CHAPTER forty-nine #14
I'm sprawled on the couch with the Archer twins, half-listening to them bicker over whatever cursed video game they're screaming at again. Practice ended a while ago, so I'm just here waiting for the clock to hit 6:30 so I can meet Caroline for dinner.
Phone in hand, I'm about to text my sister to ask if she wants to join us — even though I already know her answer. According to her, watching me and Caroline be "disgustingly in love" ruins her appetite.
I'm halfway through typing when the front door opens.
And Sam walks in.
Actually, struts in — bright-eyed, practically glowing, like she just stepped into her favorite mall on Black Friday.
Her eyes sweep the room, searching.
I already know exactly who she's looking for.
My jaw tightens. My eyebrow twitches.
Here we fucking go.
When Sam meets my eyes, she does that tiny wide-eyed twitch — like she's been caught red-handed, because she absolutely has.
"Zach!" she says — too bright, too high-pitched. "You're still here! I, uh... thought you were already meeting Care right now."
Mhm.
Sure you did.
Last week I told her — straight up — she wasn't allowed to come to the dorm unless I was here.
No more hovering around Elijah.
No more putting herself in situations that end with her crying.
No more attending parties here.
No more "dropping off" morning shakes or breakfast like he owns a disability and can't get his own food.
No more giving Elijah pieces of her heart he keeps stomping on.
And she argued, obviously.
"I'm not a kid."
"Elijah didn't mean what he said."
"He didn't deserve to get punched."
"You should apologize."
Yeah.
Like hell.
When she ignored me the first time, I warned her I'd change the dorm entry code and blacklist her from the Pond. Amazing how fast she listened after that. Probably because if she can't walk in here, she can't lurk around Elijah... and she knows it.
I fold my arms. "Uh-huh. And that's why you came over? Because you thought I wasn't here?"
"What? N—No."
The worst lie I've ever heard.
"Right," I deadpan.
"It's true, Zachy—"
"Oh hey, little devil!" Liam calls from the floor, putting up a hand for a high-five.
Sam slaps it dramatically. Luke gives her a chin lift as she plops down next to me — still sneaking glances around the room like Elijah might materialize out of thin air.
"You act like I only come here for one thing," she huffs.
"Because you do," all three of us say in perfect unison.
The twins crack up.
Sam glares at them like they kicked her puppy.
"I hate you guys. I thought you were my friends."
"We are," Liam says, smirking. "We're just not liars."
"Everyone knows why you're here, babe," Luke adds.
Sam lifts her chin, insulted. "Well, not today." She hooks her arm through mine and leans against me.
"In fact," she says, smiling way too sweetly, "I came to see... you. Yup. You. To talk."
I stare at her.
Then laugh.
"You're such a horrible liar."
Sam grins — busted, shameless, and not even pretending to deny it.
And then her attention snaps away from me so fast I swear I hear her neck crack.
Because footsteps hit the stairs.
It's fucking Elijah Deveraux.
He comes down the last step, hoodie half-zipped, hair damp from a shower, looking between us with that unreadable expression he's been wearing lately.
He stops. Just for a second. Eyes flick to me. Then to Sam.
And my sister?
Jesus Christ.
She lights up like someone plugged her into a damn outlet.
And just like that, Sam shoots off the couch so fast her throw pillow topples over. She practically magnetizes toward him, all bright and stupidly hopeful — that sunshine smile snapping onto her face the second she spots him, like her whole mood just flipped itself upright.
She lifts a hand and waves way too enthusiastically.
"Hi, Eli!"
And what does the asshole do?
Keeps walking.
Straight past her.
Doesn't blink.
Doesn't nod.
Doesn't even pretend to acknowledge she exists.
Sam deflates a millimeter — just enough that only someone who loves her would notice — and that's all it takes for my patience to evaporate.
Before she can so much as stand up or scamper after him like some heartbroken Disney side character, I'm already on my feet.
"Alright," I say, clapping my hands once. "Let's go."
"H–Huh? What? Where—Zach—?" she sputters as I grab her shoulders.
But I'm already steering her toward the door.
Firmly.
Relentlessly.
Like guiding a possessed Roomba away from danger.
"But I JUST got here!" she protests, still trying to crane her neck toward Elijah like she's expecting him to magically turn around and sweep her into his stupid arms.
"Perfect timing then. You can tell me whatever you wanted to talk about on the way."
"Zach!" she whines, legs stumbling as I keep pushing her along. "Wait—Eli—Eli, SEE YOU LATER!" she yells back, hopeful, desperate, absolutely pathetic in the most Sam way possible.
He doesn't respond.
Of course he fucking doesn't.
I push open the door, nudge her outside, and shut it behind us.
She rounds on me immediately.
"Seriously, Zachy! You couldn't give me, like, two more seconds to look at his face?"
I arch a brow. "Thought you were here for me."
She groans dramatically. "Yeah, but... ugh. I haven't seen him that much lately because you won't let me come here."
"Correct," I mutter as we walk to my car.
She grumbles under her breath like I'm the villain in her tragic love story.
I click the key fob. The car lights blink. We get in.
She slams her door a little too hard.
I pretend not to notice.
She pretends she didn't try to snap my handle off.
And yeah... I absolutely pretend I don't hear her mutter, "Overbearing brother..."
I shift in my seat, turning toward her.
"Alright," I say, trying to sound casual. "You said you came to see me. What'd you wanna talk about?"
And the second the words leave my mouth, this instinctive dread crawls up the back of my neck.
I can feel it — that whatever she's about to say has something to do with her test results.
My chest tightens. My fingers curl against the steering wheel.
I brace myself without even meaning to.
Something flickers across her face — not sadness exactly, but... something heavy. Something tight. Like a shadow passing through her eyes before she can shove it away.
My heartbeat kicks up, pounding too loud in my chest.
But then she blinks and it's gone — replaced by a small, wobbly smile.
She exhales softly. "I... uh... I actually got a call. From Dr. Wilcott."
Everything in me stills.
My breath freezes halfway out.
She gives me a tearful little smile — the kind she uses when she wants to protect me from bad news, which only makes the panic ricochet harder in my chest.
"She said I'm still cancer-free."
"You—what? Really?!"
She nods quickly, eyes shining.
"She went over everything," Sam says, voice shaking just a little. "All the labs, all the scans. Everything came back clear. The only thing off was my iron — I'm a little anemic, but she said that's normal for me and I just need supplements and, you know... to stop sleeping four hours a night."
I don't hear anything after that.
Because the second those words leave her mouth — cancer-free — it feels like a thorn finally gets yanked out of my chest.
All at once.
I don't even realize I'd been holding my breath until it comes out in a shaky rush.
"Oh my God," I whisper, and then I'm hauling her across the console, crushing her into me. My arms wrap around her so tight she squeaks, but I can't loosen my grip. Won't.
I bury my face into her shoulder, eyes stinging.
"Thank God," I breathe out. "Thank God... thank God..."
Sam hugs me back just as tight, her hand fisting in my shirt.
"I told you I'd be okay," she murmurs.
I pull her in even closer, refusing to let go.
Sam is fine.
She's okay—cancer-free.
And I'm pretty sure my heart just restarted itself.
CHAPTER forty-nine
CAROLINE
The piano track echoes through the studio—soft at first, then swelling into the sweeping strings of our pas de deux. The mirrors are fogged with heat. Rosin dust coats the marley. And I'm sweating through my tank top like I just ran the Miami marathon barefoot.
Two hours of nonstop rehearsal will do that.
Adam's breathing matches mine—loud, sharp, focused—but there's determination behind every exhale. He wipes his damp hair out of his eyes and nods toward me, already sliding back into position.
"You good?" he asks, chest heaving.
I tighten my pointe shoes and roll my ankles once, twice. "Yeah. My legs are shaking, but that's normal at this point."
"Great," Adam deadpans. "Because mine are about to file a complaint."
"Stop whining," Betsy calls from the corner, hands on her hips. She's been pacing like a hawk with a judging degree for the last hour. "From the top. And soften your port de bras this time, Caroline—your arms look like you're trying to fight someone."
I throw her a look. "I am fighting someone. Gravity."
Keith snorts but steps closer. "Alright. When we hit the lift, Adam—your grip was sliding. Don't muscle it. Engage your core. Lift through your legs, not your back."
Adam groans. "Keith, I'm trying, but she's—"
"Don't you dare finish that sentence," I warn.
Adam lifts both hands in surrender. "—delicate. I was going to say delicate."
Keith laughs. "Nice save." Then he turns to me. "Okay, darling. When he lifts you, don't panic and glue your shoulders to your ears. Lengthen. Let him carry the weight."
"Keith," I wheeze, "I'm literally floating in the air. Panic is the natural response."
"Well, learn an unnatural one," Betsy snaps, clapping once. "Places! Music in three."
I exhale, walk to my spot, and meet Adam's eyes. We share the same tired, resigned look:
Let's just survive this run.
The piano swells.
Adam takes my hand, we step into the opening turn, and suddenly the exhaustion sharpens into something focused, disciplined. Our bodies move through the choreography on instinct—like muscle memory yanks the wheel out of our hands.