Chapter 41 Sloane #2
Cameron points at the plate with his chin. “Eat another bite.”
I almost laugh—because of course he would pivot back to food. Back to something he can control.
I tear off another small piece of toast and chew.
Cameron watches me swallow like it’s a victory.
It’s not.
But it’s something.
A moment passes. Then Cameron stands, moves to the sink, rinses a dish that isn’t dirty. His shoulders are tense.
He says, without turning around, “I’m not ready to have this conversation fully.”
I nod, even though he can’t see it.
“Me neither,” I whisper.
Cameron’s voice turns low. “But if he hurts you—”
“He won’t,” I cut in, my voice sharp.
Cameron finally turns.
His eyes are wet.
And furious.
“Everyone says that,” he says, voice rough. “Everyone believes that. Until they do.”
My chest tightens.
I want to argue. I want to yell. I want to tell him Logan isn’t our mom, isn’t some stranger, isn’t someone who leaves.
But the truth is, I don’t actually know what Logan will do when it gets hard.
I only know what he’s done so far.
He stayed.
So I soften my voice.
“I know,” I whisper. “I know you’re scared.”
Cameron’s expression cracks on the word scared, like he hates it.
Then he looks away quickly, wiping at his face with the heel of his hand like he can erase the grief if he rubs hard enough.
“I’m going to go for a run,” he says abruptly.
My stomach twists. “Cam—”
He grabs his keys off the counter. “I’ll be back.”
He pauses at the door, glancing back at me.
His voice is quieter now. Less sharp.
“Try to eat something real,” he says.
Then he’s gone.
The door closes. The house exhales.
And I’m alone again.
I stare at the plate in front of me. At the toast and eggs and strawberries.
At the proof that my brother is trying to keep me alive.
My hands start to shake.
I put my fork down.
And then I just…sit there.
Not moving.
Not crying.
Not breathing right.
Just existing in the aftermath of Andrew Rhodes being gone from the world.
My phone buzzes once on the table.
A text.
Unknown number at first glance—until I see the name attached.
Logan.
Logan: out in twenty. you okay?
My throat tightens.
I don’t respond.
Not because I don’t want to.
Because I don’t know what words are supposed to look like in a world where my dad is dead.
I push the phone away and rest my forehead on the table.
The wood is cool under my skin.
The silence is loud.
—
An hour later, Jade and Blakely show up like a small storm.
I hear their voices before I see them—bright, forced, overcompensating. The front door opens, and then Jade is in the kitchen with a grocery bag, with Blakely behind her with a stack of DVDs like it’s 2009, and they’ve decided nostalgia is the cure.
“Sloane Rhodes,” Jade announces dramatically. “We are hereby kidnapping you.”
I don’t move.
Blakely sets the DVDs onto the counter. “We brought reinforcements.”
Jade pulls out a pint of ice cream. “Chocolate.”
Then another. “Cookie dough.”
Then another. “Whatever this is—something with fudge and depression.”
I blink at her.
Jade pauses. Her smile falters.
She steps closer, lowering her voice. “Hey.”
I look up.
Her expression softens into something real. Something that doesn’t pretend.
“We’re not here to fix it,” she says quietly. “We’re just…here.”
My throat tightens.
Blakely nods behind her. “We’re gonna do a movie afternoon. You don’t have to talk. You don’t have to laugh. You don’t have to be okay.”
Jade lifts a brow. “But you do have to sit on the couch and let us aggressively love you.”
Something in my chest shifts. Not relief. Not healing.
Just…a small loosening.
I nod once.
Jade claps her hands. “Perfect. Couch. Now.”
They herd me to the living room like I’m fragile glass.
They pile blankets around me. Shove a pillow behind my back. Put a spoon in my hand like it’s a weapon. They pick a movie I’ve seen a hundred times, something mindless with familiar jokes and predictable endings.
Jade sits on one side of me. Blakely on the other.
The TV flickers to life.
The opening credits roll.
Jade starts talking about something—practice, a stupid ref call from last month, how Blakely has the worst taste in men. Blakely argues back. They bicker like it’s oxygen.
I hear the words.
But they slide past me.
Because my brain isn’t here.
It’s still at the cemetery.
It’s still on the polished wood of the casket.
It’s still on Pops’s hands—those hands that used to grip my shoulders and tell me I was capable, tell me I was strong, tell me I was loved.
My chest tightens.
The room blurs.
Jade nudges my shoulder gently. “You with us?”
I blink.
“Yeah,” I lie.
She doesn’t call me on it.
Instead, she leans her head against my shoulder like she used to after wins when we were sweaty and laughing and alive.
Blakely links her arm through mine on the other side.
And there I am, sandwiched between my best friends, a spoon in my hand, a movie playing on the screen, and sunlight coming through the window like the world hasn’t changed.
I stare at the TV.
The characters are laughing.
Living.
Saying lines that mean nothing.
My eyes burn.
But I don’t cry.
I just sit there, numb and breathing wrong, while Jade and Blakely fill the room with noise so I don’t have to hear the silence.
And somewhere in the back of my mind—like a distant lighthouse—I know Logan will be here soon.
I don’t know what I’m going to do with that.
I don’t know what I’m going to do with any of it.
But the thought of him walking through the door is the first thing in days that feels like a thread I might actually be able to hold onto.