Chapter 41 Sloane
SLOANE
Two days after the funeral, the house still smells like other people.
Like perfume that doesn’t belong here. Like cologne and casseroles and sympathy that seeped into the couch cushions and refused to leave.
Someone’s flowers are dying in the corner of the kitchen, petals browning at the edges, and I keep meaning to throw them out—but every time I look at them, my chest tightens like I’m tossing out proof that any of this happened.
That he happened.
Cameron moves around the kitchen like he’s doing a drill.
Open cabinet. Close cabinet. Open fridge. Close fridge.
He’s trying to feed me without making it obvious that he’s trying to feed me, which is almost insulting because it’s so obvious. I sit at the kitchen table with my elbows on the wood, staring at the grain like the lines might rearrange into something that makes sense.
Nothing makes sense.
The sun is out. Birds are loud. A neighbor’s dog barks like it’s never heard the word death.
Pops is gone.
The world kept breathing anyway.
Cameron sets a plate in front of me like he’s placing something fragile on a ledge. Toast. Scrambled eggs. Sliced strawberries in a neat row.
It’s too much effort for a body that doesn’t feel like it belongs to me.
“There,” he says, and his voice is careful. “Eat. Just a little.”
I blink down at the plate.
My stomach turns—not from hunger. From the idea of swallowing. From the idea of letting anything inside me when everything feels…wrong.
“I’m not hungry,” I say, and I hate how flat it sounds. Like I’m reading a line. Like I’m a version of myself that has been drained of color.
Cameron’s jaw tightens.
“Yeah,” he says. “I know.”
He pulls out the chair across from me and sits. He doesn’t touch his own food. He just watches me like he’s waiting for me to move, to react, to be a person again.
I pick up the fork. I poke the eggs. I put the fork down.
The motion feels pointless.
Cameron exhales through his nose. Then, like he can’t stand the silence, he starts talking about nothing.
“The neighbor’s kid was out front earlier,” he says. “The little one who keeps kicking his soccer ball into our yard.”
I stare at the eggs.
“He asked if we still have a basketball,” Cameron continues. “I told him yeah. Then he asked why there were so many cars here last week.”
My throat closes.
Cameron’s eyes flick up to mine like he regrets bringing it up the second the words leave his mouth.
I swallow anyway. Hard.
“What’d you say?” My voice scrapes.
Cameron’s gaze drops to his hands. “I said…Pops was sick. And he died.”
I flinch. It’s reflexive, like my body is still trying to dodge the word.
Cameron’s jaw works. “And the kid just…nodded. Like that’s a normal thing. Then he asked if he could still borrow the basketball.”
A sound tries to come out of me—something between a laugh and a sob—but it dies in my throat.
Cameron’s mouth twitches, almost a smile. Almost.
“Kids are insane,” he mutters.
I stare at the toast.
My fingers go numb around the edge of the plate.
Cameron reaches across the table and slides the toast closer to me. “Bite,” he says softly. “One bite.”
I want to tell him to stop.
I want to tell him he’s not my dad.
Then the thought hits like a slap.
No one is.
My eyes burn.
I tear off a small piece—barely anything—and put it in my mouth. I chew. I swallow.
It tastes like cardboard and effort.
Cameron’s shoulders loosen an inch, like I handed him something he can use.
“Good,” he says. “See? You’re alive.”
The words land wrong. Not cruel. Just wrong. Like being alive is the problem.
I don’t answer.
The silence stretches again.
Outside, the wind moves through the trees like it’s practicing being gentle.
Cameron fidgets. He drags a hand over his face, knuckles brushing his mouth. He’s been doing that a lot—chewing on the inside of his cheek until his jaw looks sore. Like anger is the only thing he can use to prop himself up.
He stares at the table.
Then he says, “Logan’s at rehab, right?”
My stomach drops.
“Yeah,” I answer too quickly.
Cameron nods slowly.
He looks away.
Then back.
Then away again.
I can feel it—the thing he wants to say circling, hovering, refusing to land.
My fingers tighten around the edge of the plate.
“What?” I whisper. “Just say it.”
Cameron blows out a breath like he’s been holding it since the graveside.
“This probably isn’t the best time,” he starts, voice careful.
My chest gets tight. “Cam.”
He closes his eyes for a second. Opens them again.
“Okay,” he says. “Fine. I’m just gonna say it.”
He leans forward, forearms on the table, hands clasped like he’s trying to hold himself still.
“What is going on with you and Logan?”
The question is simple.
It detonates anyway.
My heart stutters. Heat crawls up my neck like I’m fifteen again and caught doing something I wasn’t supposed to.
I stare at the plate so I don’t have to look at Cameron’s face.
“Nothing,” I say automatically.
Cameron’s laugh is short. Humorless. “Sloane.”
I flinch at the way he says my name.
Not angry.
Not loud.
Just…brother.
Like he’s asking me to be real with him for once.
I lift my eyes to meet his.
His face looks different now. Sorrow has carved itself into him. His eyes are dull, like someone took the brightness out. There’s anger there, too, simmering under his skin. Not directed at me. Just…in the room. In the world. In the fact that Pops is gone and Cameron couldn’t stop it.
He’s trying to keep me alive the same way he tried to keep Pops alive.
By controlling what he can.
And apparently, what he can’t control right now is Logan Brooks.
I swallow.
“What do you mean?” I stall, because if I can keep him talking, maybe I won’t have to.
Cameron’s jaw flexes. He lifts a brow. “Don’t do that.”
I exhale shakily. “Cam.”
“Just tell me,” he says, quieter now. “Because I’ve been watching. And I’m not stupid.”
My stomach rolls.
I want to say, You are stupid. I want to deflect with sarcasm, with bite.
But the truth is—I don’t have the energy to pretend.
Not today.
Not when every part of me already feels like it’s been peeled raw.
So I inhale. Slowly.
Then I say, “We’re…figuring it out.”
Cameron’s eyes narrow. “Figuring what out?”
My throat tightens. “Us.”
The word us feels ridiculous and sacred at the same time.
Cameron goes still.
Like even he didn’t expect me to admit it out loud.
He stares at me for a long moment, and I can see his brain trying to categorize this. Trying to decide which box it goes in.
Grief behavior.
Comfort.
Bad timing.
Danger.
My fingers twist in the hem of my sweatshirt—Pops’s sweatshirt. The one I haven’t taken off since the funeral. The one that still smells like him if I don’t breathe too deep.
Cameron’s voice comes out rough. “How long?”
I hesitate.
If I give him the full truth—if I tell him about kisses, about hands, about my body pressing into Logan’s like it’s the only place I can breathe—Cameron will explode.
And I don’t have the energy for that either.
So I give him pieces. Like he asked.
“Not long,” I say honestly. “Before…before Pops—”
My voice breaks, and my vision blurs.
Cameron’s expression softens for half a second. Then he swallows it down.
“Before Pops died,” he finishes for me.
I nod.
Cameron leans back in his chair, staring at the ceiling like he’s counting something in his head.
“What the hell, Sloane?” he murmurs.
My chest tightens. “Cam, don’t—”
He cuts his eyes to me. “I’m not mad at you.”
I blink.
He exhales hard. “I’m mad at him. It’s different.”
Of course it is.
Because Logan is his best friend. The person he trusts with his life. The person Pops trusted. The person Cameron has always believed was safe.
And now Logan is…what?
A risk?
A betrayal?
A complication?
My throat aches. “He’s been…good.”
Cameron’s eyes flicker. “Yeah?”
I nod again, quieter. “He’s been good. He’s…here.”
Cameron’s jaw works.
“Is he taking advantage of you?” Cameron asks, and his voice cracks on the last word like he hates himself for asking it.
I freeze.
Then anger flares hot and clean through the numbness.
“No,” I snap. The first real emotion I’ve felt in two days. “Jesus Christ, Cameron.”
Cameron flinches, then his face hardens again, defensive. “It’s a fair question.”
“No,” I say, voice shaking now. “It’s not. Not with Logan.”
Cameron’s eyes search mine, sharp and careful.
I swallow the rest of the truth.
I don’t tell him that Logan didn’t push.
That Logan tried to stop me.
That Logan hesitated like he was terrified of hurting me, of breaking me, even while I was the one pulling him closer.
I don’t tell him any of that.
Because that part is mine.
And I’m not ready to share it with my brother.
So instead, I say the only thing that matters.
“He’s not taking anything,” I tell Cameron. “He’s…giving.”
Cameron stares at me.
The kitchen hums around us. The fridge. The clock. The world insisting on its own rhythm.
Cameron finally drags a hand over his face.
He looks tired. Older.
“I don’t know what I’m supposed to do with that,” he admits.
“You don’t do anything,” I whisper. “Not right now.”
Cameron’s eyes flick to the sweatshirt. The way my fingers grip it like I’m holding onto my last thread.
Then his gaze returns to mine.
“Is this real?” he asks quietly. “Or is this…grief?”
The question is gentle.
And brutal.
My throat closes.
I don’t know how to answer it.
Because grief has eaten my body. My mind. My future. Everything.
And Logan is the only thing that feels solid inside it.
Does that make it less real?
Or more?
I blink hard. “I don’t know,” I admit. “I just know that when he’s not here, it feels…worse. A lot worse. The only time I can actually let myself go to sleep is when he’s here. He comes into my room almost every night after you go to bed.”
Cameron swallows and the muscle in his jaw jumps.
He nods once, like he’s filing that away for later too.
“Okay,” he says finally, voice clipped again. “Okay.”
I let out a breath I didn’t realize I was holding.