Chapter 47
SLOANE
Nine days since the funeral, and the world has learned how to keep going without my permission.
Cars still pass on the street like they don’t know a grave got filled in last week. The sun still comes up like it isn’t disrespectful. My neighbors still take out their trash on the same day, still water their lawns, still laugh too loud in their driveways.
And I keep doing it too.
I keep moving.
Because there’s no other option.
The air outside is mild—California pretending it’s summer, even though it’s not quite there yet. The kind of weather Pops would’ve called perfect walking weather with that proud little smile, like he personally ordered it.
The thought hits low and sharp.
I inhale through my nose, slow. Controlled.
I’ve gotten good at that.
I walk down the sidewalk with my hands shoved into the pockets of Logan’s hoodie—the one I stole and never gave back because it smells like him, and it makes my chest hurt less when the house feels too empty.
My sneakers scuff against the concrete, the rhythm steady enough to drown out my brain if I try hard enough.
Nine days.
It feels like nine minutes and nine years at the same time.
The first few days after the funeral were a blur of…noise. People. Food I didn’t eat. Voices I didn’t hear. Hands on my shoulder. Words like sorry and he’s at peace and let me know if you need anything—phrases that floated around me like someone else’s language.
I remember standing in the living room while everyone slowly trickled out, watching the last casserole dish disappear into a car trunk, and thinking—so this is it.
This is the part where the world leaves.
This is the part where you’re supposed to figure out how to live in a house that still smells like him.
I didn’t scream. I didn’t collapse. I didn’t do any of the things I thought grief would make me do.
I just…went quiet.
Like my body decided the only way to survive was to shut everything down to the minimum settings.
Even now, I don’t cry all day anymore.
That’s new.
At first, crying happened like breathing—no warning, no control. In the kitchen. In the hallway. In the middle of brushing my teeth. I would start, and I couldn’t stop, and it felt like my ribs were going to crack open from the force of it.
Now?
Now I only do it in the shower or when Logan is holding me on nights that I can’t keep the nightmares from feeling too much like reality.
I don’t know if that’s progress or just a different kind of broken, but I’ve taken the crying and stuffed it into one small, contained space. Steam, water, soap. A place where the sound of it can disappear, and no one has to see me come undone.
It’s almost…efficient.
Like everything else I do when I’m trying not to fall apart.
I take another step, then another, and I focus on the small things my brain can handle.
The way the sun warms the top of my cheeks.
The way a bird hops along the grass, fearless and stupid.
The way my chest rises and falls without me having to tell it to.
My phone vibrates once in my pocket, and my whole body goes rigid.
My brain is a traitor.
It’s wired now to expect bad news every time a screen lights up.
But when I pull it out, it’s just a text.
Logan: you still walking?
Logan: stay on maple, not the main road. people drive like idiots.
A laugh tries to happen and turns into something softer.
Not happy.
Not even close.
But…warmed.
Like he’s out there somewhere, keeping an eye on me even when he’s not physically standing beside me, and I hate how much I need that.
I type back with cold fingers.
i’m on maple. i’m fine.
The lie sits there on the screen like a bad habit.
Almost immediately, he replies.
Logan: i know.
I blink hard and shove the phone back into my pocket before the heat behind my eyes can turn into something larger than I can control out here.
Because I don’t cry out here.
That’s the rule.
The road curves a little, leading toward a small strip of houses with tidy yards and low fences. Somewhere down the block someone’s sprinklers are going, misting the air with that sharp green smell of watered grass.
It makes me think of Pops again.
Of him standing in the driveway in a faded CSU sweatshirt, telling Cameron his footwork was trash while he rebounded shots for me and yelled at me to keep my elbow in.
My chest aches.
I press my palm flat to my sternum like I can physically hold myself together.
I keep walking.
My eating has come back in the same way—controlled, forced, scheduled.
Not because I want food.
I don’t.
Most of the time, my stomach still feels like a knot. Like grief lives there now, heavy and sour.
But I eat because Logan watches me.
Not in a suffocating way. Not like he’s policing me.
Just…quietly.
He’ll put a plate in front of me and sit down with his own like it’s normal. Like we’re just two people having dinner and not two people trying to survive a disaster.
And when I pick at my food, he doesn’t tell me I need to eat.
He says, “You want to trade?” like it’s a joke.
Or he’ll slide my favorite crackers onto my side of the table without looking at me, like it’s casual.
Or he’ll take one bite of his own food and go, “Okay, this is disgusting. You have to try it so I’m not suffering alone.”
And somehow…I end up chewing.
Swallowing.
Keeping my body alive even when my brain isn’t sure it wants to be.
I hate that I need him for that.
I hate it almost as much as I love it.
Because the truth is, without Logan, the silence in the house would’ve swallowed me whole.
Cameron is trying. I can feel it. I can see it in the way he lingers in doorways, in the way he keeps asking if I want something from the store even when he doesn’t actually want to go anywhere.
But Cameron grieves like he fights—tight-jawed, forward-facing, built for impact. He disappears into the gym. He goes for drives. He comes home and stares at the TV like it owes him answers.
He’s here, but he’s…not.
And Logan?
Logan is present in a way that’s almost unbearable.
He’ll sit on the floor beside the couch even when the couch has plenty of room. He’ll lean his shoulder against my knee and scroll his phone like he’s relaxed, like this is normal.
He’ll say something stupid under his breath just to see if it drags a reaction out of me.
Sometimes it does.
Sometimes it doesn’t.
He stays anyway.
And I’m starting to realize something that scares me more than grief:
I’m starting to lean.
Not in a dramatic, falling kind of way.
But in a quiet one.
A slow shift of weight I don’t even notice until I’m already relying on him to hold me up.
My steps slow as I reach the end of the block. There’s a tiny park up ahead—more of a patch of grass with a bench and a tired-looking tree than an actual park, but it’s quiet.
I head toward it because quiet is what I need.
Because quiet is the only place I can hear him.
Not Logan.
Pops.
His voice.
His laugh.
The way he said “kiddo” like it was the most important word in the world.
I sit on the bench and stare at the sidewalk in front of me, the cracks in the concrete forming messy little lines. I trace one with my eyes.
If I focus hard enough on tiny things, I can stop thinking about the big ones.
If I keep my grief small, contained, maybe it won’t devour me.
But grief doesn’t work like that.
It seeps.
It waits.
It taps on the inside of your ribs at the most random times and reminds you that you are not in control.
My phone buzzes again.
I pull it out.
Logan: don’t sit at the park bench alone like you’re in a sad movie. i’m coming to get you.
Logan: i’m also bringing contraband.
I frown.
what’s the contraband?
Three dots appear.
Then:
Logan: a milkshake.
A milkshake.
Something so normal it almost makes me angry.
Something Pops would’ve teased us about—you two and your sugar addictions.
Something that makes my throat threaten to close up again.
My fingers curl tighter around my phone.
I don’t text back right away.
Because if I do, I might say something I don’t know how to take back.
Like thank you.
Like please hurry.
Like I don’t know how to do this without you.
So instead, I sit there and watch the street.
And I wait.
Ten minutes later, Logan’s truck turns the corner like he owns the road.
He parks along the curb in front of the little park and gets out, wearing a plain black T-shirt and a baseball cap low over his eyes. He looks like he hasn’t slept enough. Like he’s carrying his own weight too.
He holds up a milkshake cup in one hand like a trophy.
“Contraband,” he calls softly.
I stare at him.
He walks closer, slow, not rushing me. He stops in front of the bench and looks down at me like he’s trying to figure out what version of me he’s about to get.
“Hey,” he says.
My voice comes out small. “Hey.”
Logan’s eyes soften.
He holds the milkshake out. “Peace offering.”
I take it automatically. My fingers brush his. The contact is brief, and it still sends heat through me, like my nervous system remembers him even when my brain is numb.
“I’m not hungry,” I say, because that’s what I always say.
“I know,” he replies, like he’s not arguing. “Drink it anyway.”
I look down at it. Vanilla, my favorite.
Of course he knows.
He always knows.
“Maple Street,” he says, nodding like he’s pleased. “You listened.”
I huff a breath that isn’t quite a laugh. “Don’t act surprised. I’m very obedient.”
His mouth twitches. “That’s not the word I’d use.”
I glance up at him, and for the first time in days, something sparks—small, irritated, alive.
“Logan.”
He raises both hands. “I’m just saying.”
“And I’m just saying, I’m going to stop sharing my location with you.” I shake my head, but the corner of my mouth lifts despite myself.
He sees it.
His eyes lock on that tiny shift like it’s the oxygen he needs to breathe.
And then his expression changes, just slightly—like he’s making a decision.
He crouches in front of me, elbows resting on his knees, close enough that my knees could brush his chest if I moved.
“I don’t like you walking alone,” he says quietly.
“I’m fine,” I start, the lie automatic.
His gaze stays steady. “Sloane.”
The way he says my name isn’t soft exactly.
It’s anchored.
Like he’s calling me back into my body.
My throat tightens. I look away.
“I don’t cry all day anymore,” I admit suddenly, because the truth is sitting on my tongue, and I can’t keep swallowing it forever. “I only do it in the shower, or you know, when you’re there.”
Logan’s face shifts—pain flickering in his eyes.
He doesn’t pity me.
He doesn’t tell me I’m strong.
He just looks like he wants to take it from me and can’t.
“Is that…better?” he asks.
“I don’t know,” I whisper. “It’s…controlled. At least.”
Logan nods slowly, like he understands the need for control. Like he’s lived his whole life inside that same tight grip.
“And you’re eating,” he says, gentle.
Not a question.
A fact.
I swallow. “Yeah.”
He holds my gaze. “Good.”
The word lands warmer than it should.
I glance down at the milkshake and take a small sip, mostly to give my hands something to do.
The cold sweetness hits my tongue, and for a second—just a second—it feels like a normal day.
And that almost breaks me.
My shoulders tighten, and I stare straight ahead at the street.
Logan’s voice drops lower. “Are we walking back or driving?”
I hesitate.
Because choosing the ride feels like admitting I don’t want to do anything alone anymore.
And that scares me.
Logan waits without pushing. Without filling the silence. He just stays there, steady, patient, like he has all the time in the world to let me decide.
My chest aches.
I hate that I need this.
I hate that it feels like relief.
I whisper, “We can drive.”
Logan nods before standing and holding out his hand for me to take.
I stare at it for a beat.
Then I slip my fingers into his.
His hand closes around mine, warm and solid.
And he doesn’t let go.
Not when he helps me up.
Not when he leads me toward his truck.
Instead, his fingers slide between mine, weaving tighter, like he’s making a point without saying it out loud.
Like he’s telling my grief, you don’t get to take everything.
I swallow hard and walk beside him, milkshake in one hand, Logan in the other.
And for the first time since Pops died, I let myself lean without fighting it.
Just a little.
Just enough to keep moving.