Page 174 of A Million To Fall

Jake’s hands are shaking. “No, you need to get to the hospital.”

I squeeze my eyes shut with the pain building like a wave. It’s like someone’s trying to tear my arm right out of its socket.

“Jake,” I groan. “I need you to call Skye. Tell her to stay with Cassie and Bronx tonight. Please,” I choke out. “Don’t let them take them. I’ll never get them back.”

I wasn’t cold two seconds ago, but suddenly I feel like I’m submerged in ice water. My teeth are chattering.

I force myself to look at him.

He hesitates. “Okay,” he finally relents, then dials what I presume to be Skye’s number.

I wish I could hear her voice.

Feel her warmth.

Kiss her.

Tell her I love her.

“I’m sorry, man,” I whisper, barely audible. “I’m really, really sorry. For everything.”

fifty

Skye

Fireworks came and went. Champagne glasses were filled, drained, then refilled. And the Longfellows’ New Year’s party is still in full swing. It’s lively, loud, with people mingling in the spacious living and dining rooms. The large TV is playing reruns of the countdown, while some party attendee has decided to dust off their mediocre piano skills.

I’m standing in the kitchen with Archer’s parents, his mom jabbering on about the wedding. Something about a dress designer in New York and fabrics flown in from France.

The second she started explaining the difference between ivory and cream, Archer bailed. Just left me with an “I’ll leave you two to the girly stuff” and disappeared to find Jake.

It’s been forty minutes of this and, I admit, I’m not really listening.

Mrs. Longfellow shows me her phone, a picture of a ginormous centerpiece with… are those diamonds dripping off the flowers? I nod and smile, but my mind’s not in wedding mode. It’s nowhere near June twenty-first—the date that was landed on.

It’s not on honeymoon destinations, or flower girls, or after-party attire. It’s everywhere else.

And mostly on Boston.

He’s been there constantly these past months, a persistent ache that never dulls. Even with school keeping me busy, with finals and holidays and—of all things—wedding planning, the pain of missing him hasn’t eased in the slightest.

I keep waiting for Boston to stop being the first person I think about in the morning and the last person I mourn before sleep.

For it to get easier.

It never does.

I barely register Mr. Longfellow’s phone ringing and definitely don’t tune into his conversation.

That is, until he snaps sharply at his wife.

“Shut up for a second.”

Stella Longfellow goes instantly silent beside me.

“Where the fuck are you, Archer?” Mr. Longfellow growls into the phone.

My head lifts. Confusion ripples through me.