Page 142 of A Million To Fall

Ilook around the small bedroom Bronx and Cassie will be sharing and smile, satisfied with the final touches. Putting sheets on the bunkbeds sucked, but standing here now with the beds ready for them, all that damn ducking was worth it. The room still feels a little bare—no pictures taped to the walls, no toys cluttering the floor—but it’s theirs. And I can’t fucking wait for them to see it.

I stand there longer than I should, letting hope stretch its atrophied legs, imagining my siblings’ voices echoing through the place instead of waking up cold silence every morning. It makes me dizzyingly euphoric.

By a fortunate turn of events, Archer decided to spend his day golfing with Jake, giving me the chance to meet up with Skye after I visited my mom this morning. Together, we picked up Cassie and Bronx and took them to an indoor playground for an hour. It was a short visit, but damn did their faces light up when I told them I’d found us a place and had a meeting Wednesday with a lawyer to start the process of bringing them home with me. I swear it was like watching the lights turn back on inside them. Christmas-level joy. For all four of us.

My mom still knows nothing, though. Not about the homelessness, about Mrs. Davis, about how far off the rails everything went after she let Eddie kick me out at seventeen. And there’s no point in telling her now. It won’t change anything. All it would do is twist the knife, and I’m not in the business of hurting people just because I’ve been hurt. That’s not who I am.

She was a mess today, her trial looming large. I did my best to reassure her, even though I can’t pretend to have much hope that she’ll get off. People like us don’t usually get the benefit of the doubt. The likelihood of a judge looking at her and deciding to show her leniency so as not to ruin her future is, I’d say, slim to none.

All the more reason to fight like hell for custody of Cassie and Bronx.

After dropping them off with their foster family, Skye and I came back here. Back to… my apartment. That still doesn’t feel real to say. My apartment.

I didn’t have much to bring—just my duffel and a few things I’d kept locked in my trunk. The rest, we bought together after dropping off Cassie and Bronx. Plates. Towels. A shower curtain with puppies on it that Skye swore up and down would make Cassie happy. She also insisted on buying an artificial orchid I definitely didn’t need. She just got in line behind me and bought the thing with her own money.

I still don’t understand the orchid. But every time I look at it, I smile anyway.

We split up the work. I focused on getting the kids’ room and bathroom just right. Skye handled the living room and kitchen.

But now it’s quiet, and for a split second I wonder if she’s left.

I drift out of my siblings’ room, padding through the small apartment, then stop short in the doorway to the master bedroom.

Everything in me stills.

She’s here. Laid out on my bed like a goddamn fever dream.

Skye’s on her back, arms stretched over her head, eyes closed. Her auburn hair fans across the navy comforter like wildfire, strands catching the golden sunlight spilling through the window. The way it kisses her soft, smooth skin makes my throat go dry.

She looks like something carved by artists. Sculpted by stars.

I don’t say anything. Just stand there like an idiot and soak her in.

For the first time since we walked through the front door, she isn’t moving. Not organizing dishes or wiping down countertops. She’s just… here.

In my bed.

My eyes track the shape of her, the quiet rise and fall of her chest, the sliver of skin exposed where her shirt rides up.

God, I’m drunk on her.

I grin at the ungodly number of pillows on the bed, the fuzzy blanket folded over the foot of the mattress with near surgical precision. It’s all so unnecessary, but it made her so damn happy picking them out, I didn’t tell her no. So now I have fifty-three pillows, one fuzzy blanket, and a fake pink orchid. Skye’s happiness is worth every night I’ll have to spend tossing the pillows to the floor.

“How’s the mattress?” I finally ask and chuckle as her eyes fly open, startled.

“You scared me,” she says through a breathless laugh, but she doesn’t move. Just turns onto her side and watches me with that smile that makes my knees weak.

She pats the space next to her in silent invitation. Every rational thought in my head tells me not to, but I lie down anyway, facing her. I’m close enough to count her freckles—to remember exactly how soft her mouth felt on mine.

“It’s nice and firm.” She runs her palm across the comforter. Then, quieter, she mutters, “I like firm things.”

My eyebrows lift. “Are we still talking about the mattress?”

She just shrugs, playful. “Maybe.”

I huff a laugh, shaking my head. I’ve known her all my life, yet she still manages to surprise me.

Neither of us speaks for a minute, settling into the warm silence of the space around us, looking at each other as the afternoon light paints everything golden.