21. Sloane
TWENTY-ONE
SLOANE
I woke up in his bed and couldn't remember the last time I'd slept without dreaming.
The room was bright and the sheets smelled like him. I lay still, taking note of the unfamiliar ceiling, the weight of his arm draped across my waist, and the steady rhythm of his breathing behind me. His palm was warm against my belly, and I smiled, pressing my hand on his.
Xavier stirred, pulling me closer as he buried his face against the back of my neck.
"Morning," he murmured into my hair.
"Morning."
We stayed tangled together for a stretch of quiet that belonged entirely to us. I listened to his heartbeat against my back, trying to keep my breathing steady.
Eventually I rolled over and faced him. His dark eyes were soft and half-lidded, an unguarded expression I'd forgotten he was capable of.
His hair was a mess, and there was a crease on his cheek from the pillow.
This version of him only existed in the early morning, before the surgeon's composure slid back into place—something I hadn’t seen in years.
"I need to say something," I said, drawing a deep breath.
"You've been holding it since you woke up. I can tell because you haven't insulted me yet."
"I'm being serious."
He shifted onto his back, looked at the ceiling before facing me. "Okay. I'm listening."
I sat up and pulled the sheet around my shoulders.
I needed to be upright for this.
"I was selfish," I started. "In Hawaii. At the wedding. All of it."
He opened his mouth.
"Let me get through this. Please," I cut him off, biting my bottom lip.
He nodded.
"I told myself I was moving on, but it was a lie.
Everything was for show. I brought Andrew to that trip and used him as a shield so I wouldn't have to face the fact that I hadn't healed from anything.
I spent the whole week pulling your attention away from Eliza, convincing myself that it was friendship.
" I swallowed. "A-And the worst part is…
I-I knew… I knew exactly what I was doing. "
Xavier didn’t say a word.
"I-I was used to doing things my way," I continued, my voice shaking "I…
I make decisions for the people I love. I decide what they need, what they can handle, how much truth they deserve, and I never give them the chance to make the call for themselves.
I did it when I was twenty-one with the ring.
I decided you couldn't survive my father. So I removed the choice from your hands.” I paused and blew a puff of air.
“And I did it again in Hawaii… I decided you'd moved on and I had no right to say anything. I chose your feelings for you."
I met his eyes.
"That stops today. I'm saying it out loud, right now, so you can hold me to it.
I will never decide for us again. If I'm scared, I'll tell you I'm scared.
If I'm about to run, I'll tell you before my feet start moving.
I'm not going to protect you from myself anymore.” I shook my head.
“You don't need my protection. You need my honesty. "
He stared at me as if he was memorizing every word that came out of my mouth.
I pursed my lips, hoping that he’d understand where I was coming from.
A minute later, he sat up and pulled his knees toward his chest, resting his forearms across them. I couldn’t read his expression. So, I braced for whatever was coming.
"I told you I barely thought about you," he said.
I blinked, the sting knocking off the breath out of me.
But I stayed still.
"At the rehearsal dinner. I looked you dead in the eye and said I was struggling to remember your face.
" He pressed his thumb against the bridge of his nose.
“I lied… I've thought about you every single day for eight years.
There hasn't been a morning since you left where I didn't wake up and reach for your side of the bed.
" He dropped his hand. "I said it because I wanted to hurt you. I wanted you to feel what it was like to be erased in someone else’s life—the way your letter erased me from yours.
And the second I saw your face crack, I knew I'd gotten what I wanted… And it made me sick."
My chest constricted.
"I carried the ring to the wedding," he continued.
"I told myself I brought it to give it back.
I told myself I was closing the chapter.
" He shook his head. "I don't think I've ever told myself a bigger lie.
I brought it because I couldn't get on a plane to see you without it.
I've been carrying that ring like a survival instinct for eight years, and I never once had the courage to ask myself why. "
"We're terrible at this," I whispered. "We're the safest thing either of us has, and we can't stop lying to each other."
"Because the truth is terrifying when it matters this much."
"That's not an excuse anymore." I shifted closer and put my hand on his knee.
"If we’re trying again, I need you to stop protecting me from yourself.
Don't decide what I can handle. Don't perform indifference because you think it's noble or clean or because it'll hurt less if it falls apart again.
If you're angry, I want to hear it. If you're afraid, I want to know.
I'd rather fight with the real you every single day than fall in love again with the version you think I can survive. We’ll rebuilt this together. "
He looked at my hand on his knee, then back at my face.
"Same terms," he said.
"Same terms."
"No more unilateral decisions?"
"None."
"No more performances."
I nodded. "Not a single one."
A rough laugh escaped him. "I'm going to mess this up."
"I know." I squeezed his knee. "So am I. We're both going to default to the old patterns when it gets hard, because that's what we do. But I'll catch it faster this time. I'll call us out."
"Good." He chuckled. "That's all I need. Name it. Say it out loud. I'll do the same."
He took my hand and traced his thumb along the tattoo on my wrist, the thin black ring where the beginning and the end met at the same point.
"I finished a chapter," he murmured, reading the meaning I'd given that mark years ago.
"And started writing the next one," I finished.
He looked up. His eyes were wet, and he wasn't hiding it.
I wasn't hiding mine either.
We were tear-streaked and wrecked and more honest with each other than we'd been in eight years. And it was the most terrifying thing I'd ever felt.
But this time, I didn’t want to run from it.
When we gathered ourselves, the morning had already won out. I climbed out of bed, and he groaned a protest, flopping back into the pillows, with one arm slung over his eyes. But he let me go when I gave him a pat on the cheek.
I grabbed one of his discarded dress shirts and pulled it over my head. The hem hit mid-thigh. I padded downstairs.
A strange woman stood in the kitchen.
She had her hair twisted into a severe bun and was wiping down the marble counter. She looked up the second I walked in with her hands going still on the cloth, her eyes narrowing as she took in the oversized shirt.
"Good morning," I offered.
"Good morning." She set the cloth down. "Who are you?"
"I'm Xavier's girlfriend," I answered.
She gave a slow shake of her head. "Xavier's girlfriend is someone else."
"Eliza," I supplied. "They broke up."
She abandoned the cloth and stared at me, her mouth drawing into a protective line as her chin lifted. She clearly knew Eliza. She'd probably watched Eliza move through this house for months, brewed her morning coffee, learned how she took her tea. I understood the loyalty.
"If you need to verify my security clearance," I added, dry, "he's upstairs."
She assessed me one long second, then turned back to wiping the counter.
I hopped onto a barstool.
"Do you just come by to clean?" I asked.
"Yes," she answered without turning around.
"Are you almost finished?"
She paused and glanced over her shoulder. "Why?"
"I want to make breakfast," I said. "But I didn't want to get in your way."
She studied my face, the rigid line of her mouth softening a fraction. "I'll be done soon," she murmured.
Heavy footsteps echoed on the staircase. Xavier appeared in the doorway with his dark hair a chaotic mess, wearing last night's dress shirt with the buttons fastened wrong.
"Morning, Ada," he mumbled, rubbing his eyes.
"Morning." Her tone warmed the instant she addressed him, the wariness melting away.
He dragged himself over to my stool and leaned in to kiss me. I slapped a hand against his chest, pushing him back.
"Your morning breath is a biohazard," I informed him.
He pulled back, offended. "It does not stink."
"Can you even smell your own breath?"
"Yes," he lied, and leaned in to kiss me anyway.
I groaned, twisting my face away, and he let out a rough laugh. He wrapped his arms around my waist from behind, resting his chin on my shoulder.
Less than an hour ago we'd been wrecked and crying in that bed upstairs. Now he was draped against my back, his terrible breath at my ear, entirely unbothered, and I was fighting a smile. The teasing was the same as it had always been. The difference was that nothing hid underneath it anymore.
"You have any plans today?" he murmured against my neck.
"Not really."
He reached around me and slid my phone across the marble until it sat in front of me. "Looks like you might."
I picked it up. A text from my father glared on the lock screen, a blunt demand to come by the estate.
I rolled my eyes.
"You going to go?" Xavier asked.
"No," I said.
"I should probably tell you something." He straightened and moved around the island to lean against the counter facing me. "Your father called my cell. We met in person yesterday."
"Why would you do that?" I demanded.
"He reached out. I was morbidly curious." He tilted his head, watching me. "He told me he wants you to inherit his whole company. He also said being with me would permanently keep that from happening."
I let out a bitter exhale through my nose. "That tracks. That's the angle he'd want to discuss."
"You going to call him back?"