49. Chapter 49
forty-nine
Boston
It’s five minutes past midnight, and the apartment is the kind of quiet I used to dream about when I still lived out of my car. When silence meant loneliness, not peace.
Cassie’s asleep on the couch, her legs pretzeled underneath her.
Bronx is asleep, too, the remote still clutched in his hand, using Cassie’s thigh as a pillow.
His mouth is open just enough to let out the faintest little snore.
If it were anybody else, it would annoy the crap out of me.
But right now it sounds like a damn lullaby.
They really, really tried to make it to the ball-drop at midnight. They swore up and down they could do it. I knew they wouldn’t last, but I let them try.
We had pizza and played Monopoly until Bronx tried to sell Cassie his “Get Out Of Jail Free” card for $1 and a Capri Sun.
I even bought sparkling apple cider and let them drink it out of plastic champagne flutes just to see their little faces light up like we were celebrating something big.
And we were. Not just New Year’s, but the fact that we’re here. Together.
Almost two weeks ago to the day, I got the call I’d been waiting for seemingly my whole life.
It was the Friday before Christmas break.
I was just about to take a bite of my lunch when Sasha’s number lit up my screen.
I heard the smile in her voice the second she said “hello,” and I knew the news was going to be good.
She told me the judge signed the temporary custody order and that I could pick up Cassie and Bronx from school that day.
Just like that. After all the paperwork, all the waiting, the visits from social services, it came down to one phone call, one car ride, one walk across the school parking lot to the gate.
I will never forget their faces when they saw me standing there. Cassie dropped her backpack. Bronx froze like he didn’t believe it at first, then barreled toward me so fast he almost knocked me over.
I’m still getting used to living with them again. New routines and habits and things to consider while trying to make our two-bedroom apartment feel like home.
Cassie immediately took to decorating the place with hand-drawn art. Bronx wants to sleep in my bed every night. I let him more often than not. He hasn’t had a single accident since he’s been with me.
There’s been burned grilled cheese, grocery store meltdowns, bedtime battles over who touched who first. I’ve looked up how to get slime out of hair and marker off couch cushions. And it’s only been two weeks. Still, I wouldn’t trade those moments for anything.
And yet… here I am. Alone in a room full of love, with a glass of fake champagne and a throbbing ache in my chest.
Skye.
I try not to think about her, but it’s like trying not to breathe. Every time I do, I come up gasping.
She’s in everything. The shower curtain she picked out for Cass and Bronx. That fake orchid on the windowsill. The hopscotch squares at the park.
And especially at work.
I got my GED at the end of October, quit every single part-time job, and started working full-time for Skye’s mom.
I’m a community outreach coordinator. Sounds fancier than it is.
Mostly, I make sure people in hard situations know they’re not alone.
I help connect women and families with emergency housing, navigate shelters, job referrals, counseling.
But I love it because I get to talk to people like my mom… people like me.
The problem is that Skye’s at the office every single day. Not physically, but I see her picture every damn day. Propped up in a silver frame on her mom’s desk. Her auburn hair wavy, aqua eyes bright, like she’s still mine in some alternate reality.
But she isn’t. She never was.
At first, Jake gave me updates, even though I didn’t ask.
He told me Skye went back to Chicago at the beginning of September—pretending, I guess, that everything was fine. That summer… we… didn’t happen. She just picked up her life and slipped back into the role of good student, good daughter, good future Mrs. Longfellow.
I deleted all socials. I don’t want to be tempted to look and see her in photos with Archer or wearing that ring.
But it doesn’t matter. Her ghost shows up anyway.
She’s constantly in my dreams and the quiet moments. It hurts like a bitch.
Eventually I told Jake I didn’t want to know anymore because it just made things worse.
So now he tries in other ways, like setting me up for blind dates I always turn down. Then he suggested I create a profile on some hookup apps. “Just get laid, man,” he said a few weeks ago. “You’ll feel better.”
I didn’t tell him that I was getting laid and that, if anything, it made me feel even shittier.
Mrs. Davis hasn’t gone anywhere.
Not that I thought she would.
She still cashes in twice a week—sometimes more—and has her regular Friday girls’ nights. She texts me the required forty-eight-hour notice and I show up. My body, anyway.
I leave everything that makes me me at the door before I walk into that house. Only my body ever crosses the threshold.
It’s a transaction. Mechanical. Detached.
But still happening.
I’m still not sure how I’m going to get myself out of that mess, but I gotta figure it out soon because I can’t keep relying on others to watch my siblings on the nights Mrs. Davis demands my time.
I tried to reach out to Ms. Janine, only to find out she passed away a year and a half ago.
Now I’m searching for new emergency child care.
As it stands, I’ve had to ask Skye’s mom twice already if she’d be able to watch my siblings for me for a couple of hours at night.
She was more than willing and, luckily, Cassie and Bronx love her, but it’s not a permanent solution.
Plus, it brings me dangerously close to coming face-to-face with Skye, who I know is back in Stillwater over the holidays.
If it hurts now, I can only imagine the agony that would rip through me if I actually laid eyes on her.
I look at the couch, at the two tiny people I’d go to war for, and let out a quiet breath. Then I stand and gather first Bronx, then Cassie into my arms, carrying them to bed one by one.
I turn off the TV and all lights save the one attached to the kitchen exhaust—just in case Bronx decides to pay me a visit in the middle of the night—then walk to my bedroom to get some sleep.
The buzz of my phone wakes me. I squint at the screen. It’s Jake.
“Hey,” I rasp.
“I’m on my way to your place. Meet me outside in ten,” Jake says flatly, then hangs up without another word.
I stare at the phone, still half-asleep. It’s 1:34 a.m. I have not the slightest inkling what’s going on.
I drag myself out of bed, moving like a damn zombie while I get dressed in the same jeans and white Henley I wore earlier.
I pad into the quiet kitchen, not bothering with the lights.
I grab a glass of water, chug it, and try to piece together why the hell Jake’s coming over in the middle of the night.
He sounded… short on the phone. Tone clipped.
Angry, maybe? I hope this isn’t about Skye.
I can’t take more news about her and Archer. Unless she finally left him.
Better not get my hopes up. It’s dangerous business. I know that better than most.
I slip on my boots, laces undone, and briefly debate grabbing a jacket. But I decide against it. I figure I’ll be back inside soon enough.
I step outside and close the door behind me quietly. Jesus, it’s fucking freezing. I should’ve worn a jacket after all. Too late. I already see Jake’s headlights approaching.
As they get closer, I realize that the headlights don’t belong to Jake’s Audi. It’s Archer’s BMW.
My stomach drops. Jake’s in the passenger seat.
What the fuck?
I barely have time to process shit before the car comes to a dead stop only feet away from me. The doors fly open, and Jake closes the distance in three furious strides, Archer trailing behind.
“What—” is all I manage before Jake’s fist slams into my cheekbone, a white-hot explosion of pain. My vision blacks out.
Then I’m on the ground, snow soaking through my shirt and biting into my back as Jake straddles me and hammers blow after blow into my face.
“What the fuck, Jake?” I shout, arms up, trying to shield myself.
Archer stands a few feet back. Hands in his pockets. Watching.
I try to get up, to move out of Jake’s hold on me, but he has me pinned.
“You piece of shit.” Jake’s fist drives into my bottom lip. Blood floods my mouth, sharp and coppery. “I fucking know what you did, Boss. I know you fucked my mom.”
My heart plummets. Shit. He knows.
“What are you talking about?” I groan, just as his fist buries itself in my stomach.
“I saw the fucking pictures. You lying, back-stabbing son of a bitch!”
Another blow snaps my head to the right, sending blood spattering into the snow. “How long, Boston?” he yells. “Just fucking say it. How long have you been fucking my mom?”
“It’s not what it looks like,” I gasp. “Please just… fuck, Jake, let me explain!”
“There’s nothing to explain. I saw the pictures. You and my mom. In my house. After everything I did for you—”
His knuckles crash into my face, right below my eye.
“How long?”
“Stop, Jake!” I rasp.
Every time I try to move out from under him, he throws another punch.
“She paid me, Jake,” I finally yell, the words ripped from me. They taste worse than the blood.
Jake freezes mid-swing.
His clenched fists hover over me, but he doesn’t move.
For now.
“What do you mean?” he grinds out.
I lower my arms cautiously. My vision is blurred, my left eye already swelling shut.
“She… She propositioned me a few days after you offered me to stay with you,” I choke out. “She offered me five hundred dollars to sleep with her.”
He listens, lips pressed together, nostrils flared.
I don’t bother to look at Archer. I already know he’s enjoying this.