Chapter 6 Sloane
SLOANE
The first time the hospital called, I didn’t answer.
I watched my phone vibrate on the kitchen counter while I stood at the sink rinsing out my shaker bottle, the water running too long, my hands moving like if I kept them busy I could pretend the sound wasn't happening.
The second time they called, I answered too fast, like maybe speed could change what was waiting for me on the other end.
“Hi, is this Sloane Rhodes?”
My stomach dropped.
“Yes.”
“This is Amanda from Dr. Patel’s office. We received your father’s scan results, and the doctor would like to meet with you and your family in person to go over them.”
In person.
They never want to meet in person for good news.
“Okay,” I say, unable to keep the tremor out of my voice. “When?”
“We have an opening tomorrow at ten a.m. Can you make that work?”
I stare at the fridge, at the calendar magnets—Sloane-the-perfect-daughter—I bought months ago when Pops had his first round of scans after stopping chemo. The little squares. The neat handwriting. The illusion of control.
“Yeah,” I say. “We’ll be there.”
Amanda’s voice softens. “If you have any questions before then—”
“We won’t,” I cut in.
There’s a beat of silence.
“Okay,” she says gently. “We’ll see you tomorrow.”
I hang up, and my hand is shaking.
I set the phone down like it’s hot. Like it burned me.
Pops is out with Cameron, grabbing lunch, he’d said. He’d waved his hand like he was fine, like he wasn’t tired, like his head didn’t hurt, like the word scan didn’t live between us like a ticking bomb.
I’d smiled back like I believed him.
Logan is in the living room, leg stretched out, ice pack balanced over his knee. The TV is on but muted. He’s staring at it like he’s watching something else entirely—probably reliving some glory moment from before his injury. Before he became my problem.
He looks up when he hears the phone hit the counter, and I hate how quickly his eyes find mine. He always fucking notices.
“You good?”
The casual way he says it, like we’re friends, like he has any right to ask, makes something hot and vicious coil in my chest.
I squeeze my eyes shut.
There it is.
The question I can’t answer honestly. Not to him. Not to the one person in this house who’s here because he has nowhere else to go, who’s taking up space that should be filled with something other than his brooding presence and constant reminders that life doesn't always go according to plan.
“Don’t start,” I say tightly.
“You look—”
“If you say ‘tired,’” I cut in, spinning around to glare at him, “I swear to God—”
“Wrecked,” he says instead.
The word lands like a slap.
My spine goes rigid. Heat floods my face, my throat, my chest. Of course he’d say that. Of course Logan fucking Brooks would choose the one word that cuts deeper than tired, that implies I’m falling apart instead of just worn down.
I step forward, like proximity might help me aim the anger better. “Oh? That supposed to be empathy?”
His expression doesn’t change. “No. Just an observation.”
“Well, observe this,” I snap. “I don’t want your concern. I don’t need your commentary. And I definitely don’t need you sitting there judging me like you’re some expert on my emotional stability.”
The muscle in his jaw jumps. Good. I want a reaction.
Instead, he just watches me. “You’re not stable.”
It’s not cruel. It’s not even mocking.
It’s worse.
It’s flat. Honest.
My vision pricks at the edges.
“Neither are you,” I fire back. “At least I have a reason. What’s your excuse?”
The words come out uglier than I intended, and I see something flicker across his face. For a second, I think he’s going to fight back.
But his jaw just tightens.
Good.
I want to hurt something.
I can’t hurt a tumor.
I can’t hurt an MRI report.
I can’t hurt a prognosis curve.
I can hurt him.
That’s familiar. That’s easy. That makes sense in a world where nothing else does.
“You don’t know anything about me,” he says quietly, and there’s an edge to it now, sharp and cold.
“I know enough,” I shoot back. “I know you’re here because you fucked up your perfect little life. I know you’re using my family as some kind of recovery retreat. I know that every time you look at me like you understand, like you get it, you’re full of shit because you don’t get anything.”
“Sloane—”
“Don’t.” I hold up a hand, cutting him off. “Just don’t.”
I turn away, moving toward the hallway like I have somewhere important to be. Like I’m not about to fall apart in the middle of my own kitchen.
My phone buzzes again.
A notification.
New test results available in MyChart.
My blood turns cold.
I freeze, thumb hovering over the screen.
No. Not yet.
Tomorrow at ten. In person. With the doctor. With my family.
That’s how it’s supposed to happen. That’s how you’re supposed to hear these types of things.
That’s the right way. The responsible way. The normal way.
But I’ve never been one that does well with waiting when I know whatever’s coming is going to hurt. My thumb taps the notification anyway.
The app loads painfully slow, the little spinning circle mocking me as I stare at it, heart pounding so hard it’s loud in my ears. My hands are steady, which feels wrong. Like my body hasn’t caught up to what my brain already knows.
When the results page opens, my eyes go straight to the impression.
MRI Brain.
I swallow.
The words blur for a second, then sharpen, black and unforgiving against a white screen.
Interval progression.
Multiple enhancing lesions.
Mass effect.
Edema.
Midline shift.
My brain tries to translate it into something less terrifying.
It can’t.
My eyes move lower, catching on a sentence that makes everything in me go still.
Recurring tumor burden involving the…
I don’t finish reading it. I can’t.
Because the next line is worse.
It uses the word dominant like the tumor is in charge now.
Like Pops’s brain is the thing being pushed aside.
My stomach flips violently. Heat rushes up my throat.
I drop the phone onto the counter and bolt down the hall, one hand clamped over my mouth.
I shove the bathroom door open and barely make it to the toilet before I’m on my knees.
The first heave is sharp and empty.
The second is worse.
My body convulses with it, like it’s trying to purge something that isn’t food or sickness—something heavier, something poisonous.
Fear. Grief. The truth.
My hands shake so hard my fingers feel numb. Tears sting my eyes, making the tile floor blur and wobble.
I hear footsteps outside the door. Heavy. Uneven.
Then Logan’s voice, cautious but immediate.
“Sloane?” he calls. “Hey—are you okay?”
The concern in his voice makes everything worse. I don’t want his pity. I don’t want him to see me like this—broken, terrified, human.
I don’t answer.
I can’t.
My throat burns. My stomach twists again, and I gag, bile rising.
The door creaks.
“Do you need help?” Logan asks, closer now. “I can—”
“No!” I snap, voice raw and ugly. “Go away!”
Silence.
Then, softer, and it’s the softness that kills me. “Sloane—”
“I said go away!” I scream, and I slam the door so hard the mirror rattles.
The sound echoes in the tiny bathroom.
My breath comes in jagged bursts.
Through the door, I hear him. Still there.
“I’m not going anywhere,” he says. “I’ll be right here.”
“I don’t want you here,” I choke out.
“I know,” he says. “I’m staying anyway.”
And somehow that’s worse than anything. Because it means he sees me at my absolute worst, and he’s choosing to stay.
I slide down the wall until I’m sitting on the cold tile floor, knees pulled to my chest, arms wrapped around myself like I can hold my body together by force.
I squeeze my eyes shut.
Breathe.
Lock it down.
Because Pops will come home in an hour.
He’ll walk in carrying a bag of food like this is a normal day.
He’ll smile at me and ask how practice was.
And I will smile back like my father’s brain isn’t being taken over by something we can’t outrun.