Chapter 63 Crack
Crack
Sloane
The sun is shining over Elm Hollow Mountain.
It’s one of those deceptive winter days—the kind where the sky is an almost violent shade of blue, and the temperature has risen just enough to make icicles drip from the chalet gutters.
Everything is bright.
Everything is perfect.
And I feel like I’ve swallowed an entire set of kitchen knives.
It’s the beginning of week two.
We’ve won challenges, racked up points, slept in the same bed every night—tangled together like roots.
And every morning, I wake up with a truth pressing on my chest harder than gravity itself:
I’m falling for him.
I’m falling for the way he drinks his coffee.
For the way he protects me.
For the way he challenges me.
And because of that, I can’t lie to him anymore.
I can’t keep watching Joe from across the clearing, feeling the weight of my past, and letting Cohen believe he’s just “some guy.”
Cohen deserves the truth.
Even if the truth might cost me the only thing I really want.
“Cohen, can you come here for a second?”
My voice comes out strained.
He’s on the porch of our chalet, lacing up his boots. He looks up, smiling—that easy, crooked smile that’s somehow become my weakness.
“What’s up? You want to go over strategy for the next challenge?”
“No. We need to talk. Away from the cameras.”
His smile fades. He slowly gets to his feet, reading the panic in my stiff posture.
“Okay.”
I pull him around the back of the chalet, toward the edge of the woods, where the shadows of the pines hide us from the crew’s curious eyes.
I stop.
My hands are shaking so badly I struggle to find the transmitter clipped to my belt.
“What are you doing?” he asks, frowning.
“I’m cutting the audio. Take off your mic, Cohen. Now.”
He hesitates for a second, then complies. Unclips the battery pack and sets it on a chopped log. I do the same.
We’re off-air.
It’s just us.
And it’s terrifying.
“Sloane,” he says, taking a step toward me. Worry creases his forehead. He reaches for my arm, but I step back.
If he touches me, I’ll fall apart. And I need to say everything before I fall apart.
“You’re scaring me. Did I do something wrong?”
Damn it—no.
“No. Of course not.”
I take a deep breath. The cold air burns my lungs.
“It’s about Joe.”
Cohen stiffens. His posture shifts—defensive, alert.
“Did he do something to you? Say something?”
“No. It’s about… who he is. And who he is to me.”
I stare at my boots sinking into slushy mud. I can’t look at him. I don’t want to see his expression—I can’t handle it.
“Joe is… he’s my ex. The man I was with until I found out he was cheating on me—with Sarah, and with… a lot of other women.”
I feel Cohen’s silence.
It’s heavy. Dense.
“Why didn’t you tell me?” he asks quietly.
“Because I was ashamed. Because he made me feel stupid. Small. Because seeing him here, with her, happy… made me feel like that inadequate girl again. Like I was never enough for him.”
“Sloane—”
I cut him off immediately. I know what he’s about to do. He’s about to defend me. Say beautiful things. Probably go punch Joe in the face.
But he needs to hear the rest.
“I’m not done,” I say, lifting my gaze. I have to tell him everything. Even the worst part.
“There’s something else. The night we met. At The Aureum.”
I see his pupils contract.
He knows. He’s already connecting the dots.
“That night,” I continue, the words tumbling out fast and painful, “I was there because I’d just found out about them. I was shattered. I wanted— I just wanted to not be myself for one night. I wanted to forget. I wanted to feel desired by someone who didn’t make me feel wrong.”
I stop. I’m breathless.
“And then I saw you.”
Cohen doesn’t move.
It’s like he’s turned to stone.
The wind stirs the branches above us, but he’s completely still. His expression is unreadable. Terrible.
There’s no explosive anger. No fire.
There’s ice.
“So,” he says, his voice so flat it sends a chill through me, “I was the replacement. The distraction. The way to get back at him—or forget him.”
“No!” I step toward him. “I mean—maybe at first, yes, that was the intention, but then it was you. It was incredible because it was you.”
“But you didn’t know who I was,” he shoots back, a bitter smile that never reaches his eyes.
“I was just a body. A nameless body to erase someone else’s name.”
He drags a hand over his face, suddenly looking exhausted.
“I…” He lets out a nervous half-laugh, then stops.
I grab the sleeve of his jacket. “Cohen, please—”
But my voice breaks. I don’t know how to finish.
What am I supposed to say?
You caught my attention instantly.
You made me feel good.
You weren’t a mistake.
He looks at my hand on his jacket. He doesn’t pull away—but he doesn’t cover it with his own.
He stays still.
And that passive rejection hurts more than a slap.
Suddenly, a cheerful horn blasts through the air.
Loud pop music booms from the base camp speakers.
“ATTENTION, CONTESTANTS!” Aunt Tina’s voice booms, amplified and grotesquely enthusiastic compared to our private implosion.
A massive hot-pink bus, decorated with hearts and bows, rolls into the main parking lot, kicking up snow and mud.
“SURPRISE! Today is visitation day! Grab your tissues, because someone very special is here to see you!”
I turn toward the bus, then back to Cohen.
He’s staring at the colorful vehicle with a hollow look.
“Cohen…”
“We need to go,” he says. He bends down, picks up his mic from the log, and clips it back onto his belt with mechanical movements.
“No, wait! We can’t leave it like this. Please—say something. Yell at me. Call me a bitch. Just don’t… don’t shut me out.”
He looks at me.
His hazel eyes are dull. The light I’d seen ignite over the past few days is gone.
“I’m not yelling at you, Sloane. I…” He exhales, like it physically hurts.
“I need to calm down. I need to think. I can’t talk to you right now.”
He gently frees himself from my grip.
“We’ll talk later. When I’m a better version of myself. Because the one standing here right now? I don’t like him at all.”
Then he turns and walks toward the crowd gathering around the pink bus.
He walks straight, shoulders broad, head high.
But I see the tension in every line of his body.
My heart shatters into a thousand tiny, razor-sharp pieces.
I ruined everything.
He knows I’m a mess. He thinks I’m still tangled up in my past. He thinks he was used.
And he’s right.
At least, he was at first.
But now—now everything is different, and I don’t know how to make him see that.
I follow at a distance, dragging my feet.
We reach the crowd just as the bus doors open with a hiss.
The other couples are already hugging mothers, siblings, best friends. The air is full of joy, tears, celebration.
A petite, light-brown-haired girl steps off the bus, wearing a pale blue coat.
Grace.
She looks around, shy.
Cohen sees her.
But his face doesn’t light up. Normally, she’s the one thing that makes everything else fade away.
Today… she doesn’t.
He walks to her and pulls her into a tight hug, lifting her almost off the ground. It’s protective. Solid.
But when he lets go, he doesn’t smile.
He brushes her hair, murmurs something, but his face remains a mask of stone and pain.
Grace looks at him, confused. Touches his arm, asking silently.
He shakes his head, looking away.
She knows something is wrong. She knows her brother is hurting.
And it’s my fault.
I stop at the edge of the crowd, feeling like the intruder I am.
“Sloane?”
A deep, familiar voice calls my name.
I turn.
Dad.
He’s here.
My heart skips a beat.
I expected my mom. Ivy or Lina. Or maybe no one.
But it’s him.
I walk toward him, trying to pull myself together, trying to hide the tears threatening to spill.
“Dad…”
He looks at me.
Really looks at me—with eyes that have watched thousands of players try to hide injuries and fear.
He takes two steps forward, ignoring Aunt Tina as she tries to interview him.
Stops in front of me and places his hands on my shoulders.
“My girl,” he says softly, worried. “What’s wrong? Who made you cry?”
I break.
I don’t sob—but I collapse against his chest, burying my face in the rough wool of his jacket.
He holds me. Tight.
But over his shoulder, my eyes search for Cohen.
He’s far away, with Grace.
And he isn’t looking at me.