Chapter 3 Sloane
SLOANE
Four days in a car all by yourself gives you plenty of time to think about all the reasons why going back home is a horrible idea.
The first thing that comes to my mind is the toxicity of Monica and Briar.
I’m just barely arriving in Denver, and I can already feel myself slipping back into the person I used to be.
I can feel the girl who was crying to be saved, the one who just wanted to be loved.
I honestly couldn’t even tell you what I did to earn the treatment they gave me. I was a good kid, at least if my competition was Lottie and Kaden. I behaved, kept my head down, and stayed out of everyone’s way.
My therapist, James, says that it’s because I never needed them, at least not in the typical sense.
Sure, I needed love and some attention, but I didn’t need them.
It took me a long time to understand what he meant, but he broke it down to me like this: my two siblings needed praise; they needed to be seen.
They would do anything to make my parents happy.
I didn’t need those things. I never needed to prove myself, I never did anything to ‘earn’ their love, so therefore I wasn’t valuable to them because they couldn’t manipulate me into doing whatever they wanted. I was the anomaly, the weird one.
That’s what James says, anyway, but I feel like that’s too simple an explanation for why I’ve been hated by my own parents. It has to be something deeper. If that’s all they needed was for me to need them back, I would have figured that out, right? I could have so easily fixed all of my problems.
My fingers tap against the wheel impatiently as I drive through Denver, making my way towards Timberline.
My tires crunch over the gravel as I turn up the driveway to Beckett’s house. It’s modern, secluded, and it one hundred percent screams Hayes Men Live Here. Even though Mason moved out a few years ago.
I take a deep breath and turn off my car. I’m not sure why I’m so nervous all of a sudden.
Maybe because I haven’t seen him in a few years, I’m not the same person who graduated from Timberline High School. Or maybe because I’m not sure that he wants me here, invading his space.
Regardless, I can’t keep sitting out in this man’s driveway like a fucking creep. So I get out, grab a duffel bag, my phone, and my Hydroflask out of the front seat, making my way up the sidewalk to the front porch.
I take a final deep breath before knocking on the door.
I only have to wait a few seconds before the door opens to reveal Beckett Hayes in all his glory.
I stare at him wide-eyed. I shouldn’t be star-struck…
has he always been this hot? That feels weird to think, since he’s basically family.
But I have to take a moment to just stare at him.
Same dark hair with the slightest sprinkle of gray, same strong-broad build.
Something is different, though…I’m just not sure what.
It’s ok, because I think he’s just as surprised to see me, by the look on his face. He just stares at me for a moment, like he has no idea who I am. So to break the ice, I speak first, in case he really doesn’t know who I am.
“Hey, Uncle B,” I say with a soft smile.
“Sloane?” he asks, recognition finally registering in his eyes.
“The one and only,” I say, my smile widening a little more.
“You look…” He trails off as he eyes me up and down. His eyebrows knit in confusion, like he’s not sure if I’m playing a prank on him or not.
“Different? Yeah, that’s what happens when you trade cookies for carrots,” I joke lightly, only he doesn’t laugh.
That’s probably because it’s not funny. I was told for years that the way to fix myself was to ‘go for a walk’ or to ‘eat healthier.’
He doesn’t respond right away, just looks at me like he’s not sure how to respond. He shakes his head slightly after a moment and opens the door wider for me to come in. I think about hugging him for just a split second, but ultimately decide against it. That would be a little too weird, right?
“Thanks for letting me stay. I swear that I’m potty-trained, and I like to keep to myself. You won’t even know I’m here,” I say, cracking another joke to help ease the subtle tension.
Again, nothing. Not even a quirk in his lip. Tough crowd.
I always forget how serious he often is.
“It’s fine, I don’t mind. You can stay as long as you need. There’s food in the fridge, write down anything you need, and I can pick it up when I’m off work.”
“Oh, it’s fine, I can buy my own groceries, I can also help out around the house since I’ll be here most of the time,” I offer with a shrug as my phone buzzes in my hand. I ignore it as he stares at me for a long moment.
“You don’t plan on getting a job?” he asks, a light hint of disproval in his tone.
“I already have a job, I’m a social media personality,” I say, sitting down at the kitchen counter, dropping my bag down at my feet before taking a drink from my bottle.
My fingers immediately tap softly against the counter.
I try to brush off the nerves that are threatening to consume me.
I always feel so stupid when I tell people what I do, and while he’s not my biological family, I still want him to be proud, to see me as worth something.
My daddy issues at their finest, ladies and gentlemen.
“What does that even mean?” he asks, leaning against the sink, his forearms flexing slightly as he crosses them over his chest. Has he always been fit?
“It means I get paid for posting content online,” I tell him.
“So like ads?” He asks.
“No, silly, I’m an AurumPlus actress,” I tease with a wink.
“A what?” he asks, his eyebrows knit in confusion.
So not only did my joke fall flat, but I am now going to have to explain to him that I was making a joke about being a pornstar, on a new app that is blowing up like crazy right now.
“You look it up on your own time, and come back to me with what you find,” I say, mustering up as much false confidence as I can.
He just stares at me. I internally roll my eyes and turn my attention from him back to my hands. I look back up, and his gaze hasn’t budged. My confidence quickly falters, and instead of functioning like a normal human being, I begin to ramble.
“I post stuff to social media, and people pay me for it. I make decent money, and I’m even willing to pay utilities or something.
I don’t need charity, just say the words, and I’m gone.
We don’t even have to tell Briar that you kicked me out.
I’ve been taking care of myself for a long time, I just need a few days to get on my feet,” I say, quickly picking up my bag and going upstairs, figuring the best solution is to just remove myself from the situation.
He doesn’t say anything to me, and instead just watches me leave.
Once I’m securely locked away in my temporary room, I set up my space for filming.
The bedroom itself is fairly good-sized with lots of natural lighting. There’s not much in it: a bed, a nightstand, a dresser, and a closet, which is ok. I’ll figure out how to make it work.
After a few hours of hiding and not wanting to admit that I was being a little dramatic by just storming away, I make my way back downstairs to have a real grown-up discussion about how the next few days are going to look.
Beckett is sitting on the couch with the TV on, still dressed in casual jeans and a black t-shirt.
He holds a newspaper in his lap, but he’s not really paying attention to it.
He doesn’t react, so he either doesn’t know I’m standing here, or he doesn’t care.
Either way, I find myself staring at the side of his face for a moment, catching the subtle sharpness of his lightly stubbled jaw.
“I’m sorry, I panic when people ask about my job, because most people don’t see it as one, and I sometimes shut down or get defensive.
My therapist says it’s because I don’t know how to react to people wanting to know about me, because I was never asked those types of questions growing up, and now I’m oversharing, something else that happens when I’m nervous.
” I feel my cheeks turn pink as I can’t force my mouth to close and stay shut.
I sit down in the armchair next to the couch he’s sitting on, my fingers twisting together anxiously.
“It’s fine,” he mumbles, looking back down at the newspaper in his hands.
“Ok, well…How long are you ok with me staying? A few days, a week, a month, the whole summer?” I ask when he makes no other attempts at conversation.
“You can stay as long as you need,” He says, still not looking at me.
“That’s not what I asked. Even though I was being a little dramatic earlier, I meant it when I said, you can kick me out at any time. I can go stay wherever until I go back to Georgia at the beginning of September.”
Is there any way that I can embarrass myself further? Why am I acting as if I’ve never had a conversation with someone in my life? What the hell is wrong with me?
“Look, Sloane. I really don’t care. I work twelve-plus-hour days, six days a week. I’m not usually home, so you can do whatever you want and stay for as long as you need. I’m happy to have you here. You’re a good kid, I’m just trying to help you out.”
His words leave me speechless for just a few seconds.
“Oh…Well, I don’t want to mess with your routine, so what can I do to make the most out of this?”
“I leave at five a.m. and get home usually after eight. I bring work home with me most nights, and don’t go to bed til midnight. My life is my job.”
“What about meals and stuff?” I ask.
“You’re on your own,” He says, and I let out a huff.
“Ok…” I trail off, not really knowing what else to say.
“Do I have a curfew or anything?” I ask. I’m not really sure how to navigate this.
“Jesus, kid. No, you don’t; you’re an adult. Just lock up if you go out, whether it’s at night or during the day.”