19. Sloane
NINETEEN
Sloane
I cross my legs on the living room carpet, watching Lennon's face light up as he moves his blue gingerbread man around the colorful CandyLand path. His small fingers grip the card showing he gets to advance to the Candy Cane Forest.
"I forgot how much I liked this game." I nudge my yellow piece forward. "Thanks for suggesting it when we were talking yesterday. I picked it up while you were at Seabreeze today."
Lennon nods, his attention fixed on the board. "My turn again?"
"Yep, draw another card."
The sound of water rushing through pipes reaches my ears. Pope's shower is on upstairs. My stomach does a little flip. He must be finished with his calls for the evening.
I catch myself smiling at the thought of him joining us later. Maybe we'll all have dinner together. Maybe after Lennon goes to bed...
Stop it, Sloane.
Lennon reaches for another card but pauses. His hand drifts to the emotion flashcards still stacked nearby from our earlier session. He picks up one showing a sad face and holds it toward me without speaking.
My heart squeezes. "You're feeling sad right now?"
He nods, his eyes downcast. He holds his necklace, he’s go-to comfort when he's down.
"Can you tell me why you're feeling sad?"
He traces the board's rainbow path with his finger. "Me and Mom used to play this game." His voice is so soft I have to lean forward to hear him. "She always picked the red piece."
It suddenly occurs to me why he told me he wanted to play this specific game. He wants to remember the things he did with his mom.
I slide closer, careful not to overwhelm him. "You miss playing with her."
His shoulders rise and fall with a tiny sigh. "Yeah."
"It's okay to miss her when you do things you used to do together." I rest my hand near his, not touching, just there if he wants it. "Those memories are special."
"Do you think she knows I'm playing it now?"
The question catches in my chest. "I like to think people we love always know when we're thinking about them."
Lennon's hand moves to rest on top of mine, so small and trusting. "Yeah. Camila said she's in heaven watching over me. That means she's watching over you, too."
I swallow, fighting back tears for this brave, strong little boy. I don't speak for fear I won't be so strong.
"She would like you. You're nice like her."
He climbs into my lap, and I hold him close to me.
Movement at the doorway draws my attention. Pope stands there, his hair damp from his shower, wearing gray joggers and a long-sleeved navy t-shirt that clings to his shoulders. The casual look suits him, softens him somehow.
Water droplets still cling to the back of his neck.
Our eyes meet over Lennon's head. Pope's gaze shifts to his brother, concern etching his features. He mouths, "Everything okay?"
I nod, offering a small smile. The moment stretches between us, something unnamed passing in that shared look of understanding.
His phone vibrates in his hand. He grimaces, points to it apologetically, and steps back into the hallway.
"Hey, Lennon." I squeeze his hand gently. "Want to help me make pasta for dinner? I heard you're pretty good at stirring sauce."
His expression brightens. "Can I add the cheese?"
"Absolutely. You're the official cheese master."
He jumps up, mood shifting. "Race you to the kitchen!"
As he dashes ahead, I gather up the game pieces, my mind lingering on the weight of his body curled into mine and the intensity in Pope's eyes as he watched us from the doorway.
I reach the kitchen just as Lennon skids to a stop at the refrigerator, his socks sliding on the polished floor.
"What's first, cheese master?" I open the fridge, scanning the shelves the housekeeper stocked yesterday.
"Veggies!" Lennon points to the produce drawer. "Mom always put secret veggies in the sauce."
My heart warms at this glimpse into his life before. "Secret veggies, huh? It's not a secret if you know, now is it?"
I grab an onion, carrots, and a zucchini while Lennon climbs onto a stool at the counter. I place a cutting board in front of him and hand him the onion.
"This is a dangerous job. Do you think you can handle it?"
"Oh, yeah. I can. How is it dangerous?"
"Onions make my eyes water. See if your eyes water when you peel off this layer." I show him how to peel back the top layers.
He nods, face scrunched in concentration as he carefully pulls off the papery outer edge. I fill a pot with water and set it on the stove, watching him from the corner of my eye.
There's something so naturally comfortable about this moment, a perfect segue from the emotional moment we just shared. He's learning that it’s safe to feel sadness and then keep picking up and moving forward.
Pope appears in the doorway, his phone no longer in hand. His eyes take in the scene. Lennon is focused on his task, and I'm moving between the counter and the stove.
"Need any help?" He steps into the kitchen, pushing up his sleeves. "You can put me to work."
"We're making secret sauce," Lennon announces without looking up.
I smile. "We need someone to cook the ground beef. Think you can handle that?"
Pope raises an eyebrow. "I'm not completely useless in a kitchen."
"We'll see about that." I hand him a package of beef and a pan.
Our fingers brush during the handoff, and that now-familiar electricity zips through me. I turn away quickly, focusing on the tomatoes I need to dice.
The kitchen fills with the sounds of cooking—the sizzle of beef, the gentle bubbling of boiling water, the rhythmic tap of my knife against the cutting board. Pope stands at the stove, stirring occasionally, while Lennon proudly takes a bite of a carrot.
"Perfect for sauce," I tell him, and his smile brightens the room. "You always have to taste-test the ingredients."
"Can I add the pasta to the water?" Lennon asks when the water boils.
"Absolutely." I lift him so he can pour the pasta in safely.
Pope watches us, a soft expression replacing his usually guarded features. "You two make a good team."
"Three," Lennon corrects, pointing to the beef Pope is browning. "You're doing the meat part."
Pope's face does something complicated. If I had to guess, it’s surprise melting into pleasure. "You're right. Team of three."
We move around each other with surprising ease, passing ingredients, stirring pots, Lennon directing us from his perch. When Pope reaches across me for the salt, his chest brushes my back, and he lingers just a moment longer than necessary.
And I like it.
The stars flicker like scattered sequins across the night sky.
I settle deeper into the cushioned lounger, swirling the last sip of Pinot Grigio in my glass. Pope sits in the chair beside me, his sparkling water catching the moonlight.
"You're sure you don't want some? It's a good bottle." I offer my glass toward him.
Pope shakes his head. "I'm good with this."
"I hope I'm not being too forward, but I noticed you never drink alcohol."
He stretches his long legs out in front of him. "Not at all. Nothing against it. I'm just particular about what I put in my body."
"Ah. You're one of those annoyingly healthy people." I grin over the rim of my glass.
"Something like that." His smile softens his face. "I usually hit the gym around this time. Five nights a week, minimum, in Denver. I haven't been able to get in the groove since moving here."
"It's hard moving and trying to keep your same routine."
His eyes find mine in the dim patio lights. "Yeah. Been a little busy lately."
The weight of the unspoken hangs between us. Instead of the gym, he's been here, with Lennon. With me.
"I like this better," he admits. "Coming home, having dinner. Hearing about the sharks and hermit crabs. I never knew I would be so drawn to this domestic stuff."
My chest tightens. "You're getting good at the bedtime routine."
"I have a good mentor."
I take a deep breath, feeling things continuing to shift between us. It’s like every night, one more barrier between us eases.
“He talked about his mom today. While we were playing. That's why he was in my lap when you came in."
"I noticed something was going on, but I also had enough sense not to interrupt.” Pope leans forward, elbows on his knees. "Thank you for being there for him. For knowing how to comfort him."
"I didn't do anything special. I just let him express himself."
"Yes, you did." His voice is low, certain. "You showed up. You held space for him. I'd say that was damn special."
Heat blooms in my cheeks that has nothing to do with the wine. The vulnerability in his expression catches me off guard.
My phone buzzes on the table between us. Maris's name lights up the screen.
How's it going? Any updates on the Pope situation?
I can practically hear her cautionary tone from our last conversation. This is dangerous territory. Don't cross that line.
Pope's eyes flick to the phone, then back to me, patient, waiting.
I turn my phone face down on the table. I don't think she'd be happy to know the update I would be sharing. I've already crossed lines I can't uncross, boundaries I was warned not to breach.
And I don't want to go back.
"Everything okay?" Pope asks.
"Everything's perfect." I set my empty glass down and meet his gaze directly. "Right here. Right now."
Pope reaches for my hand across the small space between our chairs, his fingers intertwining with mine. The heat of his palm against my skin sends electricity up my arm.
"I've been thinking about you all day," he confesses, his thumb tracing circles on my wrist. "Every meeting, every call, you were there in the front of my mind. You make it hard to concentrate."
My pulse quickens. "Same here. It's getting harder to focus when you're in the room."
His thumb continues tracing lazy circles on my wrist, sending shockwaves through my entire body. I can't tear my eyes away from his.
"Feel like taking a dip?" Pope nods toward the glowing turquoise pool beyond the patio.