48. Chapter 48
forty-eight
Skye
It’s barely nine o’clock in the morning, and already I’ve heard the words “Mrs. Archer Longfellow” or some variation of it four times today. From my parents, from Lily. Oh, and there’s a tentative date for the wedding.
No time was wasted in between “congratulations” and hugs and pictures being taken.
“Next June? Before it gets too hot?” Mrs. Longfellow suggested to my mom, like I wasn’t standing right there. “Or is that too close to Skye’s birthday?”
“Maybe a long engagement,” my mom countered. “Give them time to graduate college.”
Mrs. Longfellow didn’t take that bait. “I like June,” she said, then dove into a discussion about wedding dresses. “We’ll have to go outside Stillwater. Probably even Minnesota. Maybe we’ll get something specifically designed.”
Archer didn’t stop smiling all night. Just kept making round after round through the banquet hall, shaking hands, giving hugs like he was doing victory laps.
And I just stood there, staring at the ring, smiling for the photos and the we’re-so-happy-for-yous.
When the celebration finally died down at well past midnight, when I climbed into my parents’ car, I stopped smiling. I haven’t started up again.
Instead I feel sick. Not in the fluish, feverish kind of way, but in the tight-knot-in-my-stomach kind. The kind that doesn’t let me eat, that makes me want to curl up in bed, pull a blanket over my head, and disappear.
I didn’t get a chance to call Boston last night.
It was too loud. Too impossible to slip away. And when I got home, I went to bed with the weight of it sitting on my chest.
I woke up feeling like I hadn’t slept at all.
It’s Sunday. He’s off work. It’s the day he sets aside for his family… and me. We were supposed to see each other today. To spend some time on the couch not watching a movie. It’s all I wanted yesterday. And now?
Now I pull into the lot outside his building and sit in my car, hands gripping the steering wheel. The engine clicks softly as it cools. I haven’t touched my phone. I haven’t checked social media. I haven’t thought about breakfast. I just got myself ready and left.
I still don’t know what I’m going to say, how I’m going to break the news to him. I’ve gone over a hundred different versions of this conversation, but none of them feel right. And in none of them am I able to predict his reaction.
Finally, I step out of my car and walk to his apartment. I knock softly once. Then again. I have to admit that a part of me hopes he’s still asleep, or under the shower—that he can’t hear me.
But I hear movement from inside the apartment, then the click of the door unlocking.
It opens.
I smile at Boston—his beautiful gray eyes, the scruffy shadow on his chin and cheeks, the fitted navy t-shirt hugging his shoulders and chest. But my smile slips with the look on his face. He already knows. I came here to tell him, but it’s too late.
His gaze drops to my left hand, to the ring.
I have to explain—I have to do something. I step inside the apartment. The air is cooler than I expect, the apartment dim and quiet, like it knows what’s coming.
Boston says nothing at first, just closes the door gently behind us.
The silence is thick, even with my heart hammering in my throat, my chest, my wrists.
“Why do you have to do that?” his voice is low, raw.
I turn to face him, brow furrowed, confused. “Do what?”
His eyes meet mine—sharp and aching. “Why do you have to show up looking so damn perfect when we both know you’re about to hurt me?”
The words knock the breath from my chest. “Boss, I…” The rest of the sentence catches in my throat. What could I even say that wouldn’t make this worse?
“I didn’t know how to tell you. I couldn’t say no. Not last night. There were so many people—cameras, our parents, the announcement…”
Boston cuts in, stepping closer. “Are you going to marry him?”
I flinch. Swallow hard.
“Are you, Skye?” he presses. “Are you going to marry him?”
My voice shakes when I try to answer. “I don’t know what to say.”
“I want you to tell me the truth.”
“I don’t know. I’ll try to buy time. Delay things however I can, but—”
“But what?”
“But ending things with Archer isn’t simple. Not anymore.”
“Why not?” His tone is so sharp it cuts right into me, leaving me reeling. My brain feels like static.
“Because…” The words catch in my throat. “Because it would destroy everything. Your mom’s diversion—”
He groans—guttural—hands raking through his hair desperately.
“I made a deal,” I say, chest tightening. “You know I did.”
“What if I told you I don’t care about that,” he says, voice fraying.
I shake my head. “I know you’d be lying. Because I know you care, Boss. About your mom, and Cassie, and Bronx. Because you’ll forever sacrifice yourself for your family.”
“And now you’re sacrificing yourself for me.” He begins to pace. “When I told you I didn’t want that, Skye.”
“I gave Mr. Longfellow my word,” I whisper. “And everyone was there last night. So many people… If I walk away, it’s not just a breakup. It’s a scandal. Everything will blow up. I don’t know what he’ll do if I pull out now. I don’t know how far he’ll go.”
Boston closes his eyes briefly. When he opens them, the pain I see punches me right in the chest.
“And I know,” I add, the words tumbling out, “I know that doesn’t make this fair. None of it is fair. But please, Boss, just give me time.”
He stares at me, his face suddenly hardening. “How much time, Skye? How long do you expect us to keep this up?”
I give him a pathetic shrug. “This doesn’t have to change anything,” I whisper in a desperate plea. I’m losing him. I see it.
Even as I say it, I hear how selfish it sounds. I’m asking him to stay exactly where he is—hurting—so I don’t have to.
He shakes his head, face contorting with pain. “What do you want from me, Skye?”
“I don’t want to lose you.” My voice cracks, the tears spilling from my eyes.
“But… just… where do you see this going? I mean, what do you want out of this? Out of me? You’re going to marry him and then what?
You’re going to show up and let me fuck you after your damn honeymoon?
” His words slap me right in the face. “What if he gets you pregnant, Skye? You want me to fuck you then, too?” The volume in his voice rises.
“On your first, or fifth, or tenth wedding anniversary? Are you going to climb into my bed to keep you warm? When he doesn’t love you right again and again, are you going to let me make love to you instead? What is this, Skye? What am I to you?”
My breath catches.
I know what he is to me.
He’s everything. He’s the only place I’ve ever felt seen. The only one who touches me like I matter. But what does that mean if I keep choosing someone else in the daylight? What does that make me?
“You’re everything to me, and I lo…” I stop myself. Even if it’s true, saying it will only hurt us more.
He stops dead in his tracks, studying me. His jaw is tight, his eyes so, so full of pain.
“I can’t do this,” Boston says heavily.
I just stare at him as my heart shatters.
“I can’t… Skye, I can’t just be here whenever you need to, like, recharge your emotional battery, okay? I can’t… I can’t let you use me for that anymore.”
His words are a white-hot blade slicing through my insides.
“I need to make sure Cassie and Bronx are taken care of. I can’t fall apart over a girl that was never mine to begin with.
It’s…” He drags a hand down his face. “Do you have any idea how excruciating it is to… to be with you in the most intimate way imaginable, just for you to leave and be with Archer again and again. Do you know how much it hurts to know that he touches you the way I want to touch you every damn day of my life? That he’s the one who gets to keep you? ”
I can’t breathe through the pain expanding in my chest.
“I thought it could be enough,” he continues, voice barely holding. “That I could be okay with… sharing you with him, but…” He looks away, blinking fast. “But I’ve lived the last few years being the one pushed away, and—”
That line breaks something in me.
Boston’s face contorts, emotion catching in his throat as he finally meets my gaze again. “And I know this isn’t the same. I do. But it feels the same. Like no matter what I do, no matter how hard I love, it’s never enough to be chosen.”
I clamp a hand over my mouth to contain the sob.
Boston takes a small step back, tears silently rolling down his cheeks. “Stormy, it’s killing me.” He drags in a shaky breath. “Please. I need you to have some mercy and just… go. I need you to let me go. Please.”
Tears pour down my face. Every instinct in me screams to close the distance between us. The moment I finally take a step toward him, he retreats.
Maybe that’s what love is sometimes. Honoring what the other person is begging you for. Space. Mercy.
“Please,” he repeats, voice barely above a whisper. “Go.”