KYLE #3
Her breath hitched slightly. “No, it doesn’t.
And, yes, I get it. I have a safety net.
But it’s not comforting in the way people think.
No amount of money keeps the things that matter the most safe.
I’ve spent a lot of sleepless nights feeling like no one understands.
Evan and our friends came from wealth, but I didn’t.
Even my best friend, Cheyenne, just . . . blinks at me when I try to explain it.”
“What about Penny? She knows what you went through. Doesn’t she understand?
” Kyle hadn’t been privy to everything, of course, but he remembered clearly how much Sloan’s family had struggled to pay expensive medical bills when her mom had been sick—partially because that’s when Mom had gotten into her car accident and Dad had faced the same situation.
“Penny feels exactly the opposite way from me on everything. We’ve grown apart and rarely talk.”
Exhaustion was starting to take a toll on him, and he squeezed his eyes tightly for a few seconds, trying to stay awake.
The times they’d spent the night together before had been when Sloan came to visit his dorm his freshman year of college, which was frequent, because her mom was in the hospital and her dad was always working or with Sloan’s mom.
She’d always been talkative at night—complaining that he fell asleep within moments of setting his head on the pillow while she struggled to sleep.
Back then, he hadn’t minded that difference. She woke him up for sex—usually more than once—and he’d hold her until she fell asleep.
Now, his aching body was begging for sleep, but he didn’t want to fall asleep mid-conversation like he always used to. Not when she was finally talking like this.
“You still struggle with insomnia?” he asked, his head bobbing as he fought off another wave of sleepiness.
“Always. I didn’t think I’d sleep last night at all, but I must have been so tired that I couldn’t help myself. Sorry if I’m keeping you awake. That’s why I had the edibles. Francesca thought they’d help.”
“You’re fine,” he said. And then, maybe because his exhaustion had sanded down his caution, his hand found hers under the blanket and covered it.
Sloan went still.
“You’re safe, Sloan,” Kyle murmured. “Not just physically. With me.” His thumb brushed once, over the side of her hand, before he caught himself. “Try to get some rest.”
Her fingers turned under his, and she laced her fingers with his. The spark that shot up his wrist was so sharp it made his breath catch, startling him into further wakefulness. “Thank you,” she whispered.
“Mm,” he managed, trying to sound normal while his entire nervous system decided to betray him.
“Can I ask you a question?” she said.
“Sure.”
“The risky things you do for your travel shows—they look fun. But aren’t they dangerous?”
“That’s sort of the point.” Even in the dark, he knew it was too honest.
A few more beats of silence passed. “You like danger?”
He was quiet, turning her question over in his mind. His sisters had asked him about this before. Mom and Dad, too. Liddy had even blamed herself once, saying she never should have let her husband Callum teach him how to surf.
Like that was the gateway drug that had started his love of higher-octane sports.
He’d always enjoyed those things. The rush. The edge. But being able to capitalize on that for Pathways had given him more freedom to pursue them.
But lately . . . it hadn’t only been about liking it.
It had been about outrunning something.
“I like to feel alive,” he answered at last, his voice stark in the stillness.
He waited for a response, but Sloan didn’t give one for a few moments. Her thumb shifted against him, slow and thoughtful. “That makes sense.”
He turned his head toward her, surprised. “It does?”
“Yeah.” She didn’t say it with any judgment. “When everything hurts, or feels too big, or too quiet . . . you don’t want to feel numb. You want something that reminds you you’re still here. Still in your body.”
His chest tightened a little.
“That doesn’t suggest you like danger,” she went on. “It sounds like you don’t like disappearing.”
He swallowed.
They lay there in silence for a few minutes, the house creaking softly around them, the world reduced to breathing and warmth, and the place where their hands were joined.
Sloan squeezed his fingers once. “You don’t have to keep proving you’re alive.” Her voice was almost a whisper. “You already are.”
The words hit him harder than any fall he’d taken that day.
He didn’t trust himself to answer.
Her breathing shifted a few moments later, slowing. Evened out. Sleep took her gently, like she’d said what she needed to say and could finally rest. Still holding his hand.
Now he lay awake in the dark, her words echoing in his head in a way that felt dangerous.
He’d missed this. He hadn’t really had any other long-term girlfriends since Sloan. And he’d missed the simple task of going to bed with someone familiar, talking about anything and everything. Talking about the real stuff in life.
And don’t let anyone tell you young love isn’t real. It is. And it breaks your heart just as badly as us old, shriveled prunes . . .
He’d let Sloan go and moved on with his life, but seeing her again?
Somehow, deep down, he knew . . . going back to normal life, the way Davy had suggested, was slipping further from his grasp.
Because Sloan had come blazing back into his life, and he wasn’t sure what came next.