37. Sloane
THIRTY-SEVEN
Sloane
I kneel beside the last open box, pulling out neatly folded towels and sheets that still smell like the Palm Beach ocean.
My studio apartment is barely bigger than Pope's guest bathroom, but it's mine. For now.
"I still can't believe I'm not there helping you unpack," Angela's voice comes through my phone speaker, tinny but warm. "Consider me there in spirit, alphabetizing your spices or whatever."
"Trust me, knowing you're in my corner does more for me than you know." I smooth a hand over a pillowcase, remembering how she helped me pack up when I was leaving Palm Beach. "Besides, I don't even have enough stuff now to warrant the help."
"Well, I'm proud of you. Taking steps, pulling yourself up." There's no pity in her voice, just genuine pride. "Getting out of that lavender childhood bedroom was the right move."
I laugh, retying my ponytail. "It's been good for my spirits. Even if it's just a month-to-month lease."
"And the job hunt?"
"I've got several applications out that seem promising. The waitressing gig down the street is paying bills until something in my field opens up."
"Are all your prospects in Augusta?" Angela asks.
"All within about two hours, keeping me close to home." I stack the towels on the futon. "Which is what I need right now. No more going sixteen hours away to a city that isolated me."
"Excuse me?" Angela's mock offense makes me smile. "Present company excluded, I hope!"
"Obviously. You were the only good thing about Palm Beach." I sigh, shaking out a large beach towel. That's not entirely true, but those things and people are in my past now. "I definitely bit off more than I could chew. Baby steps this time."
Something metallic clangs against the pine floor. The sound reverberates through the quiet apartment.
"What was that?" Angela asks.
I scan the floor, spotting something small and glinting in the lamp's glow. Bending down, I pick it up. It's a delicate gold chain, coiled loosely in my palm. The pendant attached is small, worn smooth with handling.
My breath catches. The azabache charm. Maria's necklace.
"Oh my God," I whisper, memories flooding back.
The beach. Lennon asking me to hold it while he swam. Just for safe-keeping, Sloane. His careful placement of it in my palm, the way he checked twice to make sure the clasp was secure.
And I never gave it back.
"What is it?" Angela's voice seems far away now.
"I have to go," my voice wavers. "I found something. It's Lennon's, something really important to him, and I imagine he's probably been beside himself, thinking he'd lost it."
"Are you okay?"
"Yeah," I say, though I'm not. "I just, I have to get this back to him. I'll call you later."
After ending the call, I hold the necklace up to the lamplight. The small black fist charm hangs there, the thumb tucked between the index and middle finger. Maria's protection charm.
And I've had it buried in a box of beach towels for months.
Tears blur my vision as I sink onto the edge of my futon. This isn't just jewelry. It's sacred to him.
"I'm so sorry," I whisper to no one, closing my fist around the charm.
I turn the necklace over in my hand, its delicate weight somehow heavier than it should be. The tiny black fist catches the dim light of my lamp.
My mind drifts back to that afternoon at the beach, the day before everything fell apart.
The memory is crystal clear: the salt-heavy air, Lennon's smile as he'd run toward the waves. What isn't clear is how I never gave it back.
And then on Thursday, the call came. Friday would be my last day.
"Oh God," I whisper, pressing the pendant into my palm until it leaves an imprint. The metal warms quickly against my skin.
Lennon must have searched everywhere for it frantically. I can see his small hands checking under his pillow, rifling through drawers, his brown eyes growing wider with panic.
Pope probably tore apart the house looking for it, too, room by room, while Lennon grew more inconsolable.
The azabache, Maria's protection charm for her son. The one physical connection Lennon had left to his mother, to his heritage.
My throat closes until breathing becomes difficult. This isn't just misplacing someone's favorite toy or book.
I can't fix what's already happened, the months Lennon has spent without this talisman, the confusion and loss he must have felt. But I can get it back to him. Now.
I set the necklace down carefully on the coffee table and bury my face in my hands. I won't reach out to Pope directly, I can't. But I will drive to FedEx first thing tomorrow and overnight it. No note, no explanations, no fanfare. Just the necklace, returned where it belongs.
Last I asked Angela, Lennon was still with Pope. If Lennon's already gone to live with Camila, Pope will know how important it is to get it to him. He'll handle that part.
What matters is getting this necklace back around Lennon's neck, where it belongs. Where Maria wanted it to be, where he will know his mom's protection is close by.
When I wake up early, the only thing on my mind is that necklace. I don't have to go to work until ten for the lunch shift, so I have plenty of time to get to FedEx before.
I dreamed of Pope and Lennon. It's been a while since they've visited me at night like that. It's always a bittersweet reunion. My heart aches like it was real and now awake, another moment spent mourning the loss of them.
I need to get this packaged up and in the mail.
Moving into the kitchen, I clear a space on the counter, shoving aside empty boxes and shipping labels. Among the mess, I find a small plain box that's perfect. It's sturdy enough to protect the delicate chain.
I can't just throw it in an envelope. This matters too much.
My hands shake slightly as I line the box with tissue paper, creating a soft nest. Gently, I place the azabache necklace inside, arranging the chain so it won't tangle, treating it with the reverence of a holy relic.
In many ways, it is one.
I pull a piece of paper from my notebook and grip my pen tightly. What do I even say?
After a deep breath, I begin writing:
I found this while unpacking. It was Lennon's mom's, and something he treasures. I'm sorry I didn't realize I had it and didn't return it sooner. Please make sure he gets it. -S
My handwriting wavers but remains legible. No need for more explanation. No need to reopen old wounds. Just get the necklace back where it belongs.
I fold the note precisely, tuck it into the box beside the necklace, and seal it with clear packing tape.
The sound of tape pulling and snapping is jarring in the quiet apartment, each tear like a small finality.
The Sharpie is heavy in my hand as I write Pope's address on the front of the box. My pulse hammers with every letter.
POPE CARRIGAN
Writing his name sends a jolt through my chest, awakening pain I thought I'd managed to bury.
It's just a name, I tell myself. Just letters on a box.
But it isn't just that. It's everything we were, everything I lost.
I run my finger over his name, the ink still wet enough to smudge slightly.
The package, once sealed, sits heavy in my hands, far heavier than its size suggests. This tiny box contains months of memories, both beautiful and painful. It's the last physical connection I have to them both.
It's Lennon's connection to his mother.
I never imagined that packing the necklace would be like cutting into myself, reopening a wound that had only just started to scab over. It's the final act that will sever our connection, a symbol I didn't even know I had.
The November sun hangs heavy as I walk the cracked sidewalk. Heat radiates off the concrete like it’s still late summer.
My black apron strap digs into my shoulder, the fabric clinging to my arm in the lingering humidity. Finch & Fifth is a block ahead, its faded awning just visible past the rows of parked cars.
My phone buzzes in my pocket, and I tug it free, smiling when I see Maris’s name.
“Hey, you,” I answer, shifting my tote bag higher against my hip.
“Hey, yourself,” she says, a little out of breath. “I’m on break and thought I’d check in. How’s it going?”
I glance up at the awning again. “I’m good. Walking to work. Lunch shift today at Finch & Fifth. You know, server extraordinaire.”
“Hey, we do what we have to do.” There’s no judgment in her tone, just curiosity. She was the one who did waitressing jobs through grad school. I was the babysitter. I've had my fill there, so waiting tables it is.
“Yeah.” I laugh softly, sweat sliding down between my shoulder blades. “It’s fine. Not where I want to be, but it works for now. It affords me my own place until something comes.”
Before she can reply, a beep cuts into the line. “Hang on, Maris. I need to grab this. It could be one of the places I sent my résumé to. Can I grab it and call you when I get off?”
“Of course. Go. Fingers crossed,” she says.
I click over. “Hello?”
“Hi, this is Claire Donovan with Palmetto Pediatric Therapy in Charleston. Am I speaking with Sloane Brennan?”
“Yes, this is Sloane,” I say, shifting my tote higher on my shoulder.
“Wonderful. We’ve reviewed your résumé and would like to invite you to come in for an interview.”
My step falters on the sidewalk, heat clinging to the back of my neck. “That's great.”
"Fantastic. Can you come in next week?"
“Yes. What day were you thinking? I'll make any day and time work."
"We were impressed with your background, even if you are a Clemson grad. Kidding, not kidding. Go Gamecocks."
I laugh and already like her vibe.
"Well, I'm a Wofford Terrier, so we're Go Go T-Dogs ! Clemson was grad school.”
We both chuckle, happy for the connection to thaw any awkwardness. "Would you be available to come in on Wednesday at eleven?”
I calculate fast. It's a three-hour drive for me, so I can easily leave by eight. And I have Wednesday off, so even better, I don't have to find someone to fill in for me.
“Absolutely. I’ll be there. Thank you so much. I’m really looking forward to it.”
We wrap the call, and I stop for a second at the crosswalk, hot air sticking to my skin.
The world is slowly but surely starting to look up for me. A job interview. In Charleston, of all places.
I tuck the phone back into my bag, and when I start walking again, there’s a bounce in my step, my apron swinging against my hip.