22. Sloane
SLOANE
Two more weeks, and the house learns a new rhythm.
Not a sudden shift. Not a single moment you can point to and say there, that’s when it changed.
It’s smaller than that.
It’s Pops sleeping in the recliner more often because getting back to his bed feels like running a mile. It’s the way his walker is no longer optional—no longer something he uses “just in case,” but something that lives under his hands like an extension of him.
It’s the way his shirts hang loose even when I watch him eat, even when I count calories in my head like I can outsmart biology with math.
It’s the slack at the corner of his mouth that stays a little longer after he smiles, like his face gets tired mid-expression.
It’s the way his words sometimes come slower, like he has to reach for them.
And it’s the way I notice every single detail and pretend it doesn’t mean anything.
Because if it means something, I have to feel it.
And if I feel it, I won’t be able to stop.
The living room is dim when I come home from practice, the late afternoon sun filtered through the blinds. It makes dust look like it’s floating on purpose, like even the air is moving carefully now.
Logan is on the couch, brace off, icing, pretending he’s watching a game while his eyes keep flicking toward the hallway.
He looks up when I enter, and his expression shifts—quick, instinctive.
Checking.
I hate that I’ve gotten used to being checked on.
I also hate how much I’ve started to rely on it.
“How was practice?” he asks, casual on purpose.
“Fine,” I say, dropping my bag by the door.
Logan’s eyes flick to my face. “You’re doing the spiral thing.”
“I’m not,” I lie automatically.
He hums like he doesn’t believe me, then keeps his mouth shut because he’s learned. He’s learned what happens when he pushes.
The television murmurs quietly. Sports commentators. Crowd noise. A world where bodies are strong and futures are simple.
I move toward the kitchen, pulling my ponytail out as I go. My scalp aches the way it always does when I’ve been holding myself together too tightly.
The sink is full of dishes I don’t remember leaving there.
That used to bother me.
Now it just makes my throat tighten, because it means Pops wasn’t up for cleaning. Or Cameron wasn’t here. Or I was too distracted.
I start rinsing the plates, trying to turn my brain off.
Behind me, the hallway floorboard creaks.
I freeze.
Then the creak comes again, slower this time, paired with the soft scrape of a walker.
I turn.
Pops is in the doorway.
He’s wearing sweats and one of his old coach pullovers, but it’s looser than it used to be. His shoulders aren’t as broad under it anymore. His cheeks look a little more hollow, his skin a little thinner, like the light goes through him more than it should.
He smiles when he sees me. It’s still Pops, still warm—but it costs him.
“Hey, kiddo,” he says.
My chest tightens. “Hey.”
He steps forward slowly, walker leading the way. His hands grip the handles a little tighter than they did last month.
I hate the walker.
I hate what it represents.
I hate that my brain keeps trying to measure time by equipment.
Pops stops near the kitchen island, breathing a little heavier than he should be from the short walk.
He catches me watching and lifts his brows. “Don’t start.”
“I’m not starting,” I say quickly.
Pops gives me a look like he knows I’m lying.
Logan shifts on the couch, already moving like he’s going to stand.
Pops turns his head toward him without moving his feet. “Stay.”
Logan stills.
Pops’s voice is firm but not unkind. “I’m fine.”
Logan’s jaw tightens, but he nods once and sits back, eyes fixed on Pops like a tether.
Pops looks back at me. “Can we talk?”
My stomach drops.
“About what?” I ask too fast.
Pops’s mouth twitches, and his gaze softens. “Just…talk.”
I swallow. “We’re talking.”
Pops lets out a quiet breath, like he knew this would happen. “Sloane.”
The way he says my name is gentle.
It’s also a warning.
My hands grip the edge of the counter. “What?”
He nods toward the table. “Sit with me.”
I don’t want to sit.
Sitting turns into staying. Staying turns into conversations I can’t control.
But Pops is looking at me with those steady eyes, and I’ve never been able to say no to him when he’s serious.
So I dry my hands, then move to the table.
Pops shuffles over and lowers himself into the chair carefully, like his body doesn’t trust itself anymore.
My chest aches.
I sit across from him, forcing my posture straight, like if I sit like a captain, I won’t fall apart like a daughter.
Pops studies me for a long moment.
I hold his gaze like this is a game of chicken.
I always win.
Until I don’t.
“Sloane,” he says quietly, “I need you to hear me.”
My throat tightens. “I hear you.”
Pops’s fingers tap lightly against the table. His hands look thinner. His knuckles more pronounced.
“I’m getting worse,” he says.
The words hit like a slap.
I flinch physically, like my body rejects them before my brain can process.
“No,” I say instantly.
Pops’s mouth tightens. “Kiddo—”
“No,” I repeat, sharper. “Don’t do that.”
Pops exhales slowly. “I’m not trying to scare you.”
“Well, it’s not working,” I snap.
The edge in my voice fills the kitchen, sharp and ugly, and I hate it the second it leaves my mouth.
Logan shifts in the living room, the couch squeaking softly.
Pops glances toward him, then back to me. “It’s okay,” he says, like he’s soothing a frightened animal. “I get it.”
“I’m not having this conversation,” I say, voice trembling. “We’re not doing the ‘I’m leaving soon’—” My throat tightens. “We’re not doing that.”
Pops’s eyes soften. “Sloane—”
“No,” I cut in again, voice cracking now. “No. You’re not—” I swallow hard, trying to force the words back down. “You’re not leaving. We’re still—there are things. Trials. Treatments. We can—”
Pops’s gaze holds mine, steady and heartbreaking. “Kiddo.”
I shake my head hard, hair falling into my face. “Stop calling me kiddo like you’re saying goodbye.”
Pops flinches, just a little.
The guilt hits instantly, hot in my chest.
I blink hard.
Pops reaches across the table slowly, his hand trembling slightly as he places it over mine.
His palm is warm.
His skin feels thinner.
His hand used to feel like an anchor.
Now it feels like something precious I’m terrified to break.
“I’m not trying to say goodbye,” he says quietly. “I’m trying to say I love you.”
My throat burns.
“I know,” I whisper.
Pops’s eyes shine. “I need to talk to you about some things.”
My stomach twists. “Like what?”
Pops swallows. “Like…what you want. What you need. What happens after.”
“No,” I say again—softer this time, desperate. “No.”
Pops’s thumb strokes over my knuckles, a small, grounding motion. “You can’t outrun it by refusing to name it.”
“I can,” I argue, voice shaking. “I’ve been doing it.”
Pops’s mouth curves faintly, sad. “Yeah. I’ve noticed.”
I stare at him, heart pounding.
Because he sees everything.
He always has.
And he’s still—somehow—choosing gentleness.
My eyes sting.
“I don’t want to do this,” I admit, voice barely audible.
Pops nods once, understanding in his face. “I know.”
I hate that he knows.
I hate that he’s right.
Pops takes a slow breath, like even breathing is work now. “Sloane, I’m tired.”
The words gut me.
Not because he’s complaining.
Because he isn’t.
He’s stating a fact.
A quiet truth I can’t fix.
My lips part, but nothing comes out.
Pops’s fingers tighten slightly around mine. “I want to make sure you’re okay.”
“I’m okay,” I lie immediately.
Pops raises his brows, unimpressed. “For someone with no formal training, you say that with a lot of authority.”
The old joke.
The old Pops.
It cracks something in me.
A laugh escapes, wet and broken.
Pops smiles faintly. “There you are.”
The warmth in his voice makes my eyes burn harder.
I shake my head, trying to pull myself back together. “You can’t—” My voice breaks. “You can’t take care of me right now. I’m supposed to take care of you.”
Pops’s gaze sharpens just a fraction. “That’s not your job.”
“It is,” I argue, panic rising. “It’s literally been my job since—since—”
Since Mom.
Since the day I realized adults can disappear, and you don’t get a vote.
Since the day the world stopped being safe, and I decided I’d never be caught unprepared again.
Pops watches my face like he can hear the rest of the sentence anyway.
He exhales. “Sloane. You’re my daughter. Not my nurse.”
My throat tightens until it feels like I can’t breathe.
I blink rapidly, trying not to cry.
I don’t cry in front of Pops.
I don’t.
It makes him sad, and I refuse to make him sad.
Pops’s voice softens. “I need you to do something for me.”
My stomach drops. “What?”
He takes a breath. “Let me talk. Even if you don’t respond. Even if you hate every word. Just…let me say this.”
My hands tremble under his.
My chest feels like it’s splitting open.
I don’t want to.
But Pops is looking at me like this matters—like it’s one of the last things he can give me.
So I nod once.
Barely.
Pops exhales like he’s been holding his breath for weeks. “Okay.”
He shifts in his chair, discomfort visible, then settles again. “I’m proud of you,” he says.
I swallow hard. “You don’t need to—”
“I do,” he interrupts gently. “I’m proud of the woman you’ve become. Even when you’re stubborn as hell.”
A broken laugh tries to escape. I choke it down.
Pops’s eyes warm. “I’m proud of you on the court. I’m proud of you in this house. I’m proud of you for loving people the way you do, even when it scares you.”
My throat burns.
Pops’s thumb strokes my knuckles again. “And I’m sorry.”
I jerk slightly. “Sorry?”
Pops nods slowly. “For the things I couldn’t fix. For the things I didn’t see sooner. For making you feel like it was your job to hold everything together.”
Panic rises sharp and hot. “You didn’t make me—”
Pops’s gaze holds mine. “Maybe not. But you did it anyway. And I’m sorry you had to.”