Page 33 of A Million To Fall

Pain flares sharply, stealing my breath.

Tears spring to my eyes, but I turn my face away.

“Skye,” he groans. “I need you.”

“Arch,” I whisper. “I don’t think I’m ready.”

He doesn’t quite withdraw his hand, but his finger slows.

“Skye, I’ve waited so long,” he moans. He nips at my neck. “Come on, baby. You just said you love me, right?”

I nod, willing the burning sensation to ease.

“If you really loved me, you wouldn’t make me wait anymore,” he moans. “I’ve been so patient.”

Maybe he’s right. Maybe this is what’s supposed to happen.

We’ve been together four months. That’s kind of a long time. And he’s always so good to me—picking me up every morning, my favorite drink already waiting in the cupholder. Sitting through mock trial, showing up with flowers when we took second place at the state championship.

“Okay,” I hear myself say.

His smile is immediate, and I latch on to it as proof that I made the right choice.

He kisses me, then pulls away just long enough to undress us. I close my eyes, trying to remember how to breathe.

When it happens, it hurts more than I imagined. I’ve heard the first time sucks, but no matter how hard I try to relax, my body won’t.

Archer keeps moaning, whispering how good I feel, how much he loves me. I say it back, waiting for the moment this begins to feel good or at least better.

It never does.

The whole thing takes maybe five minutes, but when he’s done, I feel… empty.

“Are you okay, baby?” Archer asks when he finally rolls off me, beads of sweat sliding down his temples.

I sit up, reaching for my underwear. “Yeah, I… it hurt.”

“That’s normal,” he says softly. “It gets better the more we do this. I promise.”

I don’t know if that makes me feel better or worse.

Downstairs, the music still thumps. I hear people laughing, Pacey yelling “Gradjooateshh, babyyy!” But I feel… folded up. Like I’ve been tucked into a shape I wasn’t ready for. And now I can’t quite unfold, at least not without leaving visible creases.

fifteen

Present

Boston

767 days.

That’s how long it’s been since I last saw Cassie and Bronx, my mom.

Twenty-five months and one week since I last slept in my own bed, went to school, talked with my friends.

Nearly 110 weeks since I made breakfast for my siblings, picked them up from school, worked the front counter at that small gym in Stillwater.

Over two years have passed since that night Eddie threatened not just my life, but theirs. If I stayed, they’d be hurt. That’s what he said. That’s what I believed.