35. Sloane
THIRTY-FIVE
Sloane
I stand in the doorway of my childhood bedroom, clutching my purse to my chest. The lavender walls close in around me, a color I outgrew fifteen years ago, but my parents never bothered to paint over.
My old softball trophies gather dust on the bookshelf, their gold plastic figures frozen mid-catch.
This room hasn't changed. I have.
I take a deep breath and step inside, dropping my purse onto the twin bed with its faded quilt. The mattress gives a familiar squeak.
This time last month, I had a career, an apartment, a life I was building. Now I'm back where I started, with nothing but a U-Haul full of furniture that won't fit in this shoebox room.
My fingers trace the corkboard above my desk. Faded photos curl at the edges. I study them: high school graduation, college roommates, that summer internship when I thought I knew everything about the world.
My throat tightens. What a joke.
Mom appears in the doorway, her face gentle with concern. "I put fresh towels in your bathroom."
"Thanks, Mom." The word comes out thicker than I mean it to.
"Your dad's picking up pizza for dinner. I told him to get that white sauce you like."
I nod, not trusting my voice.
She steps inside, smooths the quilt with practiced hands. "It's nice having you home, sweetheart."
Something in me cracks. Hot tears spill down my cheeks before I can stop them. "I'm sorry."
"For what?" Mom's arms wrap around me. The familiar scent of her rose lotion envelopes me.
"For failing. For letting you and Dad down. All that money for school, and look at me." I gesture at the room, at myself. "Back home with nothing."
Mom pulls back, her hands firm on my shoulders. "Listen to me, Sloane Brennan. You haven't let anyone down. This is just a reset. We all learn as we go."
"But my job?—"
"Will be replaced by another one. A better one." She wipes my cheek with her thumb. "Besides, I never liked you being so far away."
I manage a watery smile. "I've already put out some resumes. Maybe I'll find something closer to home, where I belong."
After Mom leaves, I sink onto the bed and pull out my phone. My fingers hover over Maris's name. I haven't really talked to her in weeks. I never told her the whole truth.
Hey, you up for company? I'm in Augusta. Thought I might drive down to Savannah for dinner if you're free.
Three dots appear almost immediately.
Sloane? What are you doing in Georgia? Are you okay?
Long story. I'd rather tell you in person.
Of course. I get off at 5, need to shower. Meet me at Felix’s off 17 at 6? Easy drive from Augusta.
I'll be there.
I stare at my phone, relief and anxiety washing through me in equal measure. Maris deserves the full story. No more lies by omission.
I grab my keys and head for the door. The drive to Savannah will give me time to figure out what to say, how to explain everything that's happened since Pope. Since Lennon. Since I lost myself in Palm Beach.
The car door closes with a solid thunk. I take a deep breath and turn the key.
Time to face the music.
The restaurant’s warm amber lights cast a honey glow across the polished bar. The mingled scents of oysters on ice and garlic butter wrap around me as I step through the doorway, scanning the Friday night crowd.
My heart jumps when I spot Maris at the bar. Her dark hair falls in loose waves around her shoulders, and she's staring into her glass, tracing its rim with one finger.
She looks up, our eyes meeting across the room. She smiles and jumps up to greet me, motioning to the empty stool beside her.
My pulse pounds in my ears as I weave between tables. Nerves twist my stomach into a sailor's knot.
Just like Maris to welcome me with open arms when I turned my back on her.
"Hey," I manage, sliding onto the stool. My hands find each other in my lap, fingers lacing together so tightly my knuckles whiten.
"Hey, yourself." Maris's voice is neutral, her eyes searching my face. "It's been too long. You look good."
The bartender approaches, but I wave him off. I can't handle small talk or drink orders right now.
"I do not! I look like shit."
"What are you doing here?"
"I'm sorry, Maris." The words tumble out before I can shape them into something more elegant. "I ghosted you. I avoided your calls because I didn't want to hear I was wrong."
Maris's eyebrows lift slightly. "Wrong about what?"
"I slept with Pope, my boss, Lennon's dad. Again, after that night in the hotel.”
Shame rises, hot and prickly beneath my skin. "We had an affair. I thought I was falling in love with him, and I heard your words, I knew you thought it was wrong, and…."
The confession feels like peeling back my own skin, exposing everything raw underneath.
"Oh. You slept with him. I was busy, I figured you just got busy, that's why we couldn't connect."
"No, I was just a coward. And when things got sticky, it went sideways fast. Part of that was my fault. I pushed him away first, at the first sign things were about to blow up. But he didn't need to be told twice."
Maris listens without interrupting, her eyes never leaving my face. When I finally run out of words, she nods once.
"I never meant to make you feel judged, Sloane. That was never my thought or my intent." She reaches for my knotted hands. "I was just trying to give advice. That's all."
"You were right." My voice cracks. "I wish I had listened to you. Everything's a mess now."
Tears well up, blurring the bottles lined behind the bar into a kaleidoscope of colors. One escapes, tracking down my cheek.
Maris squeezes my hands. "You can't beat yourself up. Sometimes we have to learn lessons before we understand them." Her smile is gentle. "It's only natural you would fall for him in that situation. He sounded pretty amazing. But I'm sorry he hurt you."
A waiter appears with a platter of oysters for the couple next to us, giving us both a moment to breathe.
"Would you ladies like to order?" he asks, notepad ready.
I look at Maris, relief flickering through me that she hasn't walked out, that she's still here, listening.
"I'd love some food. And definitely wine." I grab the menu, hiding behind it for a second to compose myself. I wipe under my eyes and take a deep breath. "Lots of wine."
Maris nods, a silent understanding passing between us.
Twenty minutes later, our table holds plates of half-eaten lobster rolls and roasted Brussels sprouts. The sharp tang of vinegar lingers in the air, mixing with the buttery scent of the rolls.
My one glass of Sauvignon Blanc catches the amber light, golden liquid sloshing against crystal as I set mine down harder than intended.
I said I want lots of wine, but I have to drive. So I enjoy my one slowly, savoring the tang.
"So," I begin, my fingers working the edge of my napkin until it frays. "There’s more. I want to tell you the whole scandal."
Maris freezes, fork hovering midair. "Scandal?"
"Things blew up when Pope's biological father, Chris, found out about me and Pope. He was trying to get custody of Lennon, and he hired a PI who got pictures of us in a compromising situation."
Her brows knit as she sets her fork aside with a clink. "What?! I thought he was out of the picture. That was why Pope was the temporary guardian."
"He was, until he wasn't. I honestly don’t know all of the series of events because Pope didn’t talk to me about all of it.
And not long after his father started trying to get custody, Pope and I were a distant memory.
Or, I thought we were. Until Chris leaked the photos to the Palm Beach papers. " My voice cracks on his name.
Maris stares, mouth open. "Pictures of you having sex?! In the paper?!"
"Not sex. Just kissing. But I know the night, and if he got the kiss, he saw a lot more…" Heat prickles my skin, shame flooding back like it’s happening all over again.
"Sloane." Her voice is low, steady. "I don’t even know what to say right now. I’m so sorry."
"The nanny in the scandal. That’s what they called me. Like I was some tabloid cliché instead of a woman who worked her ass off for a career."
I grab my wine and take a long swallow. The acid bites the back of my throat, grounding me in the sting.
"That's not all you are, Sloane. You need to stop thinking like that right now."
"Coastal fired me two weeks after they were published. The pictures were on the local news. It even made national coverage because of Pope’s position. That’s why I’m home." My laugh comes out jagged, hollow.
"Holy shit, Sloane." Maris presses her napkin to her mouth, stunned.
"Yep. That bad. See, I should’ve listened to you. Then none of this would have happened. I was so stupid."
Her eyes glisten, unshed tears threatening to spill. "You’re not."
I push at a cold sprout on my plate, my appetite gone.
"The upside is, Mom and Dad were thrilled when I called and told them I was coming home. Now I’m back in my childhood home, paying for storage for furniture I bought when I thought I was starting my adult life.
Clearly, I’m not ready for the big leagues. "
"You are. You graduated with honors, and you're naturally good with children. You will get through this, Sloane. I know you will. Don't let this setback derail your confidence. Promise me."
I look up at her, grateful for her friendship. She’s still here for me even though I went against her advice, didn't return her calls, and replied with vague texts.
She's the epitome of what a good friend is, in spite of how shitty of a friend I am.
"I love you, Maris. You're always so good for me. I promise that after I wallow a little longer, I will pick myself up. I'm pretty much rock bottom right now, so the only place to go is up. Thank you for being amazing."
"I love you, too, Sloaney-Bologna. LYLAS."
"LYLAS."
I realize I’ve been talking nonstop about myself, unloading months of secrets and disasters. Guilt prickles at my skin. I twist the napkin in my lap. “God, Maris, I’ve completely monopolized tonight. How are you? How’s work?”
Her whole face brightens. “It’s good. Really good. I’ve got a full caseload at the clinic now. Early intervention mostly, toddlers with delayed speech."
“Maris, that’s amazing.” I beam for her, though it’s impossible not to compare where she is with where I am.
“Last week, one of my kids said his first word. His mom cried, I cried—it was amazing.” She laughs, eyes glowing. “And they bumped me up to lead my own little team. It’s busy, but I love it. I still do rounds at the hospital twice a week.”
I smile, genuinely proud, but the weight in my chest only grows heavier. This is where I should be too. Thriving after grad school. Building a career. Making a difference.
Instead, I’m broke, infamous, and crashing at my parents’ house. I grip my glass tighter, swallowing down the envy with a gulp of water gone lukewarm.
Maris watches me for a beat, then softens. “You don’t have to drive tonight. Stay here. I’ve got a sofa, fresh sheets, the works. I have an early shift in the morning, but you can sleep in, make yourself at home as long as you need.”
I shake my head, even though the offer tugs at me. “Thank you. Really. But I need to get back to Atlanta. Put out résumés. Start digging my way out of this hole. Sitting here drinking won’t fix anything.”
Her brow arches. “Drinking? You had one glass, Sloane. An hour ago.”
I huff out a laugh. “Exactly. One glass on purpose. I needed to keep my head clear if I’m driving.”
We linger, stretching the night anyway, letting conversation meander until I can tell she’s anxious to get home to get ready for work tomorrow.
Maris squeezes my hand across the cluttered table. “Okay. But next time, no excuses. You’re staying with me. We’ll plan it when I don’t have to work the next morning. Slumber party style, just like old times.”
Staying here, watching her get up for a job she loves, would only gut me more. The last thing I need is a front-row seat to someone thriving where I’ve failed.
After we pay the tab, she hugs me tight and leaves with a wave. I told her I needed to use the restroom before I got on the road. The truth is, I just couldn’t walk her out. It was too much.
For a long moment, I stay behind at the table, listening to the scrape of chairs, the low murmur of other diners, and the bartender polishing glasses. All of it muffled, like I’m underwater.
Eventually, I make myself move. Outside, the humid Savannah night presses close, cicadas buzzing in the dark. I climb into my car and shut the door, the thunk echoing in the stillness.
I don’t turn the key. Not yet. I just sit there, scrolling for a podcast, trying to drown out the silence.
The drive will be movement. That’s something. A start.