39. Sloane
THIRTY-NINE
Sloane
The Charleston air hangs heavy tonight, too warm for February but that's the South for you.
I balance the plastic container of California rolls on my knees, condensation from my wine glass leaving damp circles on my yoga pants.
From my narrow balcony of my unit in this Charleston Single, I can see the entire curve of Hampton Park. Joggers are still making their loops despite the darkness. Their rhythmic movements under the streetlights are hypnotic.
I love this porch and what is becoming my nightly routine after work.
This place isn't much. It's a one-bedroom, tiny galley kitchen, creaky floors. But it's mine. And the location can't be beat.
The other three units in the house have good tenants, too, so it's like being back in a dorm, only I get my own space.
One month down at Palmetto Pediatric and I'm starting to feel like myself again. No tabloids, no whispers. Just me and my patients and this tiny slice of peace.
A pair of headlights cuts through the darkness below. They're bright and intrusive.
A black SUV idles in the visitor parking, the engine still running. It's sleek and expensive, and completely out of place among the college students' second-hand Hondas and my neighbors' practical sedans.
I squint down, curious who's here.
The back door swings open.
My chopsticks clatter against the plastic container as a tall figure steps out. Streetlights catch his profile, and all the breath is immediately sucked out of me.
Pope Carrigan.
My stomach drops to my feet. My lungs forget how to work.
He's taller than I remember, or maybe that's the perfect black suit making him look impossibly long and lean.
His face seems different. He looks older somehow, eyes darker, jaw tighter, even though it's only been about five months. He looks devastating and vital all at once.
He scans the building and finds me instantly, like he's got some internal Sloane-radar. His hand lifts in a small wave.
Our eyes lock. Electricity shoots through me, paralyzing and painful. Suddenly, I can't swallow or breathe.
"What are you doing here?" My voice is thin and shaky. He's out of place here, and I can't make sense of what's happening.
"You're a hard woman to track down." His voice carries clearly in the night air, that deep timbre I'd tried so hard to forget.
I can't move. Can't breathe. Can't process that Pope Carrigan is standing beneath my balcony like some twisted modern Romeo.
"Can we talk?" He gestures vaguely with one hand.
I swallow hard, motioning toward the park across the street. "I'll come down. We can walk around Hampton if you want."
Not my apartment. I can't have him in my space, can't risk his scent lingering in my furniture, my sheets, my life. The park is neutral ground.
I set aside my barely-touched dinner and wine, hands trembling as I push open the old balcony door. My reflection in the hall mirror looks shell-shocked, eyes too wide, cheeks flushed.
I take the stairs slowly, each step carrying me closer to the man who shattered my career and my heart in one spectacular implosion.
My feet hit the pavement, and Pope falls into step beside me. We cross the street to Hampton Park in silence, the oak trees looming overhead like ancient guardians. Spanish moss sways in the gentle breeze. The lamplight casts our shadows long across the path.
"Thank you for sending the necklace," Pope says immediately, his voice softer than I remember. "Opening that package... that was the moment I knew I had to find you."
I stiffen, wrapping my arms around myself despite the warm evening. "You're welcome. I had to get it to Lennon as soon as I found it. Did you get it to him? That was over a month ago."
He nods, hands sliding into his pockets.
"I did. And to say he was thrilled is an understatement.
I was in the middle of custody filings and hearings.
Then I went to Augusta using your return address, but you'd already moved.
" His eyes find mine in the dim light. "Took some time for the PI to track you down.
But I wasn't letting you slip away again. "
I stop walking, staring at him in disbelief.
"You hired someone to find me?"
"Yes." No hesitation, no apology in his tone. Just that steady, clear gaze that used to make my knees weak. That still does.
"Why?"
"Because I needed to see you. To explain."
My chest aches, caught between gratitude that he cared enough to search and absolute panic at what that might mean.
As much as I want to pull him to me, to smell him again, to feel him again, I need him to not be here. I'm not strong enough.
"I appreciate the effort, Pope. I really do." My walls slide up, brick by brick. "But I'm finally finding my footing again. I have a job I love, an apartment that's mine. I can't risk going back to that place."
That place where I lost everything. My job, my savings, my self-respect.
"I'm not asking you to go back." His voice drops lower. "I'm asking you to move forward. With me."
A couple jogs past us, their easy laughter a stark contrast to the tension coiled between us.
"Let's keep walking," I whisper, unable to stand still with the weight of his words pressing down on me.
We continue along the path, our pace slower now, each step measured and careful, like we're both afraid of what happens when we reach the end.
We veer off the main path onto a narrower one that curves behind a stand of ancient magnolias. The only sounds now are distant voices of joggers and the soft crunch of our shoes on packed dirt.
I smell the muddy decay of the small pond nearby, mixing with Pope's cologne.
"Why didn't you tell me?" My voice cuts through the quiet. "Why did I have to find out the way I did?"
Pope exhales heavily, and I watch his jaw flex in the shadows.
"I knew Chris had the photos. I thought I'd neutralized them by getting them thrown out of the custody case." He runs a hand through his hair.
“You knew?”
“I never thought he'd do what he did. I should've known, but I underestimated him. I didn't want you embarrassed, dragged through it unnecessarily."
I stop walking and turn to face him directly. "Do you know what that felt like? To have my life implode because of pictures I didn't even know existed?"
“I can’t begin to imagine how that must have felt. I’m sorry.”
The words tumble out now, all the anger I've kept bottled up since that night after Seaside Terrace when I saw the tabloid.
"What hurt most wasn't just the scandal, Pope. It was your silence." My voice sharpens. "The lack of communication, that's what gutted me. You made decisions about my life without me. You made it seem like I didn't matter."
He doesn't argue or try to defend himself. The moonlight catches the angles of his face, revealing something I've never seen there before—regret, raw and unfiltered.
"You're right. I handled it badly." His voice is steady, honest. "I thought fixing it myself was enough. But I get it now. When you love someone, you don't shut them out. You trust them with the mess, too."
I freeze, his words hitting me like a physical blow. He said he loved me. Again. Not past tense.
My pulse pounds in my ears. I want to deny it, push back against it, protect myself from hoping. But the way he's looking at me makes it impossible to pretend he doesn't mean it.
"You can't," I whisper.
"You're wrong." He takes a half step closer. "I'm still in love with you. I never stopped loving you, and I haven't stopped thinking of you."
The words hang heavy in the humid air between us.
I stop at a weathered bench beneath a massive Live Oak dripping with Spanish moss. The nearby streetlight casts his face in a kaleidoscope of shadows through the leaves.
Everything inside me screams to keep walking, but my legs won't cooperate.
"So you tracked me down just to tell me you love me?" The words come out sharper than intended. Self-preservation kicks in hard, a well-honed defense mechanism these days.
"Not just that." Pope takes the space beside me on the bench, maintaining careful distance between us. "I needed to thank you. For everything you did. And I wanted to tell you in person that I was sorry, that I should have done things differently, and if I could go back, I would.”
I can’t go there with him, so I pivot, grasping for safer ground. I can't believe I haven't even asked about Lennon. "How's Lennon? And Camila?"
His face transforms, softens in a way I've never seen before. The hard edges of CEO Pope Carrigan melt away, replaced by something else entirely.
"Lennon is thriving. Still at Seabreeze, still collecting shells." A smile touches his lips. "He talks about you every day. He asks when Sloane is coming back to read with the voices." He looks directly at me. "He misses you. We both do."
My heart squeezes painfully in my chest.
“Is he staying in Palm Beach? I thought the plan was always?—”
“Yes, he’s in school now at Palm Beach Day and kicking ass. He's such an amazing kid, and I owe a lot of that to you. You saved him. And me."
"Did Camila move there?" I'm so confused.
"Her divorce dragged out, and her housing situation got complicated." Pope leans forward, elbows on his knees. "So I petitioned myself."
"Petitioned what?"
"I'm adopting him, Sloane. Already had one home study, another scheduled next month. The final hearing is set for May." His voice carries steady conviction. "I created a trust for him with Maria's insurance money and the proceeds from her house.”
I stare at him, unable to process this transformation.
Tears sting my eyes, but I refuse to let them fall. I'm proud of him, relieved for Lennon. But it terrifies me. This man before me isn't the one who insisted Lennon was a temporary responsibility. He's someone who rearranged his entire life for a child he barely knew.
If I let him in again and it falls apart, I won't survive it this time.
"That's wonderful for Lennon." My voice barely holds steady. "He deserves stability. You're a good man, Pope."
We walk back to my place in silence. The night feels different now. It’s heavier somehow, like a summer night after a rainstorm. Pope doesn't crowd me. He keeps space between us, and I'm grateful for that small mercy.
His SUV idles at the curb, the driver's silhouette visible through the windshield. The engine's soft purr underscores the rhythm of crickets in the park across the street.
I climb the three steps to the shared door into the foyer, fumbling with my keys. My fingers won't cooperate. Everything inside me is shaking.
Pope waits at the bottom of the steps, hands in his pockets. The light from my porch casts shadows across his face.
"I understand you're not ready." His voice is low, steady. "I won't push."
I turn, key finally in the lock, but not turned. "I'm sorry, Pope. I don’t want to give you false hope. I’ll never be ready.”
"I'm at Hotel Bennett on King Street." He shifts his weight, and for the first time tonight, I see uncertainty in his posture.
"If you want to talk any more. Or let me buy you dinner.
Or ask me more. Anything. I'll tell you anything you want to know, no more fixing or shielding you.
But I also want you to know, there's no pressure. "
My throat thickens with words I can't say. I nod instead.
"Lennon is spending the weekend with my mom and her partner, so I'm here until Sunday," he adds. "Three days."
The weight of what he's offering settles between us. Time. Space. Choice. All the things he didn't give me before.
I step down from my porch, closing the distance between us. Before I can overthink it, I wrap my arms around him in a brief hug. His body tenses in surprise before his arms encircle me.
The contact ignites everything I've been trying to suppress. His scent, the solid warmth of him, the way my body remembers exactly how to fit against his. It's overwhelming and not enough, all at once.
I pull away first, stepping back up to my door. “Goodbye, Pope."
"Goodnight, Sloane."
He doesn't move to touch me again. He gives me space, like he promised.
I turn my key in the lock and slip inside, not looking back as I close the door. Through the wood, I hear the soft click of the SUV door shutting, followed by the engine's hum fading into the night.
I lean against my closed door, trembling. Everything inside me is torn wide open. The careful walls I've been building for months have crumbled to dust.
Seeing him again, just one time, undid it all.
I walk upstairs to my apartment. But the space is suddenly different than when I left here an hour ago. It's emptier somehow.
What am I supposed to do with this? With him showing up, with everything he said, with the way he looked at me like I'm still the most important thing in his world?
I slide down until I'm sitting on the floor, knees pulled to my chest.
Three days. That's how long I have to decide if I want to open that door again.