Page 92 of A Million To Fall

I shrug.

He shifts, turning his head to face me. Even in the dark I catch the smirk on his lips, the familiar glint in his gray eyes. “Go on,” he says. “Confess something.”

I grin. “I cheated on my calculus final senior year.”

“Boo.” He gives a lazy thumbs down. “That’s not a confession.”

I giggle. “You got something better, Mr. Rawlings? Some deep, dark secret you’re ready to spill?”

He’s quiet for a long moment. Then he turns his head, our eyes meeting. “Remember when we used to volunteer to read to elementary kids every year?”

“Uh-huh?”

“I hated doing it. I always hated reading out loud,” he says, one corner of his lips pulling up. “Like, seriously, I’d get all sweaty reading One Fish Two Fish Red Fish Blue Fish.”

“Oo-kay.” I huff a laugh. “Why’d you volunteer to do it, then? To get out of class?”

He shakes his head, the gray in his eyes softening. “Because I knew you’d be there.”

For a second, I forget how to breathe, a sensation in my stomach like I’m falling. Six little words—the implications, the meaning behind them—and suddenly my mind is a maelstrom of tiny moments I spent years dismissing, like the strange little spark in my chest whenever Boston walked into a room, or how my eyes always seemed to immediately find him in a crowd, and the irrational annoyance that flared whenever Lily openly fantasized about him.

But I noticed. Of course I did.

Still, I never let myself sit with those feelings. Never let myself wonder why being around Boston felt different than being around everyone else.

And then came Archer, and Boston disappeared, and somewhere along the way, I convinced myself there was no point dwelling on roads I’d never taken. That all things were exactly as they should be.

But now, sitting here in the dark with Boston just inches from me and his confession hanging between us, I can’t stop wondering.

What would’ve happened if I’d listened to those feelings instead of explaining them away?

What would’ve happened if he’d never left?

And suddenly, an entirely different life is playing out in my mind—years spent with Boston instead of Archer. What would that look like? For me. For my family? LM Commons probably wouldn’t exist. My dad’s law firm wouldn’t represent the Longfellow family estate. My life would be quieter. Maybe simpler.

Maybe deeper… richer… safer.

“I’m sorry, Boss,” I whisper.

I hitch my leg onto the sofa, fully facing him now.

His brow furrows. “For what?”

“For just… everything.” I swallow. “For not knowing what your life looked like. For complaining about stupid things, like being home alone, while you were”—I shrug—“surviving.”

He shakes his head, exhaling softly. “You have nothing to apologize for. Not a single thing.”

“Yes, I do,” I argue. “I—”

His hand lifts, and before I realize what he’s doing, his fingertip brushes lightly against my lips.

The rest of the sentence dies instantly. So does my ability to think.

Boston’s eyes widen, like he didn’t mean to do it, either.

The room goes very still. Neither of us moves. The wind chime outside fades into the background until all I can hear is my own heartbeat.

Slowly his hand drops away, his gaze flicking to my mouth, then back to my eyes.