29. Sloane #2
I left work early. Told my assistant I was sick. Not entirely a lie. My stomach’s been in knots all day.
I’m lying on my couch, staring at my ceiling, when my phone buzzes.
Vera’s name lights up the screen.
My heart stops.
I stare at it. Let it buzz. Buzz. Buzz.
It goes to voicemail.
Ten seconds later, a text.
Vera: I know you probably don’t want to talk to me. I understand. But I need you to know I’m sorry. I love you. I miss you. And I’m here whenever you’re ready.
I read it five times.
Now you miss me? Now you’re sorry?
You should have thought about that before you lied.
I miss you too.
What if I can’t forgive you?
What if I can?
My thumb hovers over the keyboard. I could respond. Could call her. Could scream at her or cry or demand explanations.
Instead, I set the phone down. Walk to my window and look out at the city.
Vera and I used to do this — her place, my place, wherever felt right that week. Wine and takeout and whatever needed to be said. She told me everything.
Or I thought she did.
I think about Sidney. How dating Kane cost us everything — slowly, then completely, until there was nothing left to save. How I swore I’d never let that happen again. How I warned Vera about this scenario.
And she did it anyway.
But here’s the thing I keep coming back to, the thing I can’t argue myself out of: I don’t want to lose Vera the way I lost Sidney.
And I don’t want to lose Kane.
So what do I want?
I want them to acknowledge how badly they hurt me. I want to know if this is real or if I’m going to watch them implode in three months and have to pick up the pieces of both of them.
I want my brother and my best friend back.
But I want them to earn it.
Wednesday, seven fourteen PM
I’m going through old photos on my phone. Torturing myself, probably. But I can’t stop.
There’s one from last month. Kane and I at coffee.
He’s making a face at something I said. I’m mid-laugh.
I zoom in on his face, looking for signs I missed — distraction, guilt, thinking about her.
Just my brother, drinking coffee, making stupid faces like always.
I remember he seemed tired that morning.
Said he had a lot on his mind with work.
I took it at face value. I always took everything at face value.
I set the phone down. Close my eyes. Two more days until Friday.
Wednesday, nine eleven PM
My mother calls.
I consider letting it go to voicemail, but she’ll keep calling. And if I ignore her too many times, she’ll drive up.
“Hi, Mom.”
“Sloane! Finally. I’ve been trying to reach you since Monday.” Then, immediately: “What’s wrong? You sound terrible.”
“I’m fine.”
“You’re not fine. I’m your mother. What happened?”
I close my eyes. “Kane and Vera are together.”
Silence.
A longer silence than I expected.
Then: “Kane and Vera?”
“Yes.”
“Your Vera?”
“Yes, Mom. That Vera.”
I can hear her processing. “How long?”
“Six weeks.”
“Six weeks.” The temperature drops about ten degrees. “And neither of them told you.”
“I walked in on them. Sunday. At his place.”
“Oh, sweetheart.” Her voice shifts, the softness she’s had since we were small, the one that means she’s putting everything else down. “That must have been awful.”
“It was.”
“Are you talking to them?”
“No, but Kane wants to meet Friday. I agreed.”
A pause. Then, carefully: “How do you feel about that?”
“Terrified. Angry. I don’t know what to say to him.”
“You don’t have to know before you get there.” She’s quiet for a moment. “Can I ask you something?”
“What?”
“Do you want to lose them? Either of them?”
The question lands clean and simple.
“No,” I admit.
“Then meet him on Friday. Be angry, you’re entitled to be angry, and don’t let anyone rush you past that.” A pause. “But I know they love you. Both of them. Whatever mistakes they made, that’s still true.”
“Everyone keeps telling me to forgive them.”
“I’m not telling you to forgive them. I’m telling you to talk to Kane on Friday.” Her voice is firm. “Forgiveness is its own thing. That comes later, if it comes. Right now you have to decide if you’re willing to be in the same room as your brother.”
“Okay,” I say.
“And Sloane?” She hesitates. “For what it’s worth, I always thought those two were circling each other. Even at Christmas last year.”
I go completely still. “What?”
“The way they argued. The way neither of them could ever just let what the other one said or did go.”
“Mom.”
“I’m saying. I’m not surprised. I’m disappointed they handled it the way they did. But I’m not surprised.”
Something between a laugh and a scream sits in my chest.
“I love you,” she says. “Call me Saturday. Tell me how it went.”
“I will.”
After we hang up, I sit at my kitchen table for a long time.
I always thought those two were circling each other.
My mother saw it.
I didn’t.
I was the only one who didn’t know.
The shame burns.
I go to bed angry.
Thursday, six forty-seven PM
Tomorrow. Kane comes here tomorrow.
I’ve been restless all day. Came home and immediately started stress-cleaning. My apartment is spotless now, color-coded sticky notes reorganized, every surface cleared.
I open my phone. Start typing questions.
How long has this been going on?
Why didn’t you tell me?
Did you laugh at me behind my back?
Is this real or are you going to break up in three months?
Do you understand what you did to me?
How do I trust you again?
I stare at the list. Then delete it.
I don’t want a script. Don’t want to walk in with an agenda. I want to hear what he has to say first. Let him explain. Let him apologize. Or try to.
Then I’ll decide what questions matter.
My phone buzzes.
Marcel: How are you holding up?
Me: Nervous about tomorrow.
Marcel: What are you nervous about?
Me: What if I can’t forgive him? What if I’m too angry? What if I say something I can’t take back?
Marcel: Then you say something you can’t take back. You’re allowed to be angry, Sloane. Don’t perform forgiveness you don’t feel.
Me: But what if I lose them both?
Marcel: You won’t. Not if this is real. Not if they’re willing to do the work.
Me: How do you know?
Marcel: I don’t. But I know Kane. And I know he loves you. He’ll fight for you. The question is whether you’re willing to fight for him.
Am I?
I stare at the question.
Me: I don’t know yet.
Marcel: That’s honest. That’s enough.
I set the phone down.
Walk to my bedroom. Look at the outfit I’ve laid out for tomorrow — jeans and a sweater. Casual. Not trying too hard. Not performing anything.
Just me. Hurt. Angry. Willing to listen.
Friday, six fifty-two PM
Eight minutes.
Kane will be here in eight minutes.
I’ve cleaned my apartment twice. Changed clothes three times. Settled on the jeans and sweater — put together but not performative.
I pace from the living room to the kitchen and back. Check my phone. Six fifty-four PM.
Six minutes.
My stomach churns. My hands shake. My heart pounds in my throat.
What if I can’t do this? What if I’m too angry? What if seeing him makes everything worse?
What if—
A knock at the door.
Seven PM.
Right on time. Of course he is.
I freeze in the middle of my living room, staring at the door.
Another knock. Softer this time. Hesitant.
“Sloane?” His voice is muffled through the door. “It’s me.”
I know it’s him. I’ve known that voice my whole life.
My brother.
The person who broke my trust.
The person I love most in the world, besides Vera.
I cross to the door and place my hand on the knob.
Deep breath.
Another. Then I open it.