Page 88 of A Million To Fall

“What?”

“Yeah, remember, he read us the real Cinderella story one time when I was sleeping over? The Brothers Grimm version?”

I nod.

“That was terrifying,” she says with a giggle. “All I could think about after was severed toes.”

That makes me laugh. “I don’t think he meant to ruin the fairy tale for you.”

The mention of him is enough to crack something open inside me. Memories surface before I can stop them. My dad sprawled across the living room floor doing ridiculous character voices. His hand steadying the back of my bike seat while I pedaled furiously down our street. The random Wednesday he pulled me out of school so we could spend the entire day fishing and eating junk food because, according to him, mental health days weren’t just for adults.

“I know he didn’t,” I hear Skye say quietly. “Do you miss him?” she asks softly, but it still feels like getting the wind knocked out of me. I stare at the TV where the yacht crew is scrambling to put together a casino-themed birthday party.

Finally, I nod. “Every day. Every hour. Every minute.” What I wouldn’t give to have him back.

I don’t look at her, afraid of what it would do to me if she caught my eye now. “He always told me to look out for you, to be respectful and kind to you,” I say, fighting to keep my voice neutral. “And to let you win at street hockey,” I add. “Even though you sucked. Bad.”

She sputters a genuine laugh, and I finally risk looking at her.

Her cheeks are pink, her eyes bright.

Seeing her smile like that feels a lot like stepping into sunlight after spending too long in the dark.

“He’d have loved seeing you now,” I say, because I know it’s true.

Her face sobers a little, but the warmth in her eyes remains. “Oh, Boss, he’d be so incredibly proud of the man you are.”

I feel my face fall. “Yeah?” I chuckle, but it’s bitter. “You think he’d be proud of a twenty-year-old son who never graduated high school and lives in his car?”

She gives me a sad smile. “He’d be proud of his twenty-year-old son who, despite surviving horrible things, continues to show up and do what he must to keep his family together.”

I look away because for one dangerous second, I want to believe her.

We don’t say much after that. Maybe because we wandered into territory that feels too heavy to move away from so casually. We finish our food, clean up, then settle on the sofa again.

On TV, the yacht crew is busy catering to a new group of vacationers who may or may not be swingers judging by the way the couples—or what I initially thought were couples—are switching partners and bedrooms like musical chairs. I admit, I have no idea what’s going on.

“Do you actually watch this regularly?” I ask.

She huffs. “No.”

I look at her, eyebrows raised.

“Okay, yes.”

I shake my head. “Unbelievable.”

She giggles. The sound makes my entire nervous system light up. “I told you, it helps me shut off my mind.”

“I can see why. None of it makes sense. Twenty grand a day to stay on a boat?”

“Would you believe me if I told you I don’t actually watch the show for the guests, but for the crew?” she asks, still smiling. “I kind of love the idea of taking a summer job working on a yacht docked in the South of France or off the Greek Isles. Even the idea of sleeping in those tiny cabins feels cozy.”

She gestures vaguely toward the flickering screen mounted to the wall. “Travel. Adventure. Meeting people. Getting paid to see the world.”

I stare at her. The light smattering of freckles high on her cheeks. The stray piece of auburn hair caught against her eyelashes.

Without thinking, I reach over and brush it away. Her eyes flutter shut.