Page 135 of A Million To Fall

It’s nothing fancy. But it’s homey. Clean.

Safe.

Boston follows me inside, then stops. He looks around. Looks at me. Then around the apartment again. “Skye?” he says, eyebrows raised expectantly.

“It’s yours.” I let the words fall out of my mouth, tensing with anticipation.

At first, nothing comes. Boston just stands, frozen.

“What do you mean?”

“The apartment,” I say softly. “It’s yours. If you want it.”

His eyes dart between mine, confusion lining his brow. “I… I don’t understand.”

“I know this wasn’t really my place,” I start. “It’s just… I know you’ve been looking for a place for you and your siblings, and I know it’s hard without credit and stuff. I just… I wanted to help you so badly.” The words spill out in a rush. “So I talked to my mom. I’m so sorry.”

“You talked to your mom?”

“Yeah,” I say, sheepish. “I didn’t tell her much. Just that you’re trying to get custody of Bronx and Cassie, and that you’ve been… homeless. For years. Through no fault of your own.”

“But how… this… what…” he stammers.

“It’s my mom’s,” I interject. “The apartment complex. Technically, it belongs to her non-profit. It’s meant to provide transitional housing for people leaving… complicated situations.”

I tell him everything. About the conversation I had with my mom two nights ago, how heartbroken she was when she found out about Boston’s circumstances, and how eager she was to help him.

“Do you want to look around?” I offer with a smile.

He nods, and I lead him from room to room. The apartment might not be huge, but it provides enough room for Boston and his siblings.

He runs his hands over the sleek surfaces, breathing in the fresh scent like it’s life-sustaining.

I lead him down a small, narrow hallway. “This is one of two bedrooms,” I tell him as we step into a sun-drenched room.

“Is this… does the furniture come with it?” Boston asks, his eyes moving from the white bunkbed to the matching dresser and desk.

I nod. “It’s fully furnished.”

The emotion is etched into Boston’s face, but he doesn’t speak. Just takes it all in, like he’s afraid it could vanish.

Our next stop is the bathroom. “This could be Bronx and Cassie’s.” I smile, pointing toward the tub. “It even has a bathtub.”

Then I take him back through the apartment to the master bedroom. “And this would be your room,” I say, motioning toward the bed. “There’s a separate bathroom for you. No tub, but a nice, big shower.” I smile. “I remembered.”

The corner of his mouth lifts, but before the smile can fully form, he drifts away from me to explore the apartment on his own, opening closets, switching on lights, taking it in.

I follow a few steps behind, giving him space, trying not to wring my hands.

“So, what do you think?” I ask. “I know it’s not much—”

“Skye.” His voice cracks. “It’s perfect.”

Relief floods me like a tide. “Yeah?”

“Yeah. I—” He swallows hard. “What do I have to do?”

My heart constricts at his tone. It’s not joyful or relieved. It’s cautious. Expectant. Uneasy. And I understand. Even now, standing in the middle of an apartment with enough space for him and his siblings, Boston’s first instinct isn’t to celebrate.