shirt as I laid my head against his stomach, tears running silently down my face as I whispered again and again, "I'm so sorry." I didn't know what else to say in response to the weight of the horror a little boy had held.

But I finally understood the depth of his pain, of his trauma, of the burden he carried with him. And I understood why Victoria Hale hated him. She hadn't just sought to take his voice, she had sought to take his confidence, his self-worth, his identity. Because Archer was the embodiment of the fact that her husband loved another woman more deeply than he had ever loved her, and that he had given that woman not only his heart, but his first born son. And that son had the ability to take everything from her.

I continued to hold Archer.

After what seemed like a long time, I leaned back. You own the land this town is on. You're Connor's oldest son.

He nodded, not looking at me, not seeming to care in the least.

You don't want it, Archer? I asked, wiping the tears off my wet cheeks.

He looked down at me. What in the hell would I do with it? I can't even communicate with anyone except you. Much less run a whole damn town. People would look at me like I was the funniest joke they'd ever heard.

I shook my head. That's not true. You're good at everything you do. You'd be great at it, actually.

I don't want it, he said, anguish washing over his face. Let Travis have it. I don't want anything to do with it. Not only am I incapable, but I don't deserve it. It was my fault. It was all because of me that they died that day.

I reared back, sucking in a breath. Your fault? You were just a little boy. How could any of it have been your fault?

Archer regarded me, an unreadable expression on his face. My very existence caused their deaths.

Their own choices caused their deaths. Not a seven year old child. I'm sorry, but you'll never convince me that you have one scrap of responsibility for what happened between four adults that day. I shook my head vehemently, trying to physically put emphasis on the words I'd just "spoken."

He looked over my shoulder, staring at something only he could see for several minutes. I waited him out.

I used to think I was cursed, he said, a small humorless smile tugging at the side of his mouth before it morphed into a grimace. He dragged one hand down the side of his face again before bringing both hands up. It didn't seem possible that someone could be handed so much shittiness in one lifetime. But then I realized that it probably wasn't that I was cursed, more that I was being punished.

I shook my head again. It doesn't work that way.

His eyes met mine and I breathed out. I considered that too once, Archer. But… I realized that if I truly believed that, I'd have to believe that my dad deserved to be shot in his own deli, and I know that isn't true. I paused, trying to remember what it felt like to think I was cursed once as well. Bad things don't happen to people because they deserve for them to happen. It just doesn't work that way. It's just… life. And no matter who we are, we have to take the hand we're dealt, crappy though it may be, and try our very best to move forward anyway, to love anyway, to have hope anyway… to have faith that there's a purpose to the journey we're on. I grabbed his hands in mine for a second and then let go so that I could continue. And try to believe that maybe more light shines out of those who have the most cracks.

Archer kept studying me for several beats before he brought his hands up and said, I don't know if I can. I'm trying really hard, but I don't know if I can.

You can, I affirmed, my gestures sweeping to add emphasis. You can.

He paused for a minute before saying, It all looks so messy. He ran one hand over his short hair. I can't make sense of it all–my past, my life, my love for you.

I looked up at him for a minute, watching the emotions cross his face. After a second I brought my hands up. I don't remember a lot about my mom. I shook my head slightly. She passed away from cancer and I was so young when she died. I licked my lips, pausing. But I remember her doing these cross stitches–they're little thread embroidery pictures.

Archer watched my hands, glancing up at my face between words.

Anyway, one time I picked up one of her pieces and it looked awful–all messy, with all these knots and uneven strings hanging everywhere. I could barely make out what the picture was supposed to be. I kept my eyes on Archer, squeezing his hand quickly before bringing my own back up.

But then, my mom came over and took the piece of fabric out of my hands and turned it over–and right there was this masterpiece. I breathed out and smiled. She liked birds. I remember the picture–it was a nest full of babies, the mama bird just returning. I paused, thinking. Sometimes I think of those little pieces of fabric when life feels really messy and difficult to understand. I try to close my eyes and believe that even though I can't see the other side right then, and that the side I'm looking at is ugly and muddled, that there's a masterpiece that's being woven out of all the knots and loose strings. I try to believe that something beautiful can result from something ugly, and that there will come a time when I'll get to see what that is. You helped me see my own picture, Archer. Let me help you see yours.

Archer gazed down at me, but he didn't say anything. He just tugged gently on my arms and dragged me up onto his lap and pulled me in to his body, holding me tightly, his warm breath in the crook of my neck.

We sat that way for several minutes before I whispered in his ear, "I'm so tired. I know it's early, but take me to bed, Archer. Hold me. Let me hold you."

We both stood up and walked to his bedroom where we undressed slowly and got under his sheets. He pulled me close and held me tightly, but didn't attempt to make love to me. He seemed better, but still distant, like he was somewhere lost inside of himself.