A Million Times, Yes (The Billionaires of Boston #1)

Prologue Maya

Prologue

Maya

Twenty-one years ago

Something was wrong. I felt it the second I got home from school.

Normally, I’d truck up the three flights of stairs and drop my book bag on the counter, and it would be silent in here.

Mom didn’t get home until after dark, when my stomach would be growling so loud I swore it rattled the walls of our small apartment.

But as I was putting my backpack on the counter, I heard her.

And it sounded like . . . she was crying.

I almost tripped over my untied shoelace on the way into the bedroom, the room Mom and I shared most nights, and what I saw made me freeze in the doorway.

She was in a ball on the bed, rocking like her tummy was sick, and there was a plastic bottle in her hand, cap off, with clear liquid inside and a vodka label on the front.

“Stupid,” she said to no one. “Stupid, stupid, stupid.” She slapped her forehead, and when she took a drink, she made a face as she swallowed. “How could I be so goddamn stupid?” she cried.

“Mom?”

I must have been as quiet as a mouse, because when she looked at me, she seemed surprised to see me.

“Hi, baby.” She wiped her face; the black smears of makeup didn’t budge from her cheeks.

“Be right back,” I told her.

I rushed into the bathroom and got a washcloth from the cabinet, soaking it with water from the faucet and swiping it over a bar of soap before I hurried back to the bedroom.

This time, I went past the doorway and flopped onto the bed, holding the bubbly rag to Mom’s face.

It took a little scrubbing before the black began to come off.

“You’re such a good girl.” She put her hand on top of mine. “You don’t deserve this.”

“Don’t cry, Mom.”

Sometimes, in the middle of the night, she’d go into the living room and talk to someone on the phone, and when she got off, she would cry.

Not like this, though. And when she’d come back to go to sleep, she would never have a plastic bottle in her hand that smelled like the alcohol the teacher dropped into our ears after we got out of the school pool.

“It wasn’t a good day, baby.”

I looked through the window. It was still light out, so I said, “We can go to the park and swing on the swings.” I got most of the makeup off and set the wet rag on the knee of my jeans. “You love when we do that. Even the time when we had to share a swing since the other one had been stolen, and—”

“No park.” She let out a big breath, and the scent from the bottle was all I could smell. “I need to come up with a plan.”

“I can help.”

She didn’t mean to get her finger caught in a tangle, but my hair was a mess from running home from school, and she hit a knot when she combed through the strands. “You can’t help with this, baby.”

But I could.

The two of us were a team. That was what she said every night before bed.

“Why not?”

“I need to find a new job.” More black caked on her skin as the tears continued to fall.

“I got fired today.” Her nose scrunched and her lip lifted, like that barking dog on the first floor of our building.

“That bastard. He thinks just because he has endless amounts of money, he can call all the shots.” She looked at the bottle as if it were a better listener than me.

“I gave him the best of me, so what about my feelings? What about the things he promised me? What about our happily ever after?”

“You loved that job.” I hugged my hands around her bare ankle. Her skin was so cold, and she felt extra bony.

“I loved him.” She took another drink. “No matter how many promises they make you, the wives always win. Don’t forget that, baby.” She held my chin. “If you learn anything from me, it’s that. The wives always win.”

I didn’t know what she meant. All I knew was that none of this sounded good.

“You’ll get another job, Mom. I’m sure of it—”

“And we’re getting kicked out of our apartment.”

My heart was suddenly beating so fast, I sounded breathless when I whispered, “What?”

“Some rich corporation bought the complex and is knocking it down to build luxury condos. Luxury condos in South Boston, can you even believe that?” She raised her arm, and some of the liquid sloshed out from the bottle, hitting the floor with a splat.

“This is how the rich keep getting richer. They take away from the people who really need it.” She shook my cheek. “Like us.”

Our home? Is going to be taken away from us?

It wasn’t perfect. The heat didn’t work all that well in the winter, and the microwave had been broken for months. I had to run home from school because Mom said it wasn’t safe to walk, and I couldn’t go out after dark unless I was with her, and even then she didn’t like to.

But the apartment was ours.

And losing it wasn’t fair.

It was . . . like some cruel, sick joke.

“Don’t they care that we lived in our car for a whole month before we found this apartment?”

“Two months, baby.” She guzzled from the bottle and wiped her lips. “Two months and three days, and if I hadn’t sold the car to afford the security deposit for this apartment, we’d be moving back into it.”

My stomach growled for the fruit cup that was in the fridge. I’d seen it this morning before I’d left for school, saving it for a snack when I got home. There was only one left. But if Mom didn’t have a job anymore, I worried that snack would turn into my dinner.

“It’s going to be okay, Mom. We’ll find another place to live, and I bet you get the first job you apply to and—”

“I wish it was that easy, honey.” She leaned in to my face. What I saw instead of tears was something that worried me, something I hadn’t seen since we’d moved out of the car and into this apartment: fear. “But for people like us, it just isn’t.”