Chapter 16 Sloane
SLOANE
The thing about heartbreak is that it doesn’t happen all at once.
It’s waking up in Riley’s guest room and forgetting where you are for three seconds.
It’s reaching for your phone to text someone and then remembering you’re learning to find yourself again.
It’s every love song on the radio, suddenly feeling personal.
It’s been two weeks since the pub.
Two weeks since I kissed Jax goodbye in the cold and promised to call when I figured my shit out. Spoiler alert, I have not figured my shit out.
I’m staring at my laptop. Another marketing job. Senior Manager at some tech startup that probably has a ping pong table and calls their employees rock stars. The job description uses the word synergy three times. I close the laptop.
“That’s the fifth time today,” Riley calls from the kitchen. She’s making coffee, which is basically her love language. “You open a job listing, stare at it like it personally offended you, then close it with extreme prejudice.”
“These jobs are soul-sucking.”
“Then stop applying for them.” She brings me coffee, plopping down beside me. “What do you actually want to do?”
“I don’t know.”
“Sloane.”
“I don’t!” My voice comes out more defensive than I intend. “I used to know. I had plans and dreams and ideas. But somewhere along the way I just ... stopped.”
Riley’s quiet for a moment. “You need therapy.”
“I don’t.”
“Yes, you do. You spent nine years with a man who made you feel like shit. That’s textbook therapy territory, babe.”
She’s right. I hate it, but she’s right.
“Fine.”
“Not fine, like you’ll think about it. Fine, like I’m texting you my therapist’s number right now and you’re calling her today.” She’s already typing. “Dr. Chen’s amazing. Helped me through the Tyler disaster, remember?”
“Riley …”
“Nope. You’re going. Non-negotiable.”
My phone buzzes before I can argue.
JAX: Emergency. The chickens have unionized.
Despite everything, I smile. Jax has been sending me photos of the farm, simple things that he thinks I’ll like. It’s easy, we don’t have to delve into things. He showed me the chickens, and I instantly fell in love with their antics, so now he gives me chicken updates.
SLOANE: Unionized?
JAX: They’re demanding better working conditions. More mealworms. Weekends off. A 401k.
SLOANE: Sounds reasonable.
JAX: I’m not negotiating with poultry terrorists.
SLOANE: That’s a bold stance. What if they strike?
JAX: Then I guess I’m making my own breakfast. How are you doing?
There it is. The question he asks every few days. The one I never answer honestly.
SLOANE: I’m okay.
It’s not a lie. But it’s not the truth either. The truth is, I miss him so much it physically hurts. That every time my phone buzzes, I hope it’s him. That I want to drive to that farm and never leave. But I don’t say any of that.
JAX: Take all the time you need. I’m not going anywhere.
My chest tightens.
“You’re doing the face,” Riley says.
“What face?”
“The I’m texting Jax and pretending I don’t have feelings face.” She raises an eyebrow. “You’re keeping him at arm’s length.”
“I’m healing.”
“Or you’re hiding.” She softens her voice. “There’s a difference.”
I don’t have an answer for that.
Dr. Chen’s office is in a renovated Victorian in Capitol Hill. Warm lighting. Plants everywhere. One of those white noise machines that’s supposed to be soothing but just makes me need to pee. Dr. Chen is in her forties with kind eyes and zero bullshit energy. I like her immediately.
“So,” she says after I stumble through my story, “nine-year relationship, cheating, snowstorm, hot stranger, and now you’re trying to figure out who you are.”
“That’s the highlight reel, yeah.”
“How does it feel to be starting over?” she asks.
“Terrifying.” The word escapes before I can stop it. “I’ve never been alone. Not really. I went from college to Chett to ... this. I don’t know how to be just me.”
“Do you want to be alone?”
“I feel like I should want that. That I should be independent and self-sufficient and not need anyone.”
“Should.” She writes something down. “Interesting word. Who says you should want those things?”
“Everyone? Society? Every self-help book ever written?” I tell her.
“What do you actually want?”
I close my eyes. Think about Jax. About the farm he describes in texts. About how he made me feel seen.
“I want him,” I whisper. “But I’m scared that makes me weak. Like I’m jumping from one relationship to another without learning anything.”
“Or maybe you already learned.” Dr. Chen leans forward. “Maybe recognizing what you don’t want and what you do want is the lesson. Maybe the timeline doesn’t matter as much as you think.”
“People don’t fall in love in a few weeks.”
“Some people do,” she says, raising a brow.
“That’s insane.”
“Is it?” She tilts her head. “Or is it just inconvenient for the narrative you’re telling yourself?”
Fuck.
I hate therapy.
The days crawl by. Job applications I don’t care about.
Therapy sessions that hurt in the best way.
And Chett, who won’t … Leave. Me. Alone.
He texts from new numbers. Shows up at coffee shops where I’m working.
Sends flowers to Riley’s apartment with notes that say, ‘I miss you,’ ‘We belong together,’ and ‘Please baby.’
I block the numbers. I leave when I see him. I throw out the flowers.
He doesn’t stop.
“This is harassment,” Riley says after the third bouquet. “You need a restraining order.”
“It’s just flowers.”
“It’s manipulation. He’s trying to wear you down.” She crosses her arms. “This isn’t romantic. It’s creepy.”
I know she’s right, but I also think he will eventually give up.
Dr. Chen says, “He’s not respecting your boundaries. You’ve told him you’re done. Multiple times. He’s not listening. That’s not love. That’s control.”
“I just want him to move on.”
“He will. Eventually. But you need to protect yourself. Block him everywhere. Document everything. Tell your family not to give him information,” she explains.
So, I do. I block him on every platform. I tell Riley and my sister Maggie to redirect any Chett questions from my parents. I save screenshots of the burner number texts. And slowly, I start to breathe again.
The texts with Jax are the bright spot in my days.
JAX: Chicken update. They’ve formed a gang. Pretty sure they’re planning a coup.
SLOANE: Against you?
JAX: Against the rooster. He’s outnumbered 6 to 1.
SLOANE: Poor rooster.
JAX: He deserves it. He’s an asshole.
SLOANE: Your farm sounds like chaos.
JAX: It’s perfect. You’d love it.
I stare at that message. ‘You’d love it.’ Like there’s already a place for me there.
SLOANE: Maybe someday I’ll get to see it.
JAX: You will. Full tour. I’ll introduce you to all the chickens by name. Show you where the rooster hides from his enemies.
SLOANE: Sounds like a date.
JAX: It is. Whenever you’re ready.
My heart does something stupid in my chest.
JAX: Question. Do chickens understand Thanksgiving?
SLOANE: Pretty sure they’d be against it.
JAX: They’re eyeing me suspiciously. Like they know what’s coming.
SLOANE: Are you having chicken for Thanksgiving?
JAX: Fuck no. Turkey. I’m not a monster. These chickens are family.
SLOANE: Dysfunctional family.
JAX: The best kind.
JAX: What are you doing for Thanksgiving?
My stomach drops.
SLOANE: Family dinner. My parents’ house. The usual.
JAX: Sounds nice.
SLOANE: We’ll see.
JAX: You don’t sound excited.
SLOANE: Family holidays are complicated.
JAX: I get that. Mine are chaos. Five brothers who are all idiots, plus my grandmother who lives to embarrass us.
SLOANE: Sounds fun.
JAX: You’re welcome here if you want. If your family thing doesn’t work out. Or even if it does, and you want dessert somewhere else. We always have too much food.
My chest tightens.
SLOANE: Thank you. That means a lot.
JAX: I mean it. Standing invitation. You, Maggie, Riley. Whoever. Door’s always open.
I stare at that message for way too long before just sending a heart emoji.
Coward.
I’m walking downtown, past windows already decorated for Christmas even though it’s not even Thanksgiving yet, when my phone rings.
Mom.
I debate not answering. We haven’t talked much since I moved out. She’s called a few times, and left voicemails about hoping I’m well and missing me. Nothing about Chett, which surprises me. Maybe Maggie talked to her. Maybe she’s finally accepting my decision.
I answer. “Hi, Mom.”
“Sloane!” She sounds relieved. Way too relieved. “Oh, thank God. I’ve been trying to reach you.”
“I’ve been busy. What’s up?”
“I wanted to check about Thanksgiving. You’re still coming, right?” There’s something in her voice. Anxiety. Nervousness. “Your father and I are really looking forward to seeing you. It’s been so long since we’ve all been together.”
“Yes, I’m coming. I said I would.”
“Good. That’s good.” A pause. “What time do you think you’ll get here? I want to make sure everything’s ready.”
“Two-ish?”
“Perfect. That’s perfect.” Another pause. Too long. “And you’re doing, okay? You sound tired.”
“I’m fine. Just job hunting.”
“Have you found anything?”
“Not yet. Being selective.”
“That’s smart. Don’t take the first thing.” Her voice is too careful. Too rehearsed. “Your father and I have been talking. We want you to know we support you. Whatever you decide. We just want you to be happy.”
The words should make me feel better.
They don’t.
“Thanks, Mom.”
“So, Thursday? Around two?”
“Yeah. I’ll be there.”
“Wonderful. I’m making your favorite. Green bean casserole with the crispy onions.”
That’s Dad’s favorite, not mine. “Sounds great.”
“And, Sloane?” Her voice softens. “I love you. We both do.”
“Love you too.”
I hang up and stand there on the sidewalk, watching snow start to fall. Something’s wrong. Mom was hiding something. But I push it away. It’s probably nothing. Just pre-holiday stress. She always gets weird about family gatherings.
I text Maggie.
SLOANE: Did Mom sound weird to you when she called about Thanksgiving?
MAGGIE: She called you, too? Yeah, she was being strange. Very insistent we’re both coming.
SLOANE: Probably just wants the family together. It’s been a while.
MAGGIE: Probably. See you Thursday?
SLOANE: See you Thursday.
I shove my phone in my pocket and keep walking, trying to ignore the knot forming in my stomach.
The next day I’m at the grocery store, grabbing wine for dinner, when I turn a corner and nearly slam into Chett.
Fuck my life.
“Sloane.” His face lights up. “Finally. I’ve been trying to reach you.”
“I blocked you. On everything.” I try to move past him.
He steps in front of me. “We need to talk.”
“We don’t. We’re done. Move on.”
“I can’t move on!” His voice rises. People stare. “Nine years, Sloane. You’re throwing away nine years.”
“You threw it away when you fucked your assistant.”
A woman nearby gasps. I don’t care.
“It was a mistake …”
“You keep saying that. I’m done talking about it.” I push past him, my hands shaking.
“Is this because of that guy?” he calls after me. “The redneck mountain man? You’re choosing him over me?”
I don’t turn around. Don’t give him the satisfaction. But I can feel him watching as I grab a bottle of wine and head to checkout.
When I get to my car, I sit there trying to calm my racing heart.
My phone buzzes.
JAX: Random question. If you could only eat one Thanksgiving food for the rest of your life, what would it be?
Despite everything, I smile.
SLOANE: Mashed potatoes.
JAX: Good choice. I’m a stuffing man myself.
SLOANE: Cool.
JAX: Are you okay?
How does he know?
SLOANE: Ran into Chett at the store. I’m a little shaken up. I’m fine though.
JAX: Fuck. Do you need me to come there? I can be in Denver in two hours.
The offer makes my eyes sting.
SLOANE: I’m okay. Really. He’s just being pathetic.
JAX: If he bothers you again, call the cops. That’s harassment.
SLOANE: I know.
JAX: I’m serious, Sloane. You don’t have to deal with this alone.
SLOANE: I know. Thank you.
JAX: Always.
I stare at that word. Always. Like a promise.
My phone buzzes again.
JAX: The chickens say happy early Thanksgiving. They’re very grateful they’re not turkeys.
And just like that, I’m laughing in my car in a grocery store parking lot.