Chapter 50 Sloane
SLOANE
Aweek later, the world keeps doing what it does best.
It moves.
It doesn’t ask permission. It doesn’t slow down because there’s an empty recliner in the living room that still looks like it’s waiting for someone to come back and claim it.
It doesn’t care that I still catch myself turning toward the hallway like I’m about to call, “Pops, do you want anything?” before my brain remembers there’s no point.
It just…keeps going.
And somehow, I’m going with it.
Not because I want to.
Because the alternative is drowning.
The weird part is, progress doesn’t feel like victory.
It feels like betrayal.
I’m lacing my shoes in the locker room when I realize I haven’t cried yet today.
It’s early—barely nine—and I’ve learned not to tempt fate by thinking a thought like that too loudly. But still.
I’m here.
My hair is pulled into a tight ponytail, my face clean, my lungs full of air that doesn’t smell like antiseptic. The fluorescent lights buzz overhead, and the sound of my teammates moving around me is normal in a way that almost makes my chest ache.
Jade drops onto the bench beside me, already in her practice gear, braids swinging as she rummages through her bag. “Okay, you look…like you.”
I blink. “Thank you?”
She leans in, lowering her voice like the locker room isn’t full of women who can hear everything anyway. “I’m being serious. Like…the Sloane Rhodes I know. You’ve been walking around like a ghost.”
My throat tightens.
Ghost. Haunting. Hollow.
Everyone keeps using the same words, like grief comes with a thesaurus.
Blakely appears in front of me, hands on her hips. “If you tell her she looks like herself, you have to tell her the rest of it.”
Jade rolls her eyes. “I’m getting there.”
Blakely’s gaze softens when it lands on me. She doesn’t ask if I’m okay, because we’ve all agreed that’s a stupid question. Instead, she just says, “You ready?”
Ready for what?
For lifting. For sweating. For my body to remember it belongs to me.
For my brain to stop replaying the last text I sent him like a loop:
Love you. See you in the morning.
For the world to stop making “mornings” show up anyway.
I swallow, tie my laces tighter, and nod. “Yeah.”
The gym smells like rubber mats and disinfectant and that faint metallic tang of effort. It’s a different kind of sterile than the hospital. This one doesn’t make me want to crawl out of my skin.
We start slow—dynamic stretches, resistance bands, mobility work. Jade hums under her breath like she’s trying to fill the silence for me. Blakely cracks jokes at my expense, which is her love language.
“Don’t look at me like that,” she says when I half-glare at her during leg extensions.
“You’re counting wrong,” I mutter.
She grins. “I’m counting how I see fit.”
“That’s not how numbers work.”
“Watch me.”
It should be annoying.
It is annoying.
But it’s also, God help me, nice.
Because for ten minutes, my brain is focused on something as dumb as Blakely’s inability to count reps like a normal person and not on the fact that my entire life has a Pops-shaped crater in it.
When we move to cardio, Jade slows her treadmill to match mine.
“You’ve been eating?” she asks casually, eyes on the numbers, like she isn’t watching me from the corner of her vision.
I hate that my chest tightens at the question anyway. I hate that eating feels like an act of courage now.
“Yeah,” I say. “More than I was, at least. Probably not the best choices, but hey, calories are calories right now.”
Jade nods once, satisfied. “Good.”
Blakely looks over from her bike. “And sleeping?”
I snort. “Define sleeping.”
“Unconscious,” she says, deadpan.
I exhale a laugh. “Sometimes.”
It’s true, in the smallest way. I’m not waking up every hour anymore. I’m not flinching awake, convinced that I heard a thump down the hall. Not sitting straight up in my bed, dripping with sweat, imagining that I can hear a phone ringing.
The shower is still where I fall apart, but even that has started to change.
I only do it when I let myself.
That’s progress, right?
Or maybe it’s just me learning how to hide it better.
When we finish and I’m toweling sweat off my neck, Jade bumps my shoulder with hers.
“Lunch after?” she asks.
I open my mouth to say no automatically—because saying yes to things still feels like stepping away from him, like I’m leaving Pops behind.
But then my phone buzzes in my locker.
CAMERON
I stare at his name like it’s a sign.
Like the universe is saying, See? You still have people. You still have life.
I answer. “Hey.”
“Hey,” Cameron says, and for a second I can hear it—how careful he’s being with his voice. Like he’s still learning how to be my brother in a world where Pops isn’t there to soften the edges.
“Everything okay?” I ask.
“Yeah. Just leaving practice.” A pause. “You on campus?”
I glance around. “Yeah. Just finished lifting with the girls.”
“Cool. You wanna grab lunch?” he asks, like it’s casual.
But I know it isn’t. Cameron doesn’t do casual right now. Nothing about him is casual. It’s all controlled, contained, held together with jaw tension and forced routines.
He wants to check on me.
He wants to make sure I’m still…here.
I look at Jade and Blakely. Jade raises her brows like, Say yes.
Blakely mouths, Go.
I swallow. “Yeah, okay. Where?”
“Student union?” Cameron says. “I’ll meet you in fifteen.”
“Okay.”
I hang up, and Jade claps once like a proud mother. “Look at you. Making plans.”
I roll my eyes. “It’s my brother.”
“That’s still a plan,” she says.
Blakely grabs my towel and snaps it lightly against my arm. “Go. We’ll see you later.”
“Don’t do anything illegal without me,” I mutter.
Jade grins. “No promises.”
I change quickly, tugging on a hoodie that still smells like laundry detergent and something faintly familiar—like Pops’s house, like home before it got broken. My throat tightens at the thought, but I force myself to keep moving.
Motion is survival now.
Outside, the California sun is bright enough to feel rude. The air is cool but not cold, the kind of day in late spring that makes you forget other places still have snow and gray skies and frozen sidewalks.
I walk across campus, past groups of students laughing too loudly, past a couple holding hands like the world hasn’t ever fallen apart for anyone, past a guy skateboarding like gravity is optional.
Life.
It keeps happening.
By the time I reach the student union, Cameron is already there—leaning against the wall near the entrance with his backpack slung over one shoulder, phone in hand.
He looks like he slept, which means he probably didn’t.
His hair is slightly damp, like he showered after practice, and his jaw is working like it’s been doing that all week—like grinding his teeth is the only thing keeping him from losing it.
When he sees me, his eyes soften.
“Hey,” he says again, quieter this time.
“Hey.”
He pulls me into a hug without asking.
It’s firm. Protective. Cameron’s version of I’m still here. You’re still mine. We’re still us.
I let myself lean into it for a second longer than normal.
Then I pull back and try to act like I’m fine.
We get food—nothing fancy, campus food that tastes like convenience and barely seasoned chicken. Cameron pays without comment, like it’s a thing he can still do for me.
We sit at a table near the window, sunlight pooling across the surface. Outside, students drift past, backpacks bouncing, laughter spilling.
Cameron stares at his tray for a second before taking a bite.
“So,” he says, like he’s testing the word. “How’s…everything?”
I snort softly. “That’s a loaded question.”
His mouth twitches. “Yeah.”
I pick at my food. “It’s…weird. I feel like I’m watching my own life through glass. Like everything’s happening, and I’m just—” I gesture vaguely. “Here.”
Cameron nods, eyes lowering. “Same.”
Silence stretches between us, not awkward—just heavy.
Then Cameron clears his throat. “You’ve been eating more.”
I exhale. “Yeah. I’ve been trying.”
He nods once, satisfied, like that’s the answer he needed to hear.
“I’m sorry,” he says.
I blink. “For what?”
“For…not being here the way I should’ve been.” His voice goes rough. “For you. Since everything happened.”
My throat tightens, but I keep my face steady. I’m good at that. I’ve been practicing.
“Cameron,” I start.
He shakes his head, cutting me off. “No. Let me say it.”
I let him.
He drags a hand down his face, and when it drops, his fingers are trembling a little. “I thought I was handling it. I thought if I stayed busy and kept moving, it would…I don’t know. Make it less real.”
My chest aches, sharp and familiar. “We all grieve differently.”
“I know.” He nods, eyes glossy now, and he blinks hard like he’s angry at his own body. “I know that. But you’re my little sister.”
The words land heavy. Protective. Sacred.
“And it’s my job,” he continues, voice cracking just slightly, “to be there for you. I haven’t done a good job. I want to do a better job.”
I swallow hard, forcing the emotion back into the box I’ve been carrying around campus like it’s my backpack.
“You don’t have to fix this,” I say quietly. “You can’t. None of us can.”
“I’m not trying to fix it,” he says, and there’s something fierce in the way he looks at me now. “I just…I don’t want you doing it alone.”
I stare at him for a second, at the way he’s trying so hard to be steady for me when he’s barely holding himself together.
And suddenly I’m twelve again, scraping my knee in the driveway, and Cameron’s the one scooping me up like pain is something he can lift off my skin if he holds me tight enough.
My voice goes softer. “I’m not alone.”
His eyes flicker—like he hears the subtext. Like he’s thinking about Logan.
But he doesn’t say his name.
Instead, he reaches across the table and taps my knuckles with his fingertips—quick, awkward, very Cameron.
“Okay,” he says, swallowing hard. “Good.”
I nod, breathing through the lump in my throat. “Okay.”