Page 59 of A Million To Fall

My mom’s voice floats brightly across the courtyard, warm and proud as she reaches the end of her speech.

“—this project has always been about partnership.” She smiles out at the crowd gathered in front of her baby, her apartment complex, LM Commons. “About what’s possible when people come together with the shared belief that everyone deserves safety, dignity, and a place to start over.”

Applause ripples outward like waves, echoing off the brick façade of the buildings around us. I stand off to the side with my dad, Archer, and Archer’s mom, soaking it all in. The gorgeous weather. The crowd—city officials, donors, and community members.

It’s perfect.

And it’s my birthday to boot.

I have a feeling this day’s always going to make me think of Cassie now—my almost-birthday-twin. Yesterday, I snuck her a vanilla cupcake at Riverfront so we could have our own little birthday celebration. Together, we blew out a single candle, then devoured the thing only for her to inform me that, while tasty, the cupcake was nowhere near the quality of that ice cream cake Boston dropped off for her at her foster parents’ home on Wednesday somewhere between leaving one job and heading to another. I teased him later about not saving me a slice, to which he responded, deadpan: “Like the ice cream cake would’ve kept twenty-four hours.”

“Never heard of a freezer?” I asked and poked him in his chest. His… pec. His solid, sculpted pec.

“And while NorthStar laid the groundwork,” my mom continues, “this vision would never have come to life without the generosity and advocacy of the Longfellow family.”

I grin at Archer while my mom gestures Archer’s dad forward. He accepts the giant ceremonial scissors without even a hint of nerves. Clearly this public stuff is familiar territory for him.

“I’ll keep this short,” Mr. Longfellow says with a smile, pausing before the scissors touch the ribbon. “As a prosecutor, I see what happens when families fall through the cracks. Projects like this are how we support victims beyond the courtroom.”

He glances toward my mom, then back to the crowd. “This wasn’t just about building housing or providing a safe haven for the victims of domestic violence. It was about building something together—something that will serve Stillwater’s families for generations.”

Archer’s dad cuts the ribbon, the red satin drifts softly to the pavement, and the crowd cheers.

“That’s my cue,” Archer mutters, then reaches for my hand and tugs me forward.

I stumble a step, then come to a stop only for him to hand me a giant bouquet of flowers. Honeysuckle and roses—my birth flowers.

I blink. Where did those even come from?

He presses the bouquet into my hands before I can ask, then leans in to kiss my cheek. “Happy birthday, Skye.”

“Arch—” I breathe.

He’s already turning to the audience.

“Alright, everyone,” he calls out, lifting a hand. “I know we’re here for the grand opening of LM Commons—and congrats to Mrs. Monroe, my dad, and NorthStar, seriously—but today’s also this perfect girl’s birthday.”

Oh god.

Archer looks back at me, clearly pleased with himself. “Think we can get a little love for her?”

And then—like some kind of coordinated ambush—the crowd starts singing “Happy Birthday.”

I laugh, half-mortified, as Archer wraps me in a tight hug, the lyrics vibrating in his chest. At least it hides my hot face.

Like his dad, Archer’s never had an issue with public attention. Grand gestures, showy affection. Reminds me of my senior year, when he convinced the entire varsity soccer team to hold up signs at halftime that read Skye, will you be my prom “goal”? while he ran into the bleachers with another ridiculous bouquet and asked me to “kick it” at prom with him.

I still cringe a little when I think about it.

I don’t hate the gestures themselves. I just don’t enjoy attention like that.

The next few minutes are a blur of hugs, handshakes, and lots of “happy birthdays.” Finally, after making the obligatory rounds, Archer graciously informs me of his plans to whisk me away.

“I figured we’d go shopping, then meet the crew for dinner. You in?”

“Wait, you’re volunteering to go shopping?” I tease.

He groans theatrically. “Anything for my Skye.”