Chapter 5
SLOANE
There is a war inside me. On one team, the pleasant soreness in muscles I had forgotten about, thighs deliciously sore and visibly bruised with tiny bite marks.
On the other hand, a dread-soaked ache, the absence of my grandmother’s necklace. Unimaginable loss compounded with guilt.
Mel throws a piece of cereal at me. “You ready to talk yet?” She sits at our rigged-up kitchen counter, getting breakfast together.
When I moved in and saw how she couldn’t reach anything, I rearranged the furniture and sawed a few inches off the legs of a rolling island so she’d have a workspace to prepare her own food.
“I lost my necklace,” I manage, still pawing at my empty throat.
“Oh, babe. I’m sorry. Want me to call Stellan?”
Mel knows that the necklace is the only physical thing I really care about. My grandmother, who always worked two jobs to feed and house us, bought me the gold pendant when I started college. She was so proud that her grandchild was going to a university.
The small sun charm was her way of reminding me to "find light even on dark days."
And now it's gone. Probably lost somewhere in that basement bunk room, between sheets that smelled of chlorine and bourbon and sex.
Maybe it's fitting. A sacrifice to the gods of One Night Stands. A physical reminder that I'm letting go of the past, starting fresh. My grandmother would understand. She always said material things were just things—it was the memories that mattered.
I just need time to accept that it’s gone. I grab mugs from the cabinet—Mel's favorite Wonder Woman one and my chipped Carnegie Museum cup—and fill them with coffee as Mel maneuvers her chair to the small table by the window.
Her question unanswered, Mel hums at me until I stare at her. She taps her fingers on the laminate surface. “You gonna at least spill about the pool boy?”
"There's not much to tell," I lie, bringing both mugs to the table.
Mel gives me a look that could wither plants. "You disappeared with Hot Playboy and didn't return until four AM with sex hair. Then you passed out without wrapping said hair. There's plenty to tell."
I can't help the smile that spreads across my face. "Fine. His name is Tucker, and yes, we hooked up."
"And?"
"And it was good. Really good." I sip my coffee to hide my expression, but Mel's not having it.
"Sloane Elizabeth Whatever-Your-Middle-Name-Is, I did not drag my ass to the middle of nowhere and entertain boring law students so you could give me 'it was good' as your only review."
I laugh. "What do you want to know? Size, stamina, technique?"
"Yes, all of that. In graphic detail."
"He was..." I search for words that won't sound like oversharing. "Attentive. In charge but not controlling. And very, very skilled with his mouth."
Mel fans herself dramatically. "Hallelujah. After Ice Man Grentley, you deserved someone who knows what oral sex is."
I nearly spit out my coffee. "Mel!"
"Am I wrong?"
She's not. Josh approached sex like he approached everything—efficiently, perfunctory, and with minimal mess. It wasn't bad, exactly. Just... underwhelming. Tucker had been anything but.
"Anyway," I say, changing the subject. Sort of. “There is a small problem in addition to the necklace.” She arches a brow, blowing her coffee. “He is a hockey player. On Josh’s team.”
Mel actually spits coffee across the room. A full blast of shocked explosion. I reach for napkins as she begins to laugh hysterically. “I’m sorry.” She wipes her eyes. “It’s too much.”
She’s right about that at least. I drink my coffee and stare out the window, wishing I had more friends to talk this through with me. “I guess go ahead and ask Stellan if he found the necklace. But absolutely no other details, and I’m not talking to Tucker again. It was a one-time thing.”
My roommate nods, pulling out her phone, still chortling. “Orgasm therapy,” she mutters, clicking the phone back to locked when she’s done. “You’re crushing your checklist.”
Mel is referring to a plan we jokingly named the “Season of Sloane”: sex, then school, and finally serenity.
I smile, actually excited to go to campus today and meet with the registrar.
I left my public health degree just shy of graduating.
Of course, I was going to finish school when Josh and I got settled here in Pittsburgh, but then the team went to the playoffs that year, and my degree kept getting pushed down our priority list.
I absolutely nailed my first task–now I just need to focus on the others.
I find the admissions office on campus and wait nervously to speak with someone about late registration for summer classes.
A middle-aged white woman with kind eyes calls me over. Her nameplate reads "Susan Mitchell, Admissions Advisor."
"How can I help you today?" she asks.
“I’m hoping to transfer here,” I tell her. "I was a student at the University of Michigan a few years ago, but I didn't finish my degree."
"Do you have your transcripts?"
I slide her the paperwork with just a few classes remaining for my bachelor’s in public health.
Susan hums. “Let me see what classes still have openings for the summer term."
As she types, I think about my mother, who flitted in and out of my life depending on her grief and sobriety, and my father, who died before I even met him.
My grandmother had been my rock, the one consistent presence until she died during my freshman year of college.
After that, it had been easy to lose myself in Josh's world, to believe his certainty was stability.
Now, I know stability can’t come from just one person. I want to be part of systems and structures that support people. I want to help weave the safety net for the people currently falling through holes in the webbing.
"You're in luck," Susan says, pulling me from my thoughts. "We have spots in Sociology, which is a really popular course. And you'll need Statistics for Health Sciences—it's being offered this summer as well.”
Statistics. Math. My least favorite subject. But I need it, and maybe it's better to face it head-on.
"I'll take both," I say, surprising myself with my conviction.
Susan smiles. "Perfect. Second session classes start next week.
Let's get you registered." She says I should be able to finish my degree in the fall semester if I can handle six classes and a service learning project.
Then she recommends I join the Alliance for Students of Color, which has action plans to address racial disparities.
I have nothing to stop me. Nothing is standing in my way this time. Nobody is begging me to be by their side, to move me to a new home, or to be their emotional rock.
“Let’s do this,” I say, and sign all the forms necessary to finish something I started finally.
An hour later, I'm officially a part-time student with a new university ID and a growing sense of purpose. I wander around campus, mapping the locations of my classes, finding the library where I'll undoubtedly spend hours studying.
I exhaust myself marching up the hill and pass the athletic complex, a state-of-the-art facility with Pittsburgh University's wildcat logo emblazoned on the doors.
A memory surfaces: sitting in the stands at a Michigan hockey game, watching Josh play, believing that supporting his dream was enough of a dream for me, too.
My phone buzzes with a news alert. Before I can stop myself, I open it.
FURY GOALTENDER GRENTLEY CONTINUES RECLUSIVE BEHAVIOR DESPITE TEAM PR EFFORTS
The article is brief, noting that Josh has declined all interview requests regarding the team’s playoff loss.
There's a reference to our divorce—"following his split from his wife earlier this year"—but no details.
Not even my name, which fits because only the athlete matters in relationships with pro hockey players.
I learned that the hard way. The reporter speculates about whether Josh's "monastic approach" will benefit or harm his focus.
Most of the post-season furor had been about a love triangle involving one of the defenders and his boyfriend, but it was only a matter of time before that cooled down, and the public turned back to hating on the goalie.
I never learned the finer points of hockey, but even I know the fans are always quick to blame the goalie for a loss. That always bothered Josh.
But I don’t need to worry about his hurt feelings. Never again.
My phone buzzes again—this time, a text from Mel.
How's registration going? Did you sign up for basket weaving and nap time?
I smile, typing a response as I walk toward the bus stop.
Sociology and STATISTICS. I hate myself already.
Mel
Ouch. But also, proud of you. Celebratory takeout tonight?
I'll cook. Be home in 30.
I'm chopping vegetables for stir-fry when Mel rolls into our apartment, tossing her bag onto the sofa with a dramatic sigh.
"If I have to memorize one more Supreme Court precedent, I may actually die," she announces, wheeling into the kitchen. "Something smells amazing."
"Just the basics," I say, scraping bell peppers into a bowl. "How was your day?"
"Brutal." She pulls a bottle of white wine from the refrigerator. "But I got some good news. Stag Law called—I have an interview next week."
I pause. Mel is the sort of overachiever doing two degrees at once, so she’s just now being wooed by significant firms as she finishes a master’s in policy while studying for the bar. “Stag Law? I thought we agreed to avoid Stags.”
She pours a glass of wine. “I’m not stopping communication with Stellan just because you boned his cousin.
” She waggles her eyebrows. “His dad’s law firm is my dream job.
They do equal pay cases and recently started working with the Paralympics.
” She winces. “It’s a long shot, but even getting the interview is huge. ”
"That's amazing, Mel!" I accept the glass she offers. "You'll crush it." I find myself envious of her certainty in her path. I love what she’s studying and the work she aims to do.
"I'd better. The competition is fierce." She takes a long sip. "Enough about me. How was your first day as a co-ed?"
I tell her about my day, skipping my response to the article about Josh. I try not to think about Mel going to work with Tucker’s family.
"I'm terrified about statistics," I admit, adding chicken to the wok. "I barely passed algebra in high school. And I managed to avoid math the first time I tried this college thing…”
"You'll be fine," Mel says confidently. "You know how to work hard, Sloane. That's half the battle."
"I'm not sure hard work is enough for statistics."
"Trust me, it is. I've seen you tackle things you thought were impossible." She wheels closer, stealing a piece of bell pepper. “Hello? You made me a food prep station I can reach.”
I shake my head. “That was basic.”
"No, it wasn't. You're persistent. You don't give up." Her voice softens. "That's why I know you're going to be okay, post-divorce. You're already rebuilding."
Her faith in me brings a lump to my throat. This is what I'd been missing in my marriage—someone who saw me, who believed in me as an individual, not just as an extension of their life.
It reminds me, unexpectedly, of how Tucker looked at me. How he asked what I wanted, as if my desires mattered. How he focused on my pleasure as much as his own. For all his playboy swagger, there had been moments of genuine connection there, moments where I felt seen in a way I hadn't in years.
"Earth to Sloane," Mel says, waving a brown hand in front of my face. "You just glazed over. Thinking about statistics again?"
I shake my head, feeling my cheeks warm. "Just... processing everything. It's been a lot of change lately."
"Good change, though, right?"
I nod, turning back to the stir-fry, happy for the first time in years to be making my own choices based on my wants. "Yeah. Good change." If only I felt as confident as my words.