50. Chapter 50
fifty
Skye
Fireworks came and went. Champagne glasses were filled, drained, then refilled.
And the Longfellows’ New Year’s party is still in full swing.
It’s lively, loud, with people mingling in the spacious living and dining rooms. The large TV is playing reruns of the countdown, while some party attendee has decided to dust off their mediocre piano skills.
I’m standing in the kitchen with Archer’s parents, his mom jabbering on about the wedding. Something about a dress designer in New York and fabrics flown in from France.
The second she started explaining the difference between ivory and cream, Archer bailed. Just left me with an “I’ll leave you two to the girly stuff” and disappeared to find Jake.
It’s been forty minutes of this and, I admit, I’m not really listening.
Mrs. Longfellow shows me her phone, a picture of a ginormous centerpiece with… are those diamonds dripping off the flowers? I nod and smile, but my mind’s not in wedding mode. It’s nowhere near June twenty-first—the date that was landed on.
It’s not on honeymoon destinations, or flower girls, or after-party attire. It’s everywhere else.
And mostly on Boston.
He’s been there constantly these past months, a persistent ache that never dulls. Even with school keeping me busy, with finals and holidays and—of all things—wedding planning, the pain of missing him hasn’t eased in the slightest.
I keep waiting for Boston to stop being the first person I think about in the morning and the last person I mourn before sleep.
For it to get easier.
It never does.
I barely register Mr. Longfellow’s phone ringing and definitely don’t tune into his conversation.
That is, until he snaps sharply at his wife.
“Shut up for a second.”
Stella Longfellow goes instantly silent beside me.
“Where the fuck are you, Archer?” Mr. Longfellow growls into the phone.
My head lifts. Confusion ripples through me.
Why is Archer calling his dad?
And from where?
Wasn’t he just here?
Mr. Longfellow starts pacing the kitchen, agitation radiating off him. I can hear Archer’s voice faintly through the phone. It’s rushed, frantic, but I can’t make out the words.
“God damn it,” Archer’s dad shouts, making both Stella Longfellow and me flinch. “How fucking stupid are you?”
He rakes a hand through his thinning blond hair, walking a tight circle. The tension in the room rises, and… wait, do I hear sobs coming though the phone?
Archer’s dad stops short, inhaling sharply. “Knock it off,” he barks. “I need you to keep your shit together. Where's Jake, Archer?”
My stomach tightens, head swiveling once again.
Yep, Jake is gone, too.
Mr. Longfellow listens again, his jaw tight. Then, “Fuck. And where is the gun, son?”
The gun? Oh my god.
“Shit!” he explodes. “You really are a god damn idiot, Archer.”
He pinches the bridge of his nose, squeezes his eyes shut, forcing control back into his voice.
“Here’s what you’re going to do,” he says, measured and commanding. “You’re coming home right now. Drive at a normal speed. Don’t do anything stupid. When you get here, you go straight to your room. You don’t talk to anyone. You don’t text. You don’t call. Nothing. I will handle this.”
With that, he ends the conversation and turns to rush out of the kitchen.
“Orson!” Mrs. Longfellow calls after him, her voice tight with panic. “What happened to my baby?”
He doesn’t slow. “Your baby is a god damn idiot, Stella,” he growls. “He just shot someone.”
No. Jake.
My hands fly to my mouth as my heart slams violently against my ribs. I’m dizzy, the room tilting. Is this my world? Is this what I chose?
Mrs. Longfellow gasps. “Where is he?”
“He’s on his way home. When he gets here, make sure he goes upstairs and stays there. I need to call Chief McNamara.” He scans our surroundings. “The party is over. Get everyone out.”
He’s gone before anyone can respond.
Mrs. Longfellow follows her husband out of the kitchen, already calling out to guests.
It’s only then that I hear my phone vibrating on the marble kitchen counter.
It’s… Jake?
“Jake, are you okay?” I ask, breathless, my hands shaking.
“Skye,” he says, voice raw. “I need you to come to Boston’s place right now.”
I shake my head to clear the fog, the confusion. “What happened? Archer just called his dad, but I couldn’t understand anything. I don’t know what’s going on—”
“I don’t have time to explain. You need to get here now. You need to stay with his siblings, okay? I gotta go. I have to call 911.”
It clicks into place with terrifying clarity.
And the world stops.
Not Jake.
Oh god.
Boston.
“Jake?” I choke. “Where’s Boss?”
“I gotta go,” he says and hangs up.
I’m already moving, grabbing my coat, fumbling for my keys, bolting through the house as tears blur my vision.
If someone asked me how I got to Boston’s, I couldn’t tell them. I was on autopilot, flying down dark suburban streets, barely aware of speed or stop signs or anything but the pounding of my heart.
Red and blue lights are already illuminating the night when I pull through the gate. God, they got here so fast.
I pull into a spot as close as possible, breath coming in sharp, shallow bursts.
I count three cop cars, an ambulance, and a fire engine blocking my view. I look around, noting the flurry of activity and spot Jake standing by one of the cruisers, his phone pressed to his ear. The anguish carved into his face scares me almost as much as the blood staining his jeans and jacket.
I barrel toward him.
“Ma’am?” A police officer calls after me, but I ignore him.
“Where’s Boss?” I cry.
Jake nods toward a cluster of EMTs crouched in the snow. But I can’t see him.
Boston is shielded by the people surrounding him.
I whirl back around to Jake, my tears carving hot trails down my cheeks. “What happened?”
“I… Skye, I’m… I’m so sorry,” Jake sobs.
“Is he dead?” The words tear out of me. “Did Archer…” I can’t finish the sentence.
Jake doesn’t answer.
A police officer approaches us with quiet urgency.
“I’m officer Reed,” he says gently. “Are you Jake Davis?”
Jake quickly wipes at his face. “Yeah.”
Officer Reed nods. “Are you hurt?”
Jake shakes his head.
Officer Reed turns to me, eyes warm. “And what’s your name?”
“Skye Monroe,” I manage.
He nods, an expression on his face as though he recognizes my name.
“Ms. Monroe, were you a witness tonight?”
“No, I’m just… I’m a friend of Jake’s and…” Movement catches my eye. My head whips around in time to see the ambulance doors slam shut.
The EMTs are gone, and so is Boston. The snow where he lay is soaked red.
My chest constricts. There’s no way he lost that much blood and…
I nearly choke. “Oh god.”
“Alright, Ms. Monroe, I need to speak with Jake here for a moment. Do you have somewhere you can wait?” the officer asks kindly.
Suddenly, I remember why I’m here. Why Jake called me.
Cassie and Bronx.
“Yes.” I turn to leave, but not without giving Jake a look, imploring him to call me when he gets a chance, to explain what the hell happened.
Boston’s apartment is unlocked and unbearably silent.
A peek into Cassie and Bronx’s bedroom tells me they’re fast asleep, unaware of their big brother’s violent encounter. And thank god for that. It’s terrible enough that, in the morning, I’ll have to somehow break the most horrendous news to them without having even a single answer.
I walk into Boston’s bedroom and switch on the light on his nightstand.
His presence is everywhere.
It surrounds me.
His clothes. His scent.
His bed is unmade, his pillow still shaped by his head.
He must have been asleep when they came for him.
But why?
Jake is Boston’s best friend. They love each other like brothers. I don’t understand how everything fell apart so fast.
I have an overwhelming urge to be close to Boston—as close as I can be—to feel him somehow. I shed my coat, slip out of my dress, and crawl into his bed, pulling his blanket around me.
The smell of him hits me all at once. Woodsy, clean and masculine, strong and so familiar. I bury my face in his pillow, inhaling deeply. I rub my feet gently against the soft fabric of the sheet underneath me and cocoon my body in Boston’s blanket. And just like that, I dissolve into silent tears.