Page 3 of A Million To Fall

“And your water?”

“Also yes!”

“Okay. Love you, Skye. Remember to make good choices.”

I always do. I know what’s expected.

“Love you, too, Mom.”

Her laugh rings after me as I close the garage door behind me.

I pause, grinning at the snowy-white car parked in our garage. I’ve only had my driver’s license for a year and a half. When I got it, my parents and I made a deal: I’d drive my mom’s old BMW convertible until my parents deemed me responsible enough for something new.

I followed every rule. No speeding. Avoid curbs. No parking too close to other cars. Easy in the turns. No hard braking. I didn’t even give my friends rides. I treated that BMW like it was made of glass.

And then Christmas morning, my parents led me into the garage and there it was: the most gorgeous, shiny Mercedes with a big red bow on top, just like in the ads. I swear, I almost passed out.

I still park at the far end of every lot and wince when someone walks too close to it. My family doesn’t do careless.

It takes me only five minutes to collect my best friend.

“Morning! How’s the wrist?” I ask as Lily slides into the passenger seat, my eyes settling on the flesh-colored bandage she earned herself by flying off her horse at practice last week.

“A lot better,” she says. “I should be back in the saddle this weekend.”

“No barn visit for you today?”

She shakes her head. “My mom says this is the perfect opportunity for me to finish my college applications. I’ve been low-key slacking on those.”

My parents made me get mine done over Christmas break. As cranky as I was sitting in my room while my friends were out riding snowmobiles, I’m still glad I have one less thing weighing on me.

“’kay. I’ll lunge Cal for you when I’m done with Versailles this afternoon.”

Yes, my horse is named after the French castle. Pretentious? Maybe. But it suits her. She’s a beautiful, dappled mare who’s won me so many ribbons and trophies I no longer have room on my shelf.

Ten minutes later, Lily and I arrive at school. We beeline to our lockers. “I need to finish my Hamlet report this weekend,” I mutter, shoving the book in my bag.

Lily jabs her elbow into my ribs. I glance past her and spot the reason for the pink flush warming her cheeks.

Boston Rawlings.

My heart lurches.

“I swear he gets hotter and hotter every day,” Lily whispers, her eyes glued to Boston as he zips his backpack shut.

All I can do is nod because, yeah, Boston’s really nice to look at. Actually, that’s kind of an understatement.

He’s pretty perfect.

Even though he’s bundled up for the Minnesota winter, I know what’s hiding beneath that jacket and hoodie. Rounded shoulders. Nice biceps. I noticed them when school started again last fall. His dark hair is short on the sides, longer on top and tousled like he ran his hands through it.

Boston’s always drawn looks. At least ever since I was old enough to pay attention to things like that. I’ve even heard girls talk about him, quiet whispers in class or the hallway. I’ve heard everything from “He’s so cute” to more embarrassing stuff like “I wish he’d take my v-card.”

But Boston isn’t just handsome. He’s also really kind. Always has been. Which is why I get so annoyed when I hear girls talk about him like that. They don’t even really know him. Don’t know that his dad died when he was little, or that cauliflower makes him gag, or that his favorite video game character growing up was Yoshi.

I do, though. Because Boston and I grew up together. We even lived on the same street until my dad made equity partner in his firm and my family moved. We still have some classes together and the same circle of friends, though Boston hasn’t been around much lately.

As if he can sense us staring, Boston looks up and over. A sweet smile spreads across his full lips.