Chapter 33 Logan
LOGAN
I’ve always had a key to this house.
Not that I’ve needed it since I’ve moved back in—Sloane’s usually in and out, hospice is in and out, Cameron is in and out, and Pops…
Pops is here, even when he isn’t really here the way he used to be.
But the key lives on my ring like it always has, metal worn smooth from years of being used without anyone making me feel like it was temporary.
I let myself in that afternoon and shut the door softly behind me.
The Rhodes’ house smells like lemon cleaner and something warm from the laundry room as I walk in. No longer the hospital. No longer the antiseptic. Just home trying its best.
From the living room, I hear Pops’s voice carry.
“Logan! Get your ass in here.”
I smile before I can stop myself.
“Hi to you too,” I call back, kicking off my shoes and walking toward the sound.
Sloane is in the kitchen, hair up, sleeves pushed to her elbows, doing that thing she does where she looks busy on purpose—like if she keeps moving, life can’t catch her. She glances at me over her shoulder, eyes flicking to my face in a way that’s become familiar lately.
When she gives me a small smile, I can’t help but smile back.
She’s so beautiful when she smiles. I wish she’d do it more often.
“You’re back early,” she says, tone neutral but not unfriendly.
“Pops summoned me,” I reply, nodding toward the hall. “I didn’t have a choice.”
Sloane snorts lightly. “He’s been in a mood.”
“When is he not?” I say.
Her mouth twitches, but it fades fast, her gaze drifting toward the hallway like she can feel him there even when she can’t see him. Then she clears her throat and turns back to the counter, opening a cabinet too hard.
I lean against the island, letting the quiet settle.
“What’s Cameron up to?” I ask, mostly because I know she’ll answer. Routine questions are safe. Routine questions keep everything from breaking open.
Sloane’s shoulders lift in a small shrug. “Out with friends. He said he’d be back later.”
I nod once. That tracks with Pops’s text earlier.
Pops: Let’s chat this afternoon. Cam’s gone tonight.
I’d read it twice, like it mattered that Pops asked instead of me offering.
Sloane wipes her hands on a dish towel and finally looks at me again. “Did you eat?”
“Not really.”
“Shocking,” she mutters, like she hates that she cares.
I feel the urge to grin, but I keep it restrained. We’ve been hovering in this new space for a while without naming it. The chemistry between us has changed, but neither of us has said the words out loud, like we’re afraid the sound will collapse something.
Before I can say anything else, Pops’s voice calls again from the hallway, sharper.
“Slooooane!”
Her jaw tightens. “He’s impatient today.”
“I mean, he is your dad.”
That earns me a glare, and I can’t help but snicker. Moving closer, I kiss her quickly, which isn’t nearly enough, so I step farther into her and kiss her again.
She pushes me off after a second. “We do not have time for this right now, Brooks.”
I hold my hands up slightly in surrender. “Okay, okay.”
She breathes through her nose, a slight blush on her cheeks, then turns and heads toward the hallway, footsteps quick like she’s outrunning the emotion that tried to rise.
I follow at a slower pace.
Pops is in the living room in the hospital bed with the blinds half-open, sunlight striping the bedspread.
He’s propped up with pillows, thinner than he should be, even though we’ve all been trying to get calories into him like food is a bargaining chip.
His features have softened lately—there’s a slackness around his mouth, a heaviness in his eyelids.
His left side still isn’t right, his arm resting awkwardly on top of the blanket.
But the second he sees Sloane, his expression shifts into something mischievous, causing my brows to pinch.
“There you are,” he says. “I’m starving.”
Sloane lifts a brow. “You ate soup an hour ago.”
“That was a tragic experience,” Pops replies. “I deserve redemption.”
I hover by the doorway, watching them, feeling that familiar squeeze in my chest—the one that comes when you see how much love can exist inside such a small room.
Sloane crosses her arms, but the grin taking over her face ruins her facade. “What do you want?”
Pops doesn’t even hesitate. “Thai food.”
Sloane blinks, stunned. “Thai food?”
Pops nods like it’s the most reasonable request on earth. “Yes. And before you start—no, I won’t eat your sad chicken and rice. I want pad see ew. And those little crispy spring rolls. And extra peanut sauce.”
Sloane stares at him like she’s deciding whether to laugh or cry.
“You’ve never ordered Thai in your life,” she says finally.
Pops’s mouth twitches. “That’s because I’ve lived a sheltered existence. I’m expanding my horizons.”
I can’t help it. I laugh.
Pops’s eyes slide to me. “Don’t laugh at me, kid. You’re the one who convinced me to try sushi and then fed me raw fish like a psychopath.”
“That was Cameron,” I say immediately.
Pops looks unimpressed. “You two are the same brand of trouble.”
Sloane exhales, the tension in her shoulders easing just a fraction. “You want Thai? Fine. I’ll go get Thai.”
Pops lifts a finger. “From the good place.”
“There’s only one place,” she says.
“Exactly,” Pops replies, satisfied.
Sloane grabs her keys off the entry table, then pauses at the door. Her gaze flicks to me, quick.
“Are you home for the night?” she asks.
“Yeah,” I say. “I’ll help him eat so you don’t have to wrestle him.”
Pops makes a sound of offense. “I don’t need help. Just some extra napkins.”
Sloane’s mouth twitches. “Whatever you say, Pops.”
Pops waves her off. “Go. Bring food. Hurry.”
Sloane rolls her eyes and leaves, the front door clicking shut a moment later.
And just like that, the feeling in the house changes.
The air goes quieter. The house instantly feels emptier. The absence of Sloane’s movements is a presence all its own.
Pops watches the door for a second longer than necessary, then looks back at me.
“Come sit,” he says.
My stomach tightens.
I do it anyway, stepping closer and heading toward the couch.
Pops pats the edge of the bed with his good hand. “Over here, kid.”
I sit in the chair beside him instead, because sitting on his bed feels too intimate for the conversation I can already feel coming.
Pops gives me a look.
“You’re acting like you’re about to confess to a crime,” he says.
I huff a laugh. “Maybe I am.”
His eyes sharpen, amused. “Ah.”
There it is.
My throat goes dry.
Pops shifts slightly, winces at the movement, then settles again. He looks tired in a way that isn’t just physical—like his body is carrying a truth his family keeps refusing to hold with him.
“Cameron’s out tonight,” Pops says casually, like he’s commenting on the weather.
“Yeah,” I reply.
“And Sloane’s gone for Thai,” he continues. “Which means I have you trapped here without her hovering.”
I lift a brow. “You planned this.”
Pops’s mouth twitches. “I’m a coach. Of course I planned this.”
I shake my head, but a smile sneaks in anyway. “What’s the play, Coach?”
Pops studies me for a long beat.
Then his voice drops, not dramatically, just honest.
“I know we talked about this before,” he says, “but, when I’m not here anymore, I need to know my kids are going to be okay.”
My chest tightens, but the way he says it keeps it from turning into a punch. It’s more like a hand on my shoulder.
I swallow. “They will be.”
Pops’s gaze doesn’t waver. “They won’t be. Not at first. None of you will be. But you need to lean on each other.”
The words land soft and brutal all at once.
“Sloane is going to try to carry it alone,” Pops says. “And Cameron is going to try to carry her carrying it alone.”
I stare at the floor, jaw flexing.
“And you,” Pops adds, eyes narrowing slightly. “I’m still afraid you’re going to try to disappear so you don’t make anything harder.”
Heat crawls up my neck.
“That’s not—” I start.
Pops lifts his hand. “Don’t argue with a dying man, Brooks. It’s bad manners.”
I let out a breath, helpless. “Okay.”
His expression softens. “You’ve been part of this family since you were a kid. I’m not asking you to fix anything. I’m just asking you to stay.”
My throat burns.
“Stay for her,” Pops says, voice quiet. “My baby girl.”
My pulse stutters.
“And stay for him,” Pops continues. “My boy.”
The weight of that sits between us.
Pops watches my face like he’s checking whether I can handle what he’s about to hand me.
“I need you to take care of Sloane,” he says, and then his mouth twitches, barely. “In whatever way you’re already taking care of her.”
My face heats instantly. “Pops—”
He lifts a brow. “What? You think I’m blind? My brain might not work as good, but my eyes are just fine.”
I scrub a hand over my jaw, half mortified, half…something else. Something like gratitude.
“I care about her,” I say, voice rough.
Pops nods like that’s the only answer he expected. “I know.”
“And I’m not trying to—” I swallow hard. “I’m not trying to take anything from Cameron.”
Pops’s gaze sharpens. “Good.”
I exhale. “He’s going to kill me.”
Pops lets out a weak laugh. “He might try.”
“Helpful,” I mutter.
Pops’s eyes crinkle with amusement. “Listen. Cameron’s loyalty comes with teeth. He’s going to be angry. He’s going to feel blindsided. And then he’s going to calm down and realize…you’re you.”
My throat tightens. “You think he’ll forgive me?”
Pops’s voice is steady. “If you don’t lie to him. If you don’t make Sloane feel like she has to choose. And if you keep showing up for him even when he’s being an ass.”
That last part makes me huff a laugh. “So…forever.”
Pops nods, satisfied. “Exactly.”
I sit back, letting the advice settle into my bones like a weight I can carry.
Then Pops’s eyes soften again, and for a second, he looks older than I’ve ever seen him.
“You’ve been good for my kids, for me,” he says quietly. “You always have. I love you, son.”
My chest caves in.
“Pops,” I whisper.
He waves it off like he hates sentiment. “Don’t get emotional. Save that for your dramatic girlfriend.”
My head snaps up. “She’s not—”
Pops’s brows lift.
I stop. Exhale hard. “Okay. Fine. Noted.”
“One more thing,” he says.
“Yeah?”
“If I don’t make it out of this,” he says conversationally, “and you hurt her, I will find a way to haunt your ass.”
A startled laugh rips out of me. “Pretty sure that violates several ghost codes.”
“Don’t care.” Pops smiles, then winces like smiling costs him. He breathes through it, then looks at me again—sharp, coach-like, purposeful.
“Now,” he says, “tell me what your plan is.”
My pulse kicks. “My plan?”
Pops nods. “For giving Sloane a great day. Because I know you, kid. You don’t sit still when you’re scared. You make plans.”
I stare at him, caught.
Because he’s right.
I’ve been texting under the table for two days, asking Beck and Sophie for advice on how to pull this off.
The day-date idea has been burning in my mind like a match.
Not because I think a date fixes anything.
But because Sloane hasn’t had a day where she wasn’t bracing for bad news in weeks. At the party a few weeks back, she said she wanted a “normal” day.
And she deserves one.
I clear my throat. “I—might have something.”
Pops’s eyes narrow, amused. “Might?”
I wince.
“You have such little faith in me,” I say, pretending to be wounded.
Pops exhales a laugh, and it turns into a cough. He presses his right hand to his temple, breathing through it.
I lean forward automatically. “You okay?”
He waves me off. “I’m fine. Tell me about this plan.”
I tell him the details before Sloane gets back with dinner.
After we’ve had our fill of Thai food, we get Pops settled back into the hospital bed that lives in the living room, and I send a quick text from the couch while Sloane is in the kitchen.
hey.
The reply comes before I can lock my screen.
Jade: what’s up?
I glance up at Pops, who’s giving me a look that’s equal parts curious and entertained.
I type back.
I need your help. I’m trying to do something nice for Sloane.
Three dots appear, then:
Jade: …oh
Jade: HOLD PLEASE
I stare at the screen.
Pops leans back on his pillows, eyes twinkling. “You’re sweating.”
“I’m not sweating,” I mutter.
My phone buzzes again.
A new text thread appears.
Jade added Blakely. Of course she did.
Blakely: who is this and why is jade yelling?
Jade: IT’S LOGAN
Blakely: like … Logan, Logan?
Jade: YES
Blakely: lol hi.
Pops makes a satisfied sound like he approves of this chaos.
I look up at him, helpless. “They’re terrifying.”
Pops nods. “Good. Sloane needs terrifying friends. They match her energy.”
I swallow, then glance back down at the screen, thumbs hovering.
And Pops is watching me like this is the only thing he wants from me right now: show up, plan something good, give her a day where she can breathe.
I type the words before I can overthink them.
okay. so here’s what we’re going to do…