Chapter 22
Sloane
“I need those.”
Swiping the keys Grant was just eyeing off Evie’s pristine marble counter, I brush past him and cut toward the sink to rinse the apple in my hand. The window kitchen curtains flutter in the icy breeze that pulls in, shaking the roses Evie just snipped from the bush in the back this morning.
I spin to find Grant glaring, not even bothering to hide the twitch in his jaw, lifting his gaze past me as he pulls in a breath. “Take Clem’s car.”
Something about Atlanta amplifies the tit for tat we’ve engaged in since probably the womb.
Avoiding him in Boston was simple enough, what with my long days at the conservatory in the lead up to the Nutcracker and his long nights at practice.
But here, back home with nothing to do but shoot him daggers anytime he even starts to mention that I’m not in California, we can’t help but run into each other like this.
“I like that one.” In all fairness, we both love Beau’s 1969 Mach 1 Cobra Jet, probably because it’s the car he’d use when he’d take us out one on one. But I love it more.
I cock my head to the side, flaring my eyes as I cross my arms only for him to scoff and grab the keys to the Mercedes instead.
An eruption of deeply held emotion regarding the woman he’s probably left on read all week, would’ve been welcome.
More than that, I’d hoped he’d asked about our mom by now, would have wondered why I’ve been seeing her in the first place.
Instead, silent irritation comes off him in waves as he passes through the heavy front doors, letting them fall shut with an aggressive thud.
Sinking my teeth into the ruby red apple I’m clutching, I tell myself I have time to convince him to see Connie.
That before things really take a turn, I’ll get him to her, give her a chance to tell him she’s sick, to make amends.
Maybe tomorrow I can convince him, or whenever one of us ends up folding with a hollow apology.
Footsteps sound on the staircase, and my frustration slowly fades away.
“Okay—is this better?” Clementine huffs a sigh, letting her plaid trench slip just far enough off her shoulders to expose the denim mini dress I forced her to try over her burgundy turtleneck.
The trousers—that I’m sure the sales associate told her were multifunctional—were not going to cut it for dinner in Buckhead.
“Yes,” I tell her, pleased that we’re the same size shoe, admiring the way my black thigh highs wrap around her long legs. She really doesn’t know how lethal she can look when she plays to her strengths. “Does your program dress code say pretend this is a nunnery?”
Her laughter sounds behind me as we head towards the car, sliding into the cool leather with the relief of two teen girls who just escaped Beau Fielder’s interrogation before a night of near debauchery.
“The goal isn’t really to woo patients. It’s to therapize them,” she says as her laughter dissipates, her brows lifting when she notices Grant sitting in the G-wagon. “What is he doing?”
I squint across the long, circular driveway, trying to make out his facial expression and realize he’s tortured. “Reapin’ what he sows,” I quip, turning the engine and gripping the clutch before pulling us out into the road.
“He looks miserable,” Clemmie mutters, pulling out a compact to line her lips a dark maroon, the gloss she slides on after accentuating the fullness of them in a way I envy. “Here,” she hands me the tube, like she can read my mind, and I quickly swipe it across my lips.
“He is miserable, because he’s too much of a purist to understand that his girlfriend going to see her ex-best friend is not the same as your girlfriend cheating on you.
Like, what was Gen supposed to do? Let him off himself because Grant’s a pussy?
” I battle the apple for a clean bite, then chuck it out the window before rolling it back up.
Clem coughs on a laugh. “The Will guy, right? Wasn’t she, like, in love with him?” She shoots me a skeptical glance and I roll my eyes, pulling a stray strand of hair out of the sticky mess of gloss on my lips.
“Yeah. Was. Like forever ago. The point is,” I tell her emphatically, annoyed that she’s even temporarily on his side, “that she immediately went to find my brother after and he told her to leave. He’s so insecure and…mean.”
“Traumatized,” she says under her breath, clearing her throat.
“We’re all fucking traumatized.” The car falls silent, just the tapping of Clem’s fingers against her phone screen and the hum of the road buzzing beneath us.
“Whatever happened with that Andy guy?” she asks, and I hate that I didn’t see it coming. She’s so sly, so strategic, that I can barely hide the way my fingers clench the wheel when she says his name. “I knew it.”
“Nothin’ happened,” I shake my head emphatically, my shoulders coming up high as I try to downplay the tidal wave of feeling rushing toward me.
That kiss never should have happened.
“You’ve always been a bad liar, Sloane Fielder. Tell me. Please.” Bottom lip jutting out, she pouts with big brown eyes.
“Fine.” I press my lips together, remembering the way it felt to have his brush mine. “We…kissed.”
“Okay. And then?” she asks expectantly, so certain there must be something more salacious because I’m me. Known for being risky and hot headed, famous for making crazy mistakes.
“And then nothing. I left.” She turns her head slightly, like she knows there’s more. “Okay, I ran,” I mutter, flipping on my turn signal.
“Why’d you do that?” she whispers, implicitly understanding the way that kiss has burrowed under my skin, the way I want to keep it buried out of my heart’s sight.
I breathe in, slowly exhaling into the truth only a friend like Clem could pull out of me. “I cried, Clemmie. He literally just kissed me and…it felt like he was crackin’ me open.”
“Oh,” she blinks, letting my confession settle. “And how’d that make you feel?”
“Terrified,” I say like it’s obvious. “No one should crack anyone open. It should be illegal.”
She nods to herself, her teeth digging into her bottom lip before turning back to me. “You know, not everyone’s going to be like Elliot.”
“It’s not about Elliot,” I say sharply and she flinches. I wish, not for the first time, that his name didn’t exist so we wouldn’t be able to reference him ever again.
“I mean, I could argue you’d never been more vulnerable than you were with him.”
“It was a fling,” I tell her and myself, knowing there was a point where I thought it was real. Until the end really—until he was late. Until he dropped me off with a packed bag.
“A fling wouldn’t have left you waiting two hours after an operation that clearly benefitted him, too.” Bitterness laces her tone, and I can’t blame her.
“Well,” I swallow, wanting to move on from the memory, “he’s a piece of shit. Clearly.” I say it to please her, not because it rings true.
Some demented part of me still wants to excuse why he was late, why he didn’t seem to care, why he was so flippant about us needing some time or space after shredding apart every ounce of independence I’d cultivated for myself before I walked into his stupid fucking seminar.
It has to be that part of me that thought I loved him, that dove head first, blinded by talk of muses and passion and vision.
Thought being the operative word, though, because I really believed I loved Elliot. And yet, he’d never cracked me open with a kiss. Never.
“Elliot made you feel vulnerable, but he ended up being a piece of shit, and you’re scared Andy will be the same,” Clem says cautiously, like she's waiting for me to lash out.
“Andy’s not a piece of shit. He’s…” I try to think of the word, and my nosy friend urges me on by raising her brows. “Confusing. Hot and cold.”
Addicting. I dream about that kiss and wake up hot, sweaty, frustrated by something out of reach that I know I’ll never find.
“Well I say go for it!” She settles into her seat, a smug smile on her face.
“It’s not that easy. I have…stuff.” I shrug, turning off the busy street onto a smaller side street that leads to a higher end strip of bars and restaurants.
“Stuff?” She raises her eyebrows and I’m annoyed but appreciate how well she knows me.
“Yes, stuff…” I sigh. “I’m trying to paint and you know everything with Connie and—”
“Right, how is Connie then?” she interrupts, Clem’s one and only flaw: her inability to let you finish a thought, which probably isn’t the best quality in a therapist.
I bring the car to stop at the light, letting my head fall back against the headrest as I groan. “Can we not?”
“Sloane…” she murmurs. “We probably should. Are you even seein’ anyone?”
“Why would I see a shrink when I have you?” I ask with mock sweetness, shifting into gear just before the light turns green.
Turning onto Peachtree brings the start of Christmas to life, and it puts the street I grew up on to shame.
Lit trees towers every few feet, line the streets with so much cheer that it renders this conversation totally out of place. “Oh my god, look at those nutcrackers!”
“Connie’s dying,” she says, flatly, the blunt end of it wedging between my ribs, making it hard to breathe. “That’s just true, Sloane.”
“Thanks for that,” I say, pulling into a spot and jumping out of the car.
The cold whips against my face as I pick up speed, desperate for a conversation that won’t plunge me to depths of my despair, but I don’t even know where we’re eating.
Clementine made the reservation. My hands ball into fists, gripping so tightly my nails bite into my skin, and I welcome the sting.
I need a cigarette. Or a drink.
If I was home, I could lay under my sheets and shut my eyes until the reality of it faded away.
I walk past her, over the curb, and stumble when my heel snags on a crack in the sidewalk.
“Jesus fucking Christ,” I say to the random man leaning against a colossal pillar taking a call. He turns his nose up in disgust—a religious man, maybe. I gesture a small apology and keep walking, annoyed that Clementine’s shouts only get closer and closer.
“Can you just,” I hear Clem say behind me.
“Sloane!” She grabs my shoulder and pulls me to stop, dragging me onto a bench.
“I’m sorry. That was blunt but, I just meant that you should be talkin’ to someone.
You won’t tell your brother what’s going on, and I’m hundreds of miles away…
you don’t have any support. No one should shoulder that all alone. It’s dangerous.”
Skin itching for relief, I dig my nails deeper, my fists out of sight.
“I really am fine,” I lie, my voice soft and earnest as I try to get her to drop it.
“Maybe tell Gen. Or Olivia, or Jean. I don’t like that you’re isolating yourself.”
“Isolatin’?” I bark a laugh, rolling my eyes. “I told you, I’m fine. And you just said it yourself—I have friends.”
A doorbell chimes in the melody of “Holly Jolly Christmas,” and a mother and daughter stroll out hand in hand, a massive cosmetics shopper bag swinging from the girl’s arm. An ache in my chest, I turn away so I can’t see them.
“I know,” Clem concedes, grabbing my hand. “I just love you. Want to make sure you’re gonna be okay once…you know.”
My smile pulls tight as I squeeze her hand and my stomach makes a sound that suggests it might cave in on itself. “I’ll be fine once I eat something. Grant took the last bagel at breakfast.”
Her face pinches in that way it does when she’s worried about me and I know it's her own anxiety, her need for everyone around her to be doing fine because of her own situation, her own issues.
“Look Clem, I’m okay. I promise, and if I’m ever not you will be the first one I call.
” She nods, not fully believing me but her expression softening just enough that I know her fear is tamped down.
“Now—please tell me where we are eating,” I gesture to the line of restaurants and bars before us. “I’m starved.”
She smiles, grabbing my hand and leading the way, just like she always does.