51. Chapter 51 #2
“Okay, Marcus, let me know if you or the chief need anything else,” Mr. Longfellow says, shaking Officer Reed’s hand.
He nods and heads out.
Mr. Longfellow exhales deeply. He looks exhausted—everyone assembled does. Like none of them slept at all. “Alright, hopefully this will do it. I want you all—” He pulls his buzzing phone from his pocket. Still the same black slacks he wore last night. He definitely hasn’t slept.
“This is Orson Longfellow,” he answers, then listens, nodding slowly. His face stays stern, brows set until the very end, when something shifts and he visibly relaxes.
“That’s good news.” He sighs. “Okay, keep me posted.” He hangs up, slipping the phone back into his pocket. “Boston Rawlings is out of surgery. He’s going to pull through.”
Relief hits me so hard I almost stagger back. I brace my hand against the wall to steady myself.
“Thank god,” Jake mutters, his head sinking into his hands.
Mr. Longfellow turns to Archer. “You’re a lucky son of a bitch, Archer.”
Archer’s back stiffens at his father’s words.
“Turns out you’re a shitty enough shot to miss the kid’s heart by a couple inches. The bullet nicked the main artery to his arm and fractured his shoulder blade, but they were able to repair things before he bled out. If you pray hard enough, son, maybe he’ll regain full use of his arm.”
I watch Archer. He doesn’t respond, but his shoulders drop, his posture loosening for a fraction of a second. Then his eyes flick to mine and his jaw locks, mouth tightening.
“Jake. Lexi. Why don’t you go home and get some rest?” Mr. Longfellow says, the authority in his voice fraying.
Mrs. Davis rises from the armchair. I can’t help but notice how haggard she looks. She’s usually so put together.
“Let’s go, Jake.” She heads for the door.
Jake stops in front of me. For a second, it looks like he might hug me, but instead he lowers his head to my ear. “Boss is at Lakeview Hospital,” he whispers, then follows his mom out the door.
“I’m going to bed,” Stella Longfellow mutters to no one in particular. She looks like hell. But who could blame her—her son nearly killed someone.
“I’m coming, too,” Mr. Longfellow says, then turns to Archer, pointing squarely at his son’s chest. “What was discussed with the Davises stays between us and the Davises,” he says with a cold glance in my direction.
“It does not leave this house. None of it. Do you understand?” He doesn’t wait for confirmation, just makes his way up the stairs behind his wife, leaving just Archer and me in the still party-wrecked living room.
“Archer, what happened?” My voice is quiet, not accusing. I already saw what he did. I just need to know why.
He swallows, blue eyes wide like a deer caught in the sight of a rifle.
“It… was self-defense,” he starts. Instantly, my brow creases. “Boston attacked us and I—"
“No, he didn’t,” I say.
Archer pauses, eyes flitting between mine. “Yeah, he… he jumped Jake and then—”
“No, he didn’t,” I repeat, firmer, agitation creeping into my voice before I can stop it. “Why are you lying, Archer? I know Boston didn’t attack you or Jake or anyone. You just… you shot him.”
He just stares at me, panic flashing in his eyes. But just like earlier, it’s gone as fast as it came, all softness draining from his features in the blink of an eye.
He doesn’t ask me how I know.
“Where were you last night?” he asks instead, his voice low and hard as his lips press into a thin line.
“Why aren’t you telling me what happened?” I fire back.
He shifts, taking only half a step closer, but something about his posture suddenly makes me feel dwarfed.
“Where the fuck were you last night?” he repeats, clipped.
“I stayed with Boston’s brother and sister last night. They couldn’t be alone,” I tell him, eager to get back to the point.
“You should have been here,” he spits. “With me. Your fiancé. That’s where you belong. With me. Not shacking up with the siblings of some prostitute callb—” he stops midsentence, like he just realized his outburst.
“What the hell are you talking about, Archer?” I ask, exasperated and exhausted all at once.
His nostrils flare as he evaluates me, eyes dragging from my face, down my body, and back up again.
“You’re the reason he got shot,” he mutters.
It’s like a dagger to my heart.
“What?” I squeak.
His eyes fix to mine, bloodshot from lack of sleep, face pale. “You really think I’m a fucking idiot, huh?” he says, too quiet, too calm.
I don’t speak.
“You think I didn’t know that he wanted you? You think I didn’t notice that you wanted him, too?”
My heart drops so fast it makes me dizzy.
“I know he touched you.” He points a shaking finger at my chest. “Don’t lie to me, Skye. He all but fucking said it.”
Those must have been the words they exchanged when Boston was lying in the snow, Archer pacing before he pulled that gun. My heart squeezes painfully.
“Archer, I—”
The denial rises automatically. No. Nothing happened. You’re imagining things.
You know I love being with you.
The same lie I’ve reached for over and over in the past.
The same instinct that told me to say “yes” when I meant “no.” To ignore comments that hurt.
To apologize for taking up space or sharing my desires.
To tuck away my own needs because keeping the peace mattered more than being honest. To bury every inconvenient truth about myself underneath politeness and obligation until even I couldn’t tell everyone else’s expectations of me from my own wants and needs.
My mouth hangs open, the rest of my sentence caught in my throat.
For the first time, I hear the lie before I tell it.
I close my mouth and meet Archer’s arctic gaze.
“He did,” I say with a small nod. “But so did I.”
The words just float there, as if waiting to be absorbed into the very fabric of our relationship.
“What?” Archer breathes. He looks like I smacked him, his cheeks heating and everything.
“I touched him back. And I kissed him, and—” My voice is steady even as my heart thrashes in my chest. “I wanted him, too. None of it was one-sided.”
Archer’s jaw tightens, his shoulders and spine rigid, eyes cold.
Maybe I should be scared, but I don’t look away. I’m done hiding, done pretending, done shrinking myself.
“I should have told you,” I add, quieter, guilt pressing in.
Because despite the things that were wrong in our relationship—very, very wrong—he could also be doting, charming, and generous.
And I never doubted that, in his own, messed-up Archer way, he truly loved me.
“I should have ended things before it got to that point. I should’ve been honest. With you. With myself.”
His chest rises and falls, fast, uneven.
“But there were feelings,” I continue. “There always have been. Even before you and I got together. I just… didn’t understand them, so I ignored them. Buried them. Tried to be what you wanted.”
His jaw tightens, something furious and wounded flickering across his face.
“I tried to be everything for everyone else. And when Boston came back…” I take a deep breath. “I tried to fight it. I really did. But I started to realize that I—” My voice catches, but I force myself to keep going. “That I wanted more.”
His eyes narrow. “More than what? What haven’t I given you that Boston can, Skye? What more could you possibly want than… than a two-carat diamond on your finger, than—”
“More than being made to feel like an accessory, Archer.”
The words come easier now. Clearer. “More than being treated like something you get to control. Something you get to keep when it’s convenient. Something to lay a hand on when—” I stop myself, breath shaking. “I deserve better than that.”
For a breath, Archer just stands there, expression shifting so rapidly I have a hard time discerning if he’s mad or sad or resigned. But then his face turns beet-red, lips so tight they nearly disappear.
“And you think a fucking loser like Boston can treat you better?” he snaps, voice tight as a bowstring. “You really think the son of a drug-addicted prostitute would treat you better than me?” He chuffs a dry laugh. “You’re fucking delusional, Skye. The guy’s a glorified fucking hooker—”
“Archer.”
Mr. Longfellow’s voice—low, but crystal-clear—cuts through the house.
My head swivels in time to see Mr. Longfellow descend the stairs. He’s still in last night’s slacks, though his shirt is untucked now, top button undone. “Stop right there.”
But I don’t care about Mr. Longfellow’s instruction to his son. “Why do you keep saying that?” I ask, face screwed up in confusion.
“Archer,” his dad warns again.
“No. Dad, she should know,” Archer snarls. “That guy sells himself—”
“Enough.” Mr. Longfellow’s voice drops to a lethal level. “I already told you that what was discussed between us and the Davises was in strictest confidence. It will not be repeated. To anyone.”
“That’s bullshit,” Archer explodes. “Dad, that guy’s coming for everything—”
“Archer.” Mr. Longfellow rounds on his son like a cobra ready to strike. Chest puffed. Jaw locked. Terrifying.
I’ve had it.
“Tell me!” I demand, my eyes moving between Mr. Longfellow and Archer, anger boiling in my chest. “Why do you keep saying that about Boston? Why did you shoot him? I know damn well it wasn’t self-defense.”
“Not everything needs to be shared, Skye. Some things are handled internally,” Mr. Longfellow says so matter-of-factly it only infuriates me more. Not only is he managing the “situation,” he’s also managing me.
“I deserve to know.” The words come out sharper than I expect. “This affects me, too. My family. This happened at my mom’s apartments.”
Mr. Longfellow doesn’t so much as blink. “That doesn’t make you part of it, Ms. Monroe.”
I blink, recoiling.
Ms. Monroe.
Not Skye. Not future daughter-in-law. Not family.
Just Ms. Monroe.
Suddenly, I understand.