51. Chapter 51 #3
I spent years learning their rules and contorting myself into acceptable shapes, convinced that if I was agreeable enough, polished enough, accommodating enough, I could earn a place in this house. But belonging was always conditional—be useful, be uncomplicated, play your part.
I should’ve known that the moment I stopped performing, the invitation would be revoked. It became clear the second Mr. Longfellow agreed to help Boston’s mom in exchange for my silence. For staying with Archer.
For staying away from Boston.
The strangest thing happens.
I’m not devastated by being cast aside.
Quite the opposite.
Relief blooms in my chest.
Because if I was never truly theirs to lose, then I don’t have to keep earning a place at their table.
I am no longer required to play their game.
And the truth is, I don’t need answers.
I already know what happened. I saw it with my own eyes. Boston in the snow, defenseless, already bleeding when Archer pulled the trigger. The only thing still missing is the why.
Maybe I thought I’d find that here, but the real reason I came is that I already knew what had to happen next.
I’ve known for a long time. Years, maybe. Back in high school. Last summer at AJ’s. In that New York hotel room. In Boston’s apartment—his bed.
I knew.
I’m done.
Been done.
I slide the ring off my finger.
And for the first time in a long time, I breathe.
This ring has felt like a weight for months. A reminder of all the ways I’ve been silent. All the ways I’ve let someone else tell my story.
Not anymore.
I walk over to Archer. He and his dad stare at me like I’ve lost my damn mind. And maybe I have.
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.
Jake’s sitting in a sage-green chair by the window. Judging by his slumped posture and the gray hue of his skin, he’s exhausted—physically and emotionally.
“What are you doing here?” I whisper back, clipped. A part of me doesn’t think Jake should get to be in this room.
He shrugs, eyes drifting back to Boston. “Same thing you are, I guess. Making sure Boss is okay.”
I just turn back to Boston, letting my eyes sweep over his face again—past the bruises and the split lip—to find the parts that are still him. It’s not lost on me that there’s not a single scratch on Jake. Boston didn’t even attempt to fight back. He just… took it.
Almost like he thought he deserved it.
Behind me, I hear Jake shift, something scraping softly against the floor. I don’t turn until he’s beside me, nudging a chair closer to the bed.
“Thanks,” I mutter, sitting.
My hand lifts instinctively, reaching for Boston. I stop myself. I don’t have a right to hold his hand. Not yet. Maybe not ever again.
Jake doesn’t say anything, just pulls his chair next to mine. Up close, I see it—the guilt. It’s in his bloodshot eyes, the way his hands won’t still in his lap and his leg bounces with nerves. It clings to him.
So thick I could choke on it.
And I’m about to make it worse.
“Did you know Boston’s apartment complex has surveillance cameras?” I start, voice wobbly with a fresh injection of adrenaline. Jake doesn’t respond, but I don’t miss the tiny groan. “I saw it,” I add.
Jake’s head snaps to me, blue eyes wide.
“I saw you. And Archer. There’s no audio, but it looks like…
” My voice cracks. I turn in my seat, facing him.
“Jake, why did Archer shoot Boss? Why were you even there last night? You’re Boston’s best friend.
I don’t understand why you beat him.” I clutch the hem of Boston’s hoodie, twisting the fabric between my fingers. “None of this makes sense.”
He exhales hard through his nose, dragging a hand over his face. “I’m not really supposed to talk about it.”
Frustration rises like bile. “You’re not supposed to talk about Archer shooting Boss while he was on the ground. In the snow. Defenseless?” I stare at him. “Come on, Jake. I already saw the footage. I already know it wasn’t self-defense. Please, Jake. I need to know!” I say, softer now.
He turns his head slowly, like it costs him to meet my eyes. “Do you love him?”
I blink. “What?”
“Do you love Boss?” he repeats, quieter. “I know about you two. I’ve known for a while.”
Surprisingly, there’s no accusation in his face. Just sadness.
“How?” I ask.
Jake breathes a quiet laugh. “I mean, Boss has always had a thing for you. Forever. But when he came back? I saw the way he looked at you. And the way you looked at him.”
I blush so violently, my cheeks burn.
“He told me about the night he spent with you last summer. When me and Archer and Pacey were out hunting with our dads. He didn’t say anything happened between you two, but… I can read between the lines.”
Gosh, it suddenly feels too hot in here.
“I’m not judging you,” he says. “Honestly, I always thought Boss would treat you better than Arch, so…”
I nod, barely. “I broke it off. The engagement,” I say, eyes fixed on Boston. “Archer and I are over.”
Jake doesn’t ask why. He just nods, then takes a deep breath. “Promise to keep an open mind?”
I look at him.
“If I tell you what happened… you have to promise to hear me out and… you have to remember that Boss has been through some really hard shit.” His voice tightens. “Try to give him the benefit of the doubt. If I can, so can you. Because you… love him, right?”
I nod slowly.
“Last night, at Archer’s, I got a text message from my mom,” he starts. “Total accident. She recalled it a minute later, but it was too late. I’d already seen it. And so had Archer.”
“What did it say?” I whisper.
Jake hesitates, eyes flicking to Boston, then back to me. “It said something about a girls’ night,” he says. “She attached two pictures.”
I raise my eyebrows, waiting. Jake exhales, then turns to me. “They were of her and—”
A soft, uneven breath pulls my attention away from Jake.
I turn just in time to see Boston’s hand move. Barely. Just a small flex of his fingers.
“Boss?” I whisper, already leaning forward.
Jake freezes next to me, like even breathing might interrupt whatever’s happening.
For a moment, nothing happens.
Then, his eyes crack open.
I gasp, breath hitching. My hand flies to Boston’s and this time, I don’t deny myself.
“Boss?” I repeat.
He looks out of it, lids heavy, eyes fixed on the ceiling at first. Then, slowly—almost painfully so—they drift to mine.
And stop.
“Am I dead?”
His voice is rough. Faint. Barely there. It breaks my chest open anyway.
Jake chuckles dryly. “You wish, man,” he says, resting a hand on Boston’s forearm. “How are you feeling?”