Page 182 of A Million To Fall

The same instinct that told me to say “yes” when I meant “no.” To ignore comments that hurt. To apologize for taking up space or sharing my desires. To tuck away my own needs because keeping the peace mattered more than being honest. To bury every inconvenient truth about myself underneath politeness and obligation until even I couldn’t tell everyone else’s expectations of me from my own wants and needs.

My mouth hangs open, the rest of my sentence caught in my throat.

For the first time, I hear the lie before I tell it.

I close my mouth and meet Archer’s arctic gaze.

“He did,” I say with a small nod. “But so did I.”

The words just float there, as if waiting to be absorbed into the very fabric of our relationship.

“What?” Archer breathes. He looks like I smacked him, his cheeks heating and everything.

“I touched him back. And I kissed him, and—” My voice is steady even as my heart thrashes in my chest. “I wanted him, too. None of it was one-sided.”

Archer’s jaw tightens, his shoulders and spine rigid, eyes cold.

Maybe I should be scared, but I don’t look away. I’m done hiding, done pretending, done shrinking myself.

“I should have told you,” I add, quieter, guilt pressing in. Because despite the things that were wrong in our relationship—very, very wrong—he could also be doting, charming, and generous. And I never doubted that, in his own, messed-up Archer way, he truly loved me. “I should have ended things before it got to that point. I should’ve been honest. With you. With myself.”

His chest rises and falls, fast, uneven.

“But there were feelings,” I continue. “There always have been. Even before you and I got together. I just… didn’t understand them, so I ignored them. Buried them. Tried to be what you wanted.”

His jaw tightens, something furious and wounded flickering across his face.

“I tried to be everything for everyone else. And when Boston came back…” I take a deep breath. “I tried to fight it. I really did. But I started to realize that I—” My voice catches, but I force myself to keep going. “That I wanted more.”

His eyes narrow. “More than what? What haven’t I given you that Boston can, Skye? What more could you possibly want than… than a two-carat diamond on your finger, than—”

“More than being made to feel like an accessory, Archer.”

The words come easier now. Clearer. “More than being treated like something you get to control. Something you get to keep when it’s convenient. Something to lay a hand on when—” I stop myself, breath shaking. “I deserve better than that.”

For a breath, Archer just stands there, expression shifting so rapidly I have a hard time discerning if he’s mad or sad or resigned. But then his face turns beet-red, lips so tight they nearly disappear.

“And you think a fucking loser like Boston can treat you better?” he snaps, voice tight as a bowstring. “You really think the son of a drug-addicted prostitute would treat you better than me?” He chuffs a dry laugh. “You’re fucking delusional, Skye. The guy’s a glorified fucking hooker—”

“Archer.”

Mr. Longfellow’s voice—low, but crystal-clear—cuts through the house.

My head swivels in time to see Mr. Longfellow descend the stairs. He’s still in last night’s slacks, though his shirt is untucked now, top button undone. “Stop right there.”

But I don’t care about Mr. Longfellow’s instruction to his son. “Why do you keep saying that?” I ask, face screwed up in confusion.

“Archer,” his dad warns again.

“No. Dad, she should know,” Archer snarls. “That guy sells himself—”

“Enough.” Mr. Longfellow’s voice drops to a lethal level. “I already told you that what was discussed between us and the Davises was in strictest confidence. It will not be repeated. To anyone.”

“That’s bullshit,” Archer explodes. “Dad, that guy’s coming for everything—”

“Archer.” Mr. Longfellow rounds on his son like a cobra ready to strike. Chest puffed. Jaw locked. Terrifying.

I’ve had it.