Chapter 16
SLOANE
The late afternoon sunlight poured lazily through the studio windows, casting golden patterns on the wooden floorboards.
Dust motes drifted gently in the quiet glow, suspended briefly in time before fading back into shadows.
Sloane stood before a canvas, a paintbrush dangling loosely between her fingers, barely registering its weight.
She had spent most of the day like this, caught between painting and staring at her phone, which rested stubbornly silent on the worn wooden stool nearby. She glanced at it again, her heart tightening slightly at the empty screen.
No messages. Again.
Sloane took a deep breath, forcing herself to focus.
She dipped her brush into rich ultramarine, pulling the pigment across the canvas in long, purposeful strokes, trying to lose herself in the movement.
But her thoughts kept drifting back to Catherine—the way she'd last seen her, peaceful in bed, morning light spilling softly across her face.
For a moment, Catherine had seemed completely unguarded, a sight so rare and beautiful that Sloane had felt her chest ache.
She remembered how Catherine had smiled sleepily, the softness of her touch, the casual intimacy that had felt so much like a promise. Now, the memory burned.
Sloane paused again, staring at the half-finished painting, the swirling blue growing muddied beneath her distracted hand. Frustration twisted through her, sharp and unforgiving.
“Dammit,” she muttered, tossing the brush onto the table beside her. She rubbed her eyes, streaking paint across her brow, careless in her irritation. She hated waiting. She hated the silence that had become Catherine’s defense. Most of all, she hated that despite it all, she still had hope.
A sudden knock at the studio door jolted her from her thoughts. She turned quickly, heart leaping irrationally, but as the door swung open, Dani poked her head inside.
“Oh,” Sloane sighed, disappointment flickering briefly across her face before she caught herself. “It’s you.”
Dani raised an eyebrow, stepping fully inside. “Well, don’t sound so thrilled.”
“Sorry,” Sloane said, turning back to the canvas. “I just thought you might be—”
“Someone else?” Dani finished, her voice gentle but pointed. “Someone tall, cold, emotionally distant, and stubborn?”
Sloane sighed heavily, shaking her head, a reluctant smile curving her lips. “You really know how to describe her.”
“Years of practice,” Dani said lightly, crossing the studio and hopping up onto the stool, narrowly avoiding the abandoned brush. She swung her feet, watching Sloane closely. “You look like you’re waiting for a train that’s already left the station.”
Sloane crossed her arms, meeting Dani’s steady gaze. “No,” she said quietly, almost defiantly. “I’m just hoping it circles back.”
Dani’s eyes softened with sympathy, but there was a firmness to her tone. “She’s done this before, Sloane. You said it yourself, this isn’t the first time she’s gone quiet.”
Sloane leaned back against her worktable, staring blankly at the drying paint. “I know. But this time felt different. Real.”
“It probably was,” Dani conceded gently. “But how many times are you willing to put yourself out there before Doctor Frosty decides it’s worth it?”
Sloane felt the sharp sting of Dani’s words, each one cutting close to a truth she didn't want to face. “I don’t know,” she admitted quietly. “I guess until it hurts too much.”
Dani nodded, her voice careful and cautious. “Maybe it already does.”
The silence stretched between them, the weight of Dani’s words settling heavily in the quiet of the studio. Sloane looked at her phone again, stubbornly silent, as though the emptiness of it was mocking her hope.
“I’m tired,” Sloane finally said, her voice low. “I’m tired of guessing how she feels, tired of chasing someone who’s determined to run.”
Dani reached over, squeezing Sloane’s hand lightly. “You deserve someone who runs toward you, not away.”
Sloane swallowed hard, her throat tight. “She did, once. And it was worth it.”
“But is it still?” Dani asked softly. “You can’t love enough for both of you.”
Sloane looked away, blinking hard, forcing back the ache in her chest. “I know.”
Dani slid off the stool, pulling Sloane into a tight hug, warm and comforting. “I just don’t want to see you broken again. You give everything. Sometimes too much.”
Sloane smiled weakly, pulling back and brushing a tear she refused to shed from her cheek. “Maybe. But I don’t know how to love any other way.”
Dani stepped back, offering her a small, gentle smile. “I know. That’s why it’s beautiful. And that’s why it hurts.”
Sloane watched quietly as Dani left, the studio falling silent once again. She stared back at her unfinished canvas, the blurred lines and muddy colors now a reflection of her own uncertainty.
The phone remained quiet, the space around her empty, echoing with everything she’d given and everything that had yet to come back to her.
She took a shaky breath, squaring her shoulders, feeling resolve take root deep in her chest. She wouldn’t beg. She wouldn’t wait endlessly. If Catherine wanted her, it had to be real.
It had to be now.
It was evening before Sloane decided to take action, and before she could stop herself, she was already calling Catherine. Sloane waited four rings before she sighed and pulled the phone from her ear to hang up, but heard a familiar voice on the other end of the line.
“Sloane,” Catherine said, her voice sounding taut and exasperated.
Sloane pressed the phone to her ear and waited a couple beats, almost too nervous to reply. “I wasn’t sure you’d answer.”
Through the speaker, Sloane could hear papers rustling and a drawer closing. When Catherine spoke, her voice was laced with irritation. “I’m at work. I’m always here at this time.”
“I know,” Sloane whispered. “I just hoped maybe today might be different.”
“What do you want, Sloane?”
“Are we doing this again?” Sloane asked softly, unable to stop the hurt breaking through clearly now. “Silence until I forget how good it felt to be with you?”
Catherine drew in a sharp breath. “I’m just busy.”
“Busy,” Sloane echoed bitterly, a faint tremor underlying her voice. “That’s your favorite excuse. But we both know that’s not the real reason.”
Catherine went so quiet that Sloane thought maybe she’d hung up, but eventually she replied. “This isn’t a good time.”
“It never is,” Sloane whispered, a note of resignation creeping into her voice. “It wasn’t about timing, Catherine. It never was. It’s about you pushing me away whenever it gets too real. Too close.”
“It’s…it’s complicated.”
“Everything’s complicated,” Sloane retorted gently, her voice cracking slightly. “But it shouldn’t be this hard, not every time.”
“Maybe we’re just too different, Sloane.”
A beat of silence stretched painfully, punctuated by Sloane’s uneven breath. “We’re only different because you refuse to let yourself feel anything.”
“That’s unfair,” Catherine snapped, emotion slipping through her carefully controlled tone. “You don’t know—”
“Don’t I?” Sloane interrupted, her voice heavy with sadness. “Because I’ve tried. God, Catherine, I’ve tried. I’ve stood here with my heart wide open, and every single time you shut down and walk away.”
“I—”
“You’re scared,” Sloane pressed, her voice shaking slightly now. “Again.”
Catherine paused, and Sloane imagined what she could possibly be doing at her desk.
“Sloane, please,” she squeaked out, barely audible. “I can’t do this right now.”
“You mean you won’t,” Sloane corrected, her voice raw but firm. “And maybe you never will.”
The silence that followed hung heavily between them, and Sloane felt like the chasm that Catherine had opened was now impossible to cross.
“I have to go,” Catherine whispered finally, and it sounded like she was biting back bitter tears.
Sloane sighed. “You always do.”
Sloane didn’t let Catherine worm her way into her mind, twisting the situation to elicit empathy—she was done being patient for someone who was never coming around—and she clicked to end the call without saying goodbye.
In the dim solitude of her studio, Sloane stared at her phone, her chest aching as if someone had physically struck her. She dropped the phone onto the table, its screen dark and empty once more. She stepped back, feeling the weight of Catherine’s silence settle heavily over her.
“I’m done,” she murmured quietly, almost as if she needed to convince herself. “I can’t keep doing this.”
But even as she said the words aloud, her heart fought back, aching stubbornly and unwilling to let go. Sloane pressed a hand to her chest, breathing shakily through the sting of hurt, frustration, and stubborn love.
She turned back to her canvas, staring at the chaotic swirl of colors she’d abandoned earlier. Without thinking, she picked up her brush again, dipping it harshly into deep crimson. With steady movements, she painted over her hesitation and doubts, covering the hurt with bold, unapologetic strokes.
Sloane’s vision blurred, her throat thick with tears she refused to shed. But her hand moved steadily, determinedly, until the canvas before her was an unyielding explosion of red.
She stepped back, her breath ragged and chest tight with pain and resolve, knowing deep down that she’d finally reached her breaking point.
It was nearly midnight when Sloane found herself standing outside Catherine’s condo, the rain-soaked streets shimmering under the glow of streetlights.
The building was sleek, modern, and austere, an architecture that perfectly matched Catherine herself.
She exhaled sharply, her breath misting in the cool night air and her heart racing with a potent mixture of anxiety and determination.