22. Sloane #2
My eyes sting so hard it’s like salt.
I shake my head, swallowing hard. “Stop.”
Pops’s voice stays steady. “I want you to promise me something.”
My stomach twists. “No.”
Pops’s mouth twitches, almost amused. “You haven’t even heard it.”
“I don’t want to promise anything,” I snap, because promises feel like conclusions.
Pops’s gaze softens. “Sloane.”
My voice cracks. “Please don’t.”
Pops holds my hand tighter. “Promise me you’ll let people love you.”
The words hit like a punch.
I freeze.
My lungs lock.
Because that’s not about food or meds or schedules.
That’s about the one thing I refuse to do.
My eyes flick toward the living room without meaning to.
Logan is still there, frozen on the couch, pretending he can’t hear, but his entire body is tense like a drawn bow.
He’s listening.
Of course he is.
Heat crawls up my neck.
I look back at Pops, furious and terrified. “That’s not—”
“It is,” Pops says softly. “You don’t have to be alone in this.”
“I’m not alone,” I insist, voice shaking. “I have you. I have Cam. I have—”
Pops’s eyes soften. “And what happens when you don’t have me in the same way?”
My chest tightens so hard it hurts.
“No,” I whisper.
Pops’s voice is gentle but firm. “Kiddo. I’m not saying it to hurt you. I’m saying it because I love you, and I’m scared you’ll try to survive by shutting everyone out.”
My throat burns.
I hate that he’s right.
I hate that he sees me so clearly.
My eyes blur.
I blink hard, but the tears spill anyway—silent, hot, unstoppable.
I clamp my mouth shut, furious at myself.
Pops’s face crumples with tenderness. “Oh, sweetheart…”
I shake my head, tears falling faster. “Don’t,” I whisper. “Don’t talk like that.”
Pops’s voice breaks slightly. “I’m still here.”
I nod desperately, tears shaking off my chin. “Then stay.”
The plea comes out raw.
Ugly.
Childish.
Like I’m six years old again, begging my mom not to leave for “just a little bit” and knowing deep down she will.
Pops reaches across the table as far as he can and cups my cheek with a trembling hand.
His palm is warm.
His fingers are thin.
“I’m staying as long as I can,” he whispers. “But you have to live after me.”
The words rip through me.
I gasp, a sob catching in my throat.
“No,” I whisper. “No.”
Pops’s eyes shine. “Yes.”
I shake my head harder, trying to dislodge the truth. “Stop. Stop saying that. We’re not—”
Pops’s voice is gentle and tired. “Sloane. Look at me.”
I don’t want to.
I do anyway.
His face is slack at the edges, exhausted, but his eyes are still Pops—steady, loving, stubborn.
He holds my gaze like it’s the only way to keep me anchored.
“Let me love you enough to plan,” he whispers. “Please.”
My chest caves.
I sob, quiet and shaking.
I can’t stop.
I can’t hold it in anymore.
Pops’s thumb wipes a tear off my cheek, carefully. “That’s it,” he murmurs. “Let it out. You don’t have to be strong every second.”
I hate the relief that floods me.
I hate how good it feels to collapse for one moment.
And I hate that Logan is in the next room listening.
Because it feels like being seen without permission.
My voice breaks. “I don’t want to do this without you.”
Pops’s eyes close briefly, grief flickering across his face. “I know,” he whispers. “I don’t want to leave you.”
The admission slices clean.
I press my forehead against his hand, sobbing.
Pops’s voice is barely there. “I’m tired, kiddo.”
My throat tightens. “Okay.”
Pops exhales, hand still on my cheek. “Help me back to the recliner?”
I nod quickly, wiping my face with my sleeve, furious at the wetness. “Yeah.”
I stand, moving around the table, and slide my arm under his carefully.
Pops grips his walker and pushes up slowly.
His body trembles with the effort.
Anger flares again, bright and vicious.
Because this is wrong.
Because he should be strong.
Because he should be immortal.
We take one step.
Then another.
Pops leans slightly into me, pretending he isn’t.
Then we’re in the living room.
Logan is already on his feet.
Pops lifts his chin. “I’m fine,” he says automatically.
Logan nods once, controlled. “I know. Just—” He gestures toward the recliner. “You want me to move the footrest?”
Pops pauses like it annoys him to need help, then mutters, “Yeah. Fine.”
Logan moves quickly, smoothly, adjusting the recliner so Pops can sit without fighting it.
Pops lowers himself with a tired exhale.
I stand there, arms crossed tightly over my chest like I can physically hold myself together again.
Logan looks at me.
His eyes flick to my face—my swollen eyes, my damp cheeks.
I feel exposed. Raw.
My voice turns sharp out of reflex. “What?”
Logan’s expression stays soft. “Nothing.”
“I don’t want your pity,” I snap.
Logan’s jaw tightens. “It’s not pity.”
“Then what is it?” I challenge.
Logan exhales slowly, keeping his voice low because Pops is right there. “It’s…me being here.”
The words hit too hard.
My throat tightens.
I look away fast, staring at the TV like it’s interesting.
Pops clears his throat, tired. “Can someone bring me that blanket?”
I move instantly. “I’ll get it.”
Logan’s voice is quiet. “I’ve got it.”
We speak at the same time.
I glare at him.
And he holds my gaze.
Then, deliberately, he steps back. “You go.”
The small surrender makes my chest ache.
I grab the blanket from the chair and drape it over Pops carefully.
He sighs like it feels good. “Thanks, kiddo.”
I nod. “Of course.”
Pops’s eyes drift toward Logan. “You too,” he says, voice quieter. “Thank you.”
Logan’s throat works. “Yeah,” he murmurs. “Anytime.”
Pops’s eyes close slowly like he’s sinking. “I’m going to rest.”
I freeze. “Okay.”
Pops’s breathing evens out, and the living room goes quiet except for the TV murmuring in the background.
I stand there, chest tight, hands shaking.
Logan shifts beside me, not touching, not crowding—just close enough that I can feel him.
His voice is barely audible. “You okay?”
I whip my head toward him, eyes flashing. “Do I look okay, Logan?”
Logan shakes his head once before reaching for me. “Come here.”
“What are you—” My words are cut off as his arms wrap around me. My entire body goes tense at first, but within seconds I can feel myself melting into him, and the tears don’t stay hidden.
A sob breaks loose before I can swallow it down, and I lean into him more. His hands rub calming circles on my lower back, and I let myself fall apart in his arms.
When I finally get it together, I lift my head from his chest, noting the wet spot my tears have obviously left behind.
Wordlessly, I swallow hard, then turn and walk down the hall toward my room before I do something humiliating—like cry even more or admit that Pops just tried to have a goodbye conversation and that I couldn’t handle the mere thought of losing him, when it’s soon to be my reality.
I make it to my room and close the door softly behind me.
Then I slide down it, breathing hard, heart pounding.
My bracelet sits heavy on my wrist, a tiny reminder that means too much.
I press my fist to my mouth to keep the sound in.
Because I didn’t let Pops finish saying everything he wanted to say.
I didn’t let myself hear the whole truth.
But for the first time, I can’t block out the horrible, brutal truth.
Pops gave me a glimpse, just for a second, of a world that he isn’t part of.
And I don’t know how to survive that.