28. The Vouch
The Vouch
COOPER
The fluorescent lights of the elementary school hallway hummed with a clinical, low-frequency buzz that vibrated in my molars.
It was the sound of a countdown disguised as institutional order.
Sloane was ten paces ahead of me, her spine a rigid line of maternal fury and terror that no amount of corporate tailoring could disguise.
She didn’t look back. She didn’t have to.
I was the shadow she’d stopped trying to shake, the one carrying her discarded blazer and the heavy, metallic taste of adrenaline in my mouth.
We burst into the nurse’s office, a cramped room smelling of industrial lavender and unwashed gym clothes.
Milo was sitting on a high exam table, his legs dangling, looking impossibly small against the white paper crinkling beneath him.
He had a bag of frozen peas pressed to his forehead and a jagged, angry scrape blossoming across his cheekbone.
The sight of him hit me in the center of my chest, a dull thud of recognition that made my own skin ache.
I’d spent my childhood in offices like this, usually with a grass-stained knee or a bruised ego, but seeing it on him—on her son—felt fundamentally wrong.
"Milo," Sloane breathed, her voice cracking for the first time since we’d stormed out of NovaWave. She was at his side in a heartbeat, her hands hovering over him like she was afraid she might break what was already bruised. "Baby, what happened? Are you okay? Does your head hurt?"
Milo looked up, his eyes glassy but widening when he saw me standing in the doorway. "Cooper? You came too?"
"Wouldn't miss a superhero convention, buddy," I said, forcing my voice into the steady, upbeat register that usually worked on interns and angry producers. I moved closer, grounding myself in the physical reality of the room: the posters of the food pyramid, the jars of tongue depressors, the way Sloane’s hand was trembling against Milo’s shoulder.
"I heard you tried to take on a slide without a flight suit. Bold move. Very daring."
Milo gave a weak, lopsided grin, though it clearly hurt his face. "I was Batman. I thought I could jump the gap. But the cape... it got stuck."
"Gravity is the ultimate supervillain," I murmured, reaching out to gently knuckle his uninjured shoulder. "Even the best of us get caught in the machinery sometimes. You just have to know how to stick the landing next time."
The school nurse, a woman who looked like she had survived forty years of playground catastrophes through sheer apathy, stepped forward with a clipboard.
"Ms. Donovan? The principal is waiting for you in the administrative office.
We need to go over the accident report and the insurance paperwork since it happened during a supervised recess block. "
Sloane’s head snapped toward the nurse, her eyes narrowing into the sharp, investigative points that usually signaled a catastrophic interview for some wellness influencer. "I’m not leaving him."
"I've got him, Sloane," I said, my voice quiet but firm. I stepped into the gap between her and the door, offering a small, steady nod. "Go handle the red tape. I’ll stay here and discuss the tactical failures of the cape-to-slide ratio with the Caped Crusader. We’re good. Right, Milo?"
Milo nodded, his small hand reaching out to snag the hem of my henley. "He can tell me the story about the hockey game again. The one where he lost the tooth."
Sloane looked at Milo’s hand fisted in my shirt, then up at me.
The suspicion that usually lived in the set of her jaw wasn't gone, but it had softened, replaced by a raw, exhausted kind of trust that felt heavier than any contract. She hesitated, her fingers lingering on Milo’s hair, before she straightened her shoulders.
"Ten minutes. If he looks pale, you call me.
If he gets sleepy, you come get me immediately. "
"Ten minutes," I promised. "Go. Be the terrifying woman I know you are."
As she disappeared into the hallway, her heels clicking a rhythmic war-path on the linoleum, I pulled a rolling stool over to Milo’s table.
The room felt quieter without her—less electric, but more fragile.
I watched him for a second, noticing the way he leaned toward me, a tiny human seeking a heat source.
It was a terrifying responsibility, being the person someone leaned on when their world got wobbly.
"So," I said, leaning in close. "The tooth story? Or do you want to hear about the time I tried to use a trash can lid as a shield and ended up in a rose bush?"
"The shield," Milo whispered, his eyes brightening. "Was there blood?"
"So much blood. And thorns. I looked like I’d wrestled a porcupine and lost." I kept my voice low, a steady stream of distraction while I watched his pupils and checked the clock. Inside, my mind was a fractured screen of Sloane’s face in the boardroom and the way her fingers had felt laced with mine in the car.
I was supposed to be the sunshine, the upbeat partner who smoothed over the cracks, but as I sat in that small, sterile room, I realized I was done playing the role.
I didn't want to be her partner. I wanted to be her floor.
An hour later, the adrenaline had faded into a dull, soul-deep fatigue.
We had transitioned from the school to a quiet corner of a nearby café, a place with mismatched chairs and the heavy, comforting scent of roasted beans.
Milo was tucked into a booth with a hot chocolate and a fresh LEGO set I’d scavenged from the back of my car, his focus entirely consumed by a plastic wing.
Sloane sat opposite me, her hands wrapped around a mug of black coffee like it was the only thing keeping her upright.
She hadn't spoken since we'd strapped Milo into his car seat.
"He's okay, Sloane," I said, reaching across the table but stopping just short of touching her hand. I didn't want to startle the bird. "The nurse said the concussion screen was clear. It’s just a scrape and a story for school on Monday."
"It's not just a scrape," she whispered, finally looking up.
Her eyes were rimmed with red, the iron-clad 'No-Bull' mask finally, truly shattered.
"They were there, Cooper. Derek was there with a camera. They followed me to my son's school. They’re using him. They’re using a six-year-old as a prop for their fucking metrics. "
"I know." The words felt inadequate, a paper umbrella in a hurricane. "And they aren't going to get away with it. We have the drive. We have the receipts."
"Receipts don't stop a camera lens from following him into the playground," she snapped, her voice rising before she caught herself and glanced at Milo.
She dropped her tone to a jagged hiss. "I’ve spent his whole life trying to keep the noise out.
I built a wall, Cooper. I built a fortress around him so he wouldn't have to deal with the kind of people I deal with every day.
And now, because of this show, because of NovaWave, the wall is down. "
"Then we build a better one," I said. I wanted to reach out and pull her across the table, to tuck her head into the crook of my neck and tell her that I would stand in the gap until my legs gave out. "Sloane, look at me."
She didn't. She stared into her coffee like the secrets of the universe were written in the dregs.
"I can't lose this, Cooper. I can't lose the show, but I can't keep doing this to him.
They'll ruin me to get to you, or they'll ruin you to get to me.
Graham told me today... he said the audience wants a tragedy.
He said the numbers spike when I'm bleeding. "
The bell above the café door chimed, a bright, intrusive sound.
I looked up, expecting another tabloid stringer or a stray fan, but instead, I saw a familiar silhouette.
Lena was wearing her 'serious therapist' coat—the long, charcoal wool one—and her face was a map of professional concern and sibling intuition.
She scanned the room, her eyes landing on us with a precision that made me feel like I was back in high school, trying to hide a bruised rib after a game.
"Cooper," she said, approaching the table. She didn't wait for an invitation, sliding into the chair next to Sloane. She looked at the coffee, then at Sloane’s pale face, and then at me. "I got your text. I came as soon as I could close the office."
"Sloane, this is my sister, Lena," I said, my voice sounding thin even to my own ears. "She... she’s better at the heavy lifting than I am."
Sloane blinked, her defensive hackles rising instinctively. "I don't need a session, Cooper. I really don't have the bandwidth for a breakthrough right now."
"I'm not here as a therapist," Lena said, her voice a calm, low hum that seemed to push back the frantic energy of the room. She reached out, placing a hand on Sloane’s forearm.
It wasn't a tentative touch; it was an anchor.
"I'm here as the person who’s spent thirty years peeling my brother off the pavement every time he tries to be a human shield. And I'm here because he’s about to do something very stupid and very brave, and I think you’re the only person who can stop him from regretting it. "
Sloane frowned, her eyes darting between us. "What are you talking about?"
I shifted in my seat, a cold knot tightening in my stomach. "Lena, not now."
"Now is exactly the time," Lena countered, her gaze fixed on Sloane. "He’s already drafted the letter, Sloane. He’s been carrying it around for three days. He went to HR this morning before the school called. He’s resigning. Effective immediately."
The silence that followed was absolute. Even the hum of the espresso machine seemed to fade into the background.
Sloane turned to me, her mouth slightly agape, her eyes searching mine for the lie.
She didn't find it. I felt the heat crawl up my neck, the crushing weight of a secret I wasn't ready to share.