Page 184 of A Million To Fall

I take his hand, turn it palm-up—

And drop the ring into it.

“We’re over,” I say, calm and final.

He jerks back like I slapped him. “What the hell are you—”

“We are over,” I repeat, turning to his father now. “Archer and I are done.”

Mr. Longfellow’s brow furrows, eyes burrowing into me.

“I don’t know why your son did this,” I say, voice quiet but steady. “But I saw the security footage. And I’m not the only one.”

His eyes widen only for a fraction of a second before he schools his expression into a hard mask.

“There’s no audio, but it doesn’t matter. It’s clear as day that Boston wasn’t the aggressor. Jake attacked him first. And Boston was on the ground when Archer shot him point-blank.”

I pause, letting my words hang there like a wrecking ball. “You spin whatever story you want about my breakup with Archer, but I suggest you keep it neutral.”

My eyes move between Mr. Longfellow and Archer. I want them both to understand that I’m as serious as a heart attack.

“If you try to retaliate against Boston, or his family, or… mine”—my breath stutters with the enormity of my threat—“so help me, I will make sure everyone knows exactly what happened last night.”

Archer’s face is crimson with rage, but his dad is composure personified. He doesn’t blink, doesn’t move.

“You can’t be fucking serious, Skye,” Archer bellows, fists clenched tight. “You’re still wearing the shoes I bought you for Christmas,” he says, like that would somehow convince me that this whole relationship isn’t toxic, abusive, and flat-out dangerous.

I look down at the shiny, black pumps on my feet.

Then I step out of them.

I turn on my heels and walk barefoot out of the Longfellow home.

Thank god my car doubles as a mobile closet and I’m always lugging around too many pairs of shoes. The fifteen feet from the Longfellows’ front door to my car in bare feet nearly gave me frostbite.

By the time I make it to the hospital, I’ve slipped into a stray pair of running shoes and tugged Boston’s hoodie on, letting it swallow the dress I’ve worn since yesterday. I took it off before I reached Archer’s. There was no way I was letting him see me wearing Boston’s clothes. No. Way.

I squeeze my car into the next available spot, no longer caring about scratches or dings, then check my reflection in the rearview mirror. I look ghastly: smeared mascara, tangled hair, my lips still stained from lipstick that wore off hours ago. For a second, I want to fix it. But who am I trying to impress? Boston? He’s probably had one of the worst nights of his life.

Or maybe he’s been through worse.

Somehow that possibility makes me feel even shittier.

Inside, I beeline for the reception desk. It’s too bright and smells like antiseptic and something coppery. I don’t linger. I don’t sit. I barely breathe. I just follow the directions I’ve been given to room 2-107.

I knock, barely making a sound, then carefully push the door open.

My eyes find him immediately.

Boston.

Only not like the last time I saw him—when he was still… whole.

This version of him scares me.

He looks… wrong. Eyes closed, body still, face pale save for the bruises blooming across his left cheekbone and jaw. There’s an IV in his arm, machines beeping rhythmically. His bare chest, too, is mottled with bruises, his left shoulder wrapped and immobilized. For a second, I think it looks like he was in a fight. My chest tightens. He was. He wasn’t just shot. He got beat first.

A whispered “hey,” makes me jerk around.