Bonus Chapter
Sloane
By the time I get home, my feet are throbbing, my head is pounding, and I’m approximately one crappy comment away from faking my own death.
The apartment looks like a barely contained disaster.
There’s a backpack dumped in the middle of the living room floor.
Somebody left a cereal bowl on the coffee table near the TV.
Math worksheets are spread across the table, and there’s a hoodie draped over the back of a chair.
A single sock hangs off the arm of the couch like it gave up halfway through life.
That’s a choice I feel deep in my bones.
I nudge the door shut with my hip, and drop my bag onto the floor before spotting tennis shoes abandoned in the kitchen.
“Sawyer,” I call without raising my voice.
There’s a beat and then a groan from the couch. “What? I put them away.”
I continue staring at the sneakers. “Really? Did they get up and walk to the kitchen on their own?”
“Hey, anything’s possible, Sis.”
I close my eyes for a brief second. After eight hours spent at the bakery, one college class, and half a chapter of reading snuck in during my breaks, I’m running on caffeine, bad posture, and whatever fumes I’ve got left in the tank, which isn’t much.
I kick off my shoes by the door and head to the kitchen. “Move them before they get thrown in the trash. After the day I’ve had, that’s not an idle threat.”
“Wow,” my younger brother mutters. “Hostile.”
“Trust me, you haven’t seen hostile yet.”
That gets me absolutely nothing except a dramatic sigh from him and a snort from the table where Faith is hunched over her laptop, pencil tucked into the messy knot at the top of her head.
At least one of them is doing homework. We’ll consider that a win.
Caleb, unfortunately, is standing on a kitchen chair while rifling through the cabinet. “We’re out of crackers.”
I drop my forehead briefly against the refrigerator. “Sounds like you’ll have to survive without them tonight.”
He groans. “But I like crackers with soup. It’s my favorite.”
“I know,” I say, straightening and reaching for the pot I shoved in the fridge this morning before my bakery shift. “I’ll pick some up at the store tomorrow. Promise.”
“Can’t you go now?”
When I narrow my eyes at him, he flashes a dimpled grin in response.
Damn him.
It’s impossible to stay annoyed with the kid when he’s such a cutie.
I point at the table. “Homework, kiddo. I’m sure you have a math or reading sheet.”
His smile widens. “Nope. We did it at school.”
I don’t even blink. “Liar. Should I call Ms. Jennings right now? You know I have her number.”
With a pout, he hops down from the chair and drags it toward the table.
I move around the tiny kitchen, reheating soup, pulling out bread, and checking the clock on the microwave, all the while mentally running through tomorrow’s schedule.
A headache is already brewing behind my eyes as I unscrew the cap on a bottle of ibuprofen with one hand and swallow three pills dry.
Bakery at six.
Sawyer has a math quiz tomorrow.
Caleb needs a permission slip signed.
Faith has dance after school.
I have a paper due Thursday, and an exam on Friday I’ve barely studied for.
Oh, and the electric bill is due in three days.
Which reminds me, I still need to email the financial aid office back.
And somewhere in the middle of all that, I’m supposed to sleep.
Sure.
My siblings don’t ask who’s going to sign the field trip form or pick up crackers from the grocery store.
They don’t know which day the rent clears or whether there’s enough detergent left to make it through the week.
They just expect me to do it because they’re still kids and life has dealt them a shitty hand.
After Caleb was born, our mother decided that being a parent wasn’t in the cards for her and she skipped town without a word. By day three of her being MIA, I realized she wasn’t coming back.
So I got the job at Lakeshore Sweets and, thank God, it’s usually enough for us to squeak by.
I set bowls on the counter and wave the boys over while balancing my notebook open beside the toaster. My sociology notes stare back at me like a neon accusation.
Faith frowns at her screen. “Can you read this paragraph? I don’t know if it makes sense.”
“Nothing makes sense after eight-thirty at night,” I tell her. “You’re tired.”
“It’s only seven-forty.”
“Then why does it feel like midnight?”
No one answers because they’re too busy eating, arguing over who got more soup, and accusing each other of stealing chargers they absolutely all stole from each other at some point. Disappearing chargers are basically a recurring household crisis.
It’s exhausting.
I sink onto a chair with my own bowl and then read the same sentence in my notes for the third time without processing a single word.
That’s when my eyes start to burn.
There’s still flour dusted on the sleeve of my black shirt from the bakery, and my hair has fully given up on the claw clip I shoved it into at five this morning. Both my shoulders and lower back ache. At this point, even my eyelashes are tired.
Across from me, Sawyer nudges Caleb with his elbow and Caleb shoves him right back.
“Stop it,” I say automatically, not bothering to look up from my notes.
“He started it,” Sawyer says.
“I did not!” Caleb huffs.
“Did too. You breathed on me.”
I lower the paper and glare at both of them. “I swear to God, if either of you makes me referee a breathing argument tonight, you can both wash dishes for the rest of the month.”
There’s a brief moment of silence before Faith snorts into her soup.
I point my spoon at her. “You too.”
She raises both hands. “Hey, I’m innocent in all this.”
“No one in this apartment is innocent.”
When my phone buzzes against the counter, I ignore it. A few seconds later, it vibrates again.
Sawyer glances at it. “Sounds like someone’s trying to get a hold of you, Sis.”
“It’s probably a scam call,” I mutter.
My sister lifts a brow. “Scam calls don’t text memes.”
I give her a sharp look. “Who said it was a meme?”
She smirks.
Traitor.
With the kind of resignation usually reserved for tax audits and root canals, I grab the phone from the counter. Before even glancing at the screen, I already know who it is.
Jax.
The preview is just an image and one line of text:
Annoying Puck Boy:
This cat has your energy
Against my better judgment, I open the convo and find a picture of a tortoiseshell cat in a sweater glaring at the camera.
It takes effort to stop my lips from twitching.
There’s a message beneath the photo.
Annoying Puck Boy:
This is proof that somewhere out there is your spirit animal
I stare at the screen. This is exactly the kind of thing I don’t have time for tonight.
Or any night, for that matter. I don’t have time for memes and hockey players with dimples that are used like tactical weapons.
I don’t have time for men who flirt like it’s second nature and grin like no one’s ever told them no before.
If I ever find out who gave Jax Wilder my number, I’ll bludgeon them to death.
With pleasure.
Still, the cat flashes in my head again, and the corner of my mouth betrays me.
Faith narrows her eyes. “Wait a minute… Is that… a smile?”
I straighten on the chair. “Absolutely not.”
Her eyes dance with mischief. “Yeah, it was. I saw it.”
“You’re wrong about that.”
Sawyer leans across the table, as if he can smell weakness. “Is that the hockey guy again?”
My answer comes a little too quickly. “No. Of course not.”
Three skeptical faces stare back at me.
I sigh. “Eat your soup.”
Sawyer points his spoon at me. “That’s a yes.”
“It’s not a yes.”
“It’s not a no either,” Faith singsongs.
I glare at the two of them. “Why are you people so obsessed with this?”
Sawyer shrugs. “’Cuz you hate everyone, and you only make that face when it’s him.”
I blink. “I do not make a face.”
He just stares at me.
Faith nods. “You kind of do.”
“What face?” I ask begrudgingly.
Sawyer sets his spoon down. “Like you’re annoyed but also not.”
“That’s not a face.”
“Sure, it is,” Sawyer says.
I inhale a slow breath through my nose. This is what my life has become. I work eight-hour shifts, run a household on caffeine and spite, and get psychoanalyzed by children who still leave wet towels on the floor and shoes in the middle of the kitchen.
Seriously love that for me.
I reach for my phone again, mostly so I can delete the text in front of them out of pure principle, but before I can unlock it, it buzzes for a third time.
Instead of a meme or a text, there’s a voice note.
With a squeal, Faith claps her hands. “Play it for the class, please.”
“No way.”
“Come on, Sloane,” she whines. “Just do it. We all want to hear what he has to say.”
“No.”
Sawyer grins. “Why not? There something you’re not telling us?”
I narrow my eyes at the little shit. “Don’t you have an algebra quiz to study for?”
“Kind of seems like you have a hockey-playing boyfriend you’re trying to hide from us,” my brother says with a devilish smile.
I point at him so fast I nearly spill my soup. “He is not my boyfriend. I barely know the guy.”
Faith and Sawyer exchange a dubious look. That’s when I realize they’re not going to let this go any time soon.
Caleb props his chin in his hand. “Why are your cheeks so red?”
“They’re not red.”
“Yeah, they are, dude,” Sawyer says with a laugh.
I rise so abruptly my chair scrapes loudly against the floor. “You know what? I’m done with this conversation.” I pause and glare at Sawyer. Whoever said the teen years were a nightmare was completely right. “And don’t call me dude.”
Faith and Sawyer grin at one another, like they’re sharing a private joke, as Caleb continues to eat his soup. I snatch up my phone and stalk toward the sink, opening the voice note only because if I don’t, they’ll follow me around, yapping about it until they’re blue in the face.
I keep the volume low.
Jax’s amused voice spills through the speaker.