29. Sloane
Monday, eleven forty-seven AM
The text sits on my phone, unanswered.
I’ve read it twenty-three times. Typed and deleted responses fourteen times. My thumb hovers over the screen, frozen.
There’s a tension headache building behind my right eye. I’ve been crying on and off since that Sunday, sometimes angry tears, sometimes hurt ones.
My office door is closed. I told my assistant I’m not taking calls. The presentation due Thursday sits untouched on my laptop, cursor blinking at me.
I can’t focus. Can’t think about campaign strategies or quarterly projections or anything except: Vera on Kane’s counter, legs around him, wearing nothing but his t-shirt, both of them looking at me with the same expression of horror.
My best friend and my brother.
Six weeks. They said six weeks when I demanded to know how long.
Six weeks of lying to my face.
I open our text thread, mine and Vera’s. Scroll back.
October 19th. Vera: Can’t make brunch Sunday, something came up.
I’d responded.
Me: No worries! Rain check?
Was that the first lie? Was she in his bed while I was texting her?
I keep scrolling. Six weeks of cancelled plans and vague excuses and careful responses.
October 22nd. Kane: Can’t make Mom’s dinner. Tell her I’m sorry.
October 30th. Vera: So tired today. Early night for me.
Every excuse suspect now. Every cancellation evidence. Every text a potential lie.
But there’s nothing definitive. No smoking gun. Just six weeks of me being oblivious while they covered their tracks.
My stomach churns. I close the text thread before I make myself sick.
The office phone rings. I ignore it. My work cell buzzes. Ignore that too.
My personal phone stays mostly silent. Just the usual spam and work notifications. And Kane’s one message from this morning.
Nothing from Vera.
A week. It’s been a full week since I caught them. Since I told them not to contact me.
And she’s actually doing it. Actually staying away.
Part of me knew she would. Vera always respects boundaries. But part of me hoped she’d fight harder. Show up. Refuse to let me push her away.
The silence from her hurts almost as much as the lying.
My phone buzzes.
I grab it, heart jumping.
Marcel.
Not Vera. Not Kane. Marcel.
Marcel: I’m downstairs. Can I come up?
I stare at the message. Marcel’s been texting me all week, checking in every day since Sunday when I called him sobbing. He’s been the one steady thing. The closest thing to Vera and Kane without actually being them.
But now he’s here? At my office?
Suspicion curls in my stomach.
Me: Did Kane send you?
Marcel: No. I came because I’m worried about you. Texting isn’t the same as seeing you.
Me: If you’re here to plead his case, you can leave.
Marcel: I’m here to see if you’re okay. That’s it. But if you want me to leave, I will.
I stare at my phone. At the presentation I’m not working on. At the walls of my office closing in.
Me: I’ll come down.
Five minutes later, I’m sitting across from him at the Starbucks in my building’s lobby. He’s gotten me my usual, oat milk latte with an extra shot. He’s drinking black coffee, looking at me with those calm, assessing eyes.
“You look terrible,” he says.
“Thanks. You’re great for my ego.”
“I’m not here for your ego.” He takes a sip. “I’m here because I needed to see for myself that you’re upright.”
The concern underneath the bluntness nearly breaks me. I look away, blinking hard.
“I’m fine.”
“You’re not fine. But you’re surviving. That’s something.” He pauses. “How are you really doing?”
“How do you think?” The words come out sharp. “They lied to me for six weeks, Marcel. Six weeks. I’ve been going through every text, every cancelled plan, every excuse, trying to figure out what was real and what was a lie.”
“That sounds exhausting.”
“It is.” My hands tighten around my cup. “And Kane texted this morning. Wants to meet Friday. And I don’t know what to say.”
“Do you want to see him?”
“Part of me does. Part of me wants to tell him to fuck off.”
“Both can be true.” He leans forward. “What does the part of you that wants to see him need from Friday?”
“To understand why.” The words arrive before I’ve decided them. “And to know it’s real. If I’m going to lose — if this costs me what I think it’s going to cost me.”
He nods slowly.
“And Vera hasn’t even tried,” I say. “Not once this whole week. Like I don’t even matter anymore.”
“Sloane—”
“She’s probably with him right now. Both of them moved on. Forgot about me—“
“Stop.” Marcel’s voice is firm. “That’s not what’s happening.”
“How do you know?”
“Because they’re doing what you asked them to do.” He leans forward. “You told them not to contact you. You told them to leave you alone. So they are. Don’t blame them for respecting your boundaries.”
The words land before I’ve finished arguing.
“But I wanted—” I stop. What did I want? For them to fight? To push? To prove I matter?
“You wanted them to read your mind,” Marcel says, not unkindly. “To know that ‘leave me alone’ actually meant ‘fight for me.’ But they can’t read your mind, Sloane. All they can do is respect what you asked for.”
I’m quiet. Hating that he’s right.
“And for what it’s worth,” Marcel continues, “they’re not doing well. They’re as miserable as you are.”
“Good.” The word comes out vicious. “They should be.”
“You’re right to be angry,” Marcel says simply. “They should have told you. The lying was wrong. Full stop.”
The tightness in my chest loosens. Finally. Someone who says it without trying to fix it.
“Thank you.” I take a shaky breath. “Everyone else is going to tell me I’m overreacting—“
“You’re not overreacting.” He cuts me off. “They betrayed your trust. You have every right to be furious.”
We sit in silence. I drink my latte. Try to steady my breathing.
“He wants to talk,” I say finally. “Friday.”
“I know.”
“How do you—” I stop. “You’ve been talking to him.”
“I’ve been talking to both of them. Because I care about all three of you.” Marcel’s voice is steady. “I’m not taking sides. But I’m here for you. Whatever you need.”
“What do I do?” I ask. “About Friday?”
“That’s up to you. Do you want to hear what he has to say?”
“Part of me does,” I say. “Part of me wants to stay angry.”
“Both can be true.”
“Can they?”
“Yes.” He leans back. “You don’t have to decide right now what Friday means. You have to decide if you’re ready to listen. Not forgive. Not forget. Listen.”
“And if I’m not ready?”
“Then you’re not ready. Tell him that.”
“But?”
“But.” His eyes hold mine. “Eventually, you’ll have to decide what you want. Not what they want. Not what you think you should want. What you actually want.”
“I want them to not have lied.”
“Can’t change that now.”
“I want to not feel like an idiot.”
“You weren’t an idiot. They were cowards.”
The bluntness hits exactly right. Tears spill over.
“I want them back,” I admit finally. “Both of them. But I want them to earn it.”
“Then you need to figure out if you can forgive them. Not today. Not this week. But eventually.”
“What if I can’t?”
“Then you can’t. But Sloane?” He waits until I look at him. “If you decide you can’t forgive them, make sure it’s because you actually can’t. Not because you’re punishing them. Not because you’re scared. Because you genuinely can’t move past it.”
“How do I know the difference?”
“Time. Space. Honesty with yourself.” He finishes his coffee. “And maybe talking to them. Hearing what they have to say.”
“I’m still so angry.”
“Good. You should be.” He stands. “But Sloane? Whatever you decide about Friday, you don’t owe them anything. But you might owe it to yourself to hear them out.”
He leaves me sitting there with my latte and the weight of that choice.
Monday, three eighteen PM
Back in my office, I pull up Instagram.
I shouldn’t. I know I shouldn’t.
Vera’s profile loads. Her last post is from Thursday, four days ago. A photo of a sunset from her loft window. Caption: Sometimes you need to stop and breathe.
Before everything exploded.
She hasn’t posted since. Hasn’t shared stories. Her profile picture is still the same, us at the beach last summer, both laughing.
I scroll through her feed. Our friendship documented in squares. Brunch photos. Birthday celebrations. Random Tuesday nights. That trip to Portland last spring.
Nine years. Nine years of real, I’d have sworn to it.
But now I find myself looking at photos from two, three years ago — Kane appearing at the edges of some of them, a family dinner, a birthday — and I wonder.
Was she already aware of him then? Was something already there, underneath?
Did she come to Thursday nights partly for me and partly because it kept her close to him?
I close Instagram before I spiral further.
Monday, six forty-five PM
I’m home. Standing in my kitchen. Staring at the cutting board and knife in front of me.
I was going to make dinner. Bought groceries on the way home. Salmon. Asparagus. The meal I make when I need to feel in control.
But my hands are shaking too much to hold the knife safely.
I go from still to furious in one breath.
I grab the dish towel. Ball it up. Press it to my face.
And scream.
Not words. Just sound. Raw and ugly and hurt.
When I’m done, I’m shaking. Tears streaming. The towel damp.
I set the towel down. Pick up my phone.
Kane’s text is still there. Still unanswered.
Kane: I know you’re angry. You have every right to be. I’d like a chance to talk. Friday at 7? Your place or mine or somewhere neutral. Your choice. I love you.
Friday. Four days away. Four days to prepare what I want to say. Four days to decide if I’m ready.
Or four days to stay angry.
I start typing.
Me: Friday. Seven PM. My place. Come alone.
My finger hovers over send.
This is it.
Am I ready? Not to forgive. Not to forget.
But to listen.
And maybe that’s enough.
I press send.
Three dots appear almost immediately.
Kane: Thank you.
That’s all. Just thank you.
Not I’ll explain everything or you’ll understand or please forgive me.
Just gratitude that I’m willing to listen.
It’s the first thing he’s done right since Sunday.
Tuesday, three twenty-two PM