Chapter 33
Sloane
February
Admittedly, I’d never spent a winter in the northeast. All I’d ever heard was that it was beyond dreary, that the landscape was like a corpse, and that it was frigid and barren.
Since Grant moved up here for school and basketball, I only really forced myself to visit when all I’d need is a light jacket.
Here I am now, though, bundled up in this long, crimson shearling coat we found in one of those high end consignment stores.
One of Jean and Olivia’s favorites, and now mine; Gen tolerated it, appeasingly playing dress up before bolting toward that gym her and Grant use in the city.
They’re a little obsessed, those two. I forgive it, my brother and my—fingers crossed—future sister in law being so up each other’s asses, because they’re less weird about it than Olivia and Ben.
They remind me of those teenagers you see at the mall, always in quiet, intense, telepathic cahoots about something the rest of us will never understand, like a book.
“Oh, thank you,” Olivia sings up at the server, rubbing her hands together before she clasps her steaming cappuccino.
The streets twinkle, even without the holiday decor that was hastily packed up after the New Year came and went, as I peer out the window of the cafe we’ve found ourselves in, just Olivia, Jean, and I, our bags full of our spoils.
A fire roars in the corner, and I consider taking the coat off when I catch myself in the glass and decide against it.
“So what do you think Gen will think?” Olivia’s smile flattens as she looks between Jean and I with a stern expression. “Should I tell her? Or should I let Ben mention it? Like what is appropriate here?”
I roll my neck, hearing the bones crack as I sigh. “That boy irritates me to no end,” I say of Will Chapman, who apparently can’t leave us alone. “I vote not to bother her or my brother with his bullshit.”
“It’s not his bullshit,” Jean clarifies, and I roll my eyes. “His dad’s making him come back, right? That’s what Ben said.” Making him come back to finish the season and then join the draft, a year earlier than he was supposed to. Whoop dee fuckin’ doo.
“He’s an adult. Pretty sure he could just say, no, fuck off.”
Olivia shifts uncomfortably in her seat. “He seems…better. I know you hate him—”
“Olivia,” I moan, accepting my americano from the server with a quiet smile.
“He’s just going to be in our lives, Sloane. Better get used to it,” she reminds me, taking a snarky sip of her coffee.
“Andy hasn’t said anything to you?” Jean’s eyes narrow. “Aren’t they besties?”
My lips purse as the door chimes and a group of girls comes rushing in, giggling as wristlet wallets full of charms jingle on their arms, the smallest of them catching my eye.
“Sloane!” Carmen squeals before tamping it down in front of her friends. She shivers as she moves toward me, and I notice that beneath her coat is just a normal t-shirt, one I’m sure Rebecca would’ve demanded she replace if she’d been available.
“What’s this?” I ask, clasping the hem between my fingers. “You want your brother to find you frozen in an alley way?” I rummage through my bags, trying to find the sweater that’ll definitely be too big but will keep her warm nevertheless.
“I’m fine,” she mumbles, blushing as she glances back at her friends that stare over at our table in awe.
I pull an easy smile, waving as I hand Carmen the magenta cashmere pullover I just got, and she tilts her head.
“Thank you,” she mutters, shrugging off her jacket to pull it on.
It’s almost dress length on her, but it works with her coat. “I gotta go.”
“No, of course,” I wave her off, fighting a smile as I notice Olivia and Jean ignoring the girls ogling them. “Go be cool,” I say, waggling my brows as Carmen flees back to her cohort. We can hear their whispering from here, and I try my best not to laugh too obviously.
“I feel a little famous,” Jean says, popping his shoulder beneath his navy corduroy coat. The sun, almost set, reflects off the high points on his face, glints on the glossy panes of Olivia’s hair, and I wonder at their lack of self-awareness.
“You are to those girls. They all go to the conservatory,” I remind him, settling into the suede covered seat. “Anyway, they all follow the Astor Hill Gazette—know all about us, I’m sure.”
“Ugh,” Liv intones, her nose scrunching. “I can’t read the Gazette.”
“But you work for it…?”
“Exactly. I already know what is going to be printed. But reading the finished spins? Nauseating. They’re never right, always horrendously slanted. Naturally, because of you–know–who.” She shoots a look at Jean who shrinks back before standing up a little taller.
“Well I do read the papers—all of them. How can you not? It’s the world.”
“It’s not the world. It’s like, one view of it.” Croissants, freshly warmed up, are placed in the center of the table, and I greedily claim the biggest one. Jean cocks his head and is moments from challenging me to a duel, before he just takes the next one.
Olivia barely eats anyway.
“I eat!” she says in shock, and I wonder how many of my thoughts are not actually internal.
“Yeah but, you probably didn’t want a big one. Right?” Jean says with false timidity, and my laughter rolls out of me, the warmth that builds there like my own little furnace.
“Whatever, gossip heathen,” Olivia jokes, and Jean takes it in stride.
“Speaking of…this reporter from The Journal is like, harassin’ me,” I say, bringing my latte to my lips.
Jean freezes. “The Journal?”
I nod.
“And?”
“And nothing. I ignored her. She wanted to talk about Elliot.” I make a look of disgust.
“Yeah, I bet. They’re writing a whole me too series on him. Well, him but it’s like a whole group of them.”
I almost do a spit take. “I’m sorry?”
“I can forward it—” he starts to say before Liv’s hand flies up.
“Pause. She’s contacting you because what he did to you is apparently part of a very me too-esque pattern, and you’re just ignoring her?”
“He didn’t do anything to me,” I chuckle, taking a bite of croissant.
“Really?” Jean asks me, suddenly irritated.
“So the art show’s not a problem then?” At the mention, my mind’s eye fills with the dozen canvases lining the walls of my too small bedroom.
The girls, Carmen in tow, wiggle their fingers at us as they file out of the cafe, caffeinated drinks they don’t need in hand.
“Why would it be?” I haven’t felt this inspired since the end of last summer, but they don’t know that, don’t know everything that happened.
The only person who knows the whole truth is Clementine.
And I think that’s okay. Not every truth needs to be substantial.
It can just be. Jean blinks over at me, his mouth doing this weird, confusing movement that has me shaking my head. “What?”
“Have you looked at the judges list?” he presses.
Dread sinks to the bottom of my stomach.
“No,” I say, sniffing as I rip off a piece of croissant and stuff it in my mouth.
Liv’s eyes skate between the two of us, and I see the moment she makes the same assumption I’m making.
That Elliot, the man I very briefly told her and Gen about last fall when I forced the two of them together over female rage films, is going to be here.
In Boston. At my show. “Shit,” I whisper, my mouth full of croissant as fear rears its ugly head, the thought of seeing him again making me want to bolt.
“Yeah. I don’t know if that’s nothing, Sloane,” Jean murmurs, his molars grinding, and I can’t help but gnaw on my lip because he’s right.
“Hey…” Liv soothes, her hand reaching out to hold mine. “What better way to show him what an idiot he is than to kick his ass at this show?”
“We’ll all be there,” Jean insists. “Literally, if he even looks at you, I’ll be like—go fuck yourself, you creep.” His eyes burn with intention, and I know he means it.
But I also know that Elliot can only get under my skin, and can only make me feel like his opinion matters, if I let him.
That I am not the same girl he picked up from the clinic.
And honestly, I hope I disappoint him, because the pieces I’ve painted in the month since my drive came back to me—the one I thought he siphoned away—are better than anything we ever created together.
“Yeah. No, I’ll be fine. He has…no power over me, anymore,” I say, trying to mean it, but my hand’s only not shaking because Olivia is holding it.
“Good,” she tells me, her warm brown eyes staring deeper into my soul than I thought possible for her. Usually I’m the one mothering them. “And in the meantime, consider talking to that reporter.”
“I don’t talk to the—”
“Anonymously. Sometimes, all you need is a little closure.”
My phone vibrates in my pocket, and I take the distraction gladly. Relief washes over me when I see that it’s Andy, sending me a pin to wherever the hell he is.
Johnny’s Comedy Club
Eyes crinkling, I click my screen off. It’s like a warm blanket, the feeling just the thought of Andy gives me, and I’m grateful I wound up stranded on Christmas. Grateful that fate pushed me into his arms on that snowy roof.
“It’s that good?” Jean moans. “Like oh I’m worried about seeing my creepy ex-situationship but boom your current one texts you and it just washes away? The envy,” he fake wails, and I can’t help but let my smile crack wide across my face.
“Maybe,” I shrug with a tight laced smirk, lifting my brows as the wave of anxiety recedes. “I should get going.”
“Your prince awaits,” Jean grins, and Olivia scoffs.
“That would make Sloane a princess,” she laughs, knocking back the rest of her cappuccino. “You’re more like a….mage. A witch. No—an elfin witch.”
“What the hell?” Jean’s brow creases.
“Mm,” I nod, eyes narrowing as I push back in my chair. “No, I like that.”
“Wait,” Jean says, worried, “what am I?”
Olivia’s chest rumbles with laughter as she refuses to answer, and I wave a silent goodbye, following my phone to the only place I’ve ever felt like I needed to be.