Chapter 7 Logan
LOGAN
Pops doesn’t say he feels wrong, but I can see it anyway.
It’s in the way he moves through the living room like the floor might shift beneath him.
In the way he pauses at the doorway—not because he’s tired, but like he’s listening to his own body for instructions.
In the way his hand finds his temple again and again, fingers pressing lightly like he’s trying to quiet something that won’t settle.
He’ll admit it’s a headache. He’ll shrug off our concerns, not admitting that he’s in any sort of pain.
Because Pops has always been the kind of man who pushes on through just about anything to put the needs and peace of others above his own.
But his eyes are different lately. Less sharp. Less amused. Like he’s been running a race in his head that the rest of us can’t see.
And Sloane…
Sloane is the epitome of strength. Stubborn, yes, but only because it’s the only way she knows how to protect herself. Only today, her “fine” feels thin as paper.
She’s been moving like she’s trying to outrun the house itself—slipping down the hall before anyone can look too closely, disappearing behind her bedroom door, reappearing only when she has to. Like existing in the same space as all of us is too much.
I’ve seen her angry. I’ve seen her cold. I’ve seen her mean when she’s cornered.
This is different.
This is fear with a lid on it.
The bathroom door down the hall is shut now. Quiet. Nothing spilling out from behind it. But the air still feels…wrong. Like something happened in there earlier that the house hasn’t recovered from.
I tell myself I didn’t hear anything.
I tell myself I didn’t stand outside the door on my crutches, useless, while her voice cracked through the wood.
I tell myself a lot of things.
The front door opens near dusk. Cold air rushes in, carrying the smell of fast food and winter and the kind of normal everyone pretends is still possible.
Cameron’s voice fills the entryway immediately, loud on purpose. “All right, we got subs and fries because Pops refused anything green, which honestly is on brand.”
Pops laughs quietly behind him, but he sounds tired from what he’s done today.
Cameron steps into the kitchen with the bags and starts unpacking like this is normal. Like this is just another night. Like he isn’t watching Pops with a careful, tight focus that he thinks no one notices.
Pops follows him, slower than Cameron. He’s got a blanket draped over his arm like it’s become part of him. The living room lamp catches his profile and makes him look smaller than he has any right to.
Cameron glances at me, where I’m posted up on the couch, leg elevated, ice pack balanced. “You survive PT?”
“Barely.”
“Better than being knocked on your ass, I guess,” Cameron says, like surviving is the goal and not the bare minimum.
He shoves a drink toward me, and I catch it awkwardly.
Cameron smirks. “Graceful as ever. No idea how you became so good at catching a football.”
“Shut up, dick.”
He grins, and for a second, the house feels lighter. “Hey, Slo! Dinner is here.”
Pops settles into his chair with a careful exhale. His hand goes to his temple again, quick and automatic. Like he thinks if he does it fast enough, no one will clock it.
I do. Cameron does too. We just don’t say anything.
Not yet.
We eat around the kitchen island, wrappers crinkling, fries going cold too fast. Cameron talks about his last basketball practice like it’s life or death, and Pops humors him, asking questions, teasing him about his minutes and his shot selection and the fact that he still refuses to ice his knees.
“I’m twenty-one,” Cameron argues. “I’m invincible.”
“You’re stupid,” Pops corrects.
Cameron lifts a fry like it’s a toast. “Same thing.”
Pops chuckles, but it fades quickly. He presses two fingers to his temple again, and this time he winces like the light hurts.
I set my food down. “Pops.”
He looks at me. “What?”
“You okay?”
He’s quiet for a beat too long. Then he smiles like he can charm the concern right out of me. “I’m fine.”
Cameron’s jaw tightens. “You’ve had a headache for, like…three days.”
Pops gives him a look. “Don’t start.”
Cameron doesn’t flinch. “I’m not starting. I’m observing.”
Pops opens his mouth like he’s going to shut it down. Then closes it again, jaw working like it’s taking more effort than he wants us to see.
“Just waiting on the scan,” Pops says instead, voice level. “Once we get the results, we’ll know what we’re dealing with.”
Cam nods, but it’s just to acknowledge the words, not deal with what they truly imply. “I’m gonna go say bye to Sloane before I head out,” Cameron says, throwing his sandwich wrapper into the trash as he walks out of the kitchen.
Pops and I sit there silently for a moment.
“It’s weird,” he says finally. “Waiting.”
My throat tightens. “Yeah.”
“Tomorrow,” he adds, like he doesn’t need to say the rest.
I swallow. Hard. “You think it’s bad?”
“I think my body’s trying to tell me something that I don’t really want to listen to.”
The words land heavy.
“Doesn’t mean it’s the worst thing,” he adds. “Could be swelling. Could be nothing. Could be…a lot.” He exhales slowly. “Either way, we’re gonna deal with it. Like we always do.”
I nod like I’m capable of nodding through that.
He glances at me, eyes steady. “You okay?”
That almost makes me laugh.
Am I okay?
My knee is a ruin.
My future is a giant-ass question mark.
The man who helped raise me is talking like he can feel the ground shifting beneath him.
And the girl I’ve wanted since I was seventeen has been moving through this house like she’s one bad look away from shattering.
“I’m fine,” I say automatically.
His brows lift, and he smiles faintly—then winces, pressing his fingers to his temple again.
“Is it a bad one?” I ask too fast.
“Little one,” he says. “Don’t go tattling to Sloane.”
“She already knows,” I mutter. “She knows everything before the rest of us do.”
He hums. “That’s the problem.”
“Can I ask you a favor?” Pops’s voice is quieter now, almost hesitant.
My spine straightens automatically. “Anything.”
“Don’t say that before you hear the ask,” he says, a hint of amusement creeping into his tone despite everything. “You might regret it.”
I try to smile. It falls apart somewhere in transit. “Try me.”
He picks at the frayed edge of the blanket covering his knees, pulling at a loose thread. “Sloane’s not handling this as well as she thinks she is.”
Yeah. That tracks. I’ve seen the cracks forming, even if she’d never admit they’re there.
“She’s trying to control everything,” he continues. “Every detail, every emotion. She thinks if she can just manage it all perfectly, nothing bad will happen.”
The fact that his cancer is back is implied but never said outright. He always tries to soften the blow with other words, especially around Sloane.
“She’s got this idea in her head that she has to hold everything together,” Pops says. “Has to be strong for everyone.”
I shift on the couch, my brace creaking. “What do you want me to do?”
“Just…be around,” he says. “I know you two have your issues—”
“Understatement of the year.”
He chuckles weakly. “She gives you a hard time.”
“She hates me.”
“No,” he says, calm and certain. “She doesn’t.”
I stare. “You weren’t at that party her freshman year.”
“Oh, I heard about it,” he says. “From both of you. Different angles but the same wound.”
My chest tightens.
“She kissed some asshole to get my attention,” I mutter.
“And you punished her for it,” he says, sharper than I expect. “Because you were too chickenshit to admit you cared.”
He gives me a look. “I’m serious, Logan. She needs people right now, even if she won’t admit it. And you’re here.”
“She doesn’t want me here.”
“Maybe not,” he agrees easily. “But you’re here anyway. So just…try not to make things harder for her.”
It’s not a big ask. It’s not profound or heavy. It’s just practical.
And somehow that makes it easier to agree to.
“Okay,” I say. “I can do that.”
“Good.” He nods. “Now help me up. I’m going to bed before Cameron comes back.”
I push up carefully, the crutch biting into my palm as I lever myself to standing.
The movement is awkward and ungraceful, but I manage.
Pops takes my arm when he stands, and I feel the full weight of him leaning on me.
His grip is still strong—that hasn’t changed—but there’s a hesitation in his movements that wasn’t there before.
Like his body is betraying him in small ways he can’t quite compensate for yet.
We move down the hall with slow, measured steps. My crutch taps against the hardwood with each step, creating an uneven rhythm. Tap-step. Tap-step.
“You need anything?” I ask when we reach his door. “Water? Another blanket? I can grab—”
“I’m good,” he says, cutting me off gently. Then he pauses, hand on the doorknob. “Actually—if Sloane asks, tell her I ate more than I did.”
I almost laugh. Almost. “You want me to lie to her?”
“I want you to spare her the worry,” he corrects, meeting my eyes. “There’s a difference.”
“She’ll know.”
“Probably.” He shrugs, unbothered. “But at least she won’t have confirmation. Plausible deniability.”
“That’s a terrible strategy.”
“It’s worked for twenty years,” he says. Then, softer, “Let me have this one, kid.”
I nod, throat tight. “Okay.”
“Okay.” He claps my shoulder once, firm and warm. Then he’s gone, disappearing inside his room, the door clicking shut softly behind him.
I stand there for a moment, crutch digging into my armpit, staring at the closed door.
Then I hear it.
Movement from Sloane’s room. Not a sob. Not a breakdown.
Just…breathing. Existing. Bedsprings creaking softly, followed by a drawer opening. Closing. Normal sounds that somehow feel weighted.
I know I should go back to the living room. Mind my business. Give her space.
But Pops’s words are still sitting in my head.
Just be around.
Try not to make things harder.
I don’t knock. I don’t say anything.
I just stand there in the hallway for a moment, one hand braced against the wall. Close enough that if she opened the door, she’d see me.
Close enough that she’d know someone’s there.
Even if that someone is me.
After a minute, I turn and head back to the living room, my crutch tapping against the hardwood. Tap-step. Tap-step.
I lower myself back onto the couch, my knee screaming in protest.
The TV is still on. Still muted.
I stare at it without seeing it.
Because maybe that’s all I can offer right now.
Just being here.
Even when she doesn’t want me to be.
Even when I don’t know how to help.
I can be here.
I can try not to make things worse.
It’s not much.
But it’s what I’ve got.