Sloane’s eyes flick to my mouth again.
Her fingers curl into the sleeve of her hoodie.
And just as the last inch disappears?—
Pops coughs from the living room.
A soft, rough sound that cuts through the hallway like a knife.
Sloane flinches like she’s been burned.
She jerks back, eyes flashing with anger that has nothing to do with Pops and everything to do with herself.
“I can’t do this right now,” she snaps.
My chest tightens. “I wasn’t?—”
“Yes, you were,” she cuts in, voice shaking. “Don’t do that.”
I swallow hard. “Okay.”
My calm “okay” seems to make her eyes flash hotter.
I step back, keeping my hands to myself, even though every part of me wants to reach out to her.
“I’m trying not to make things harder for you,” I say quietly.
Sloane’s throat works. Her gaze darts toward the living room like she’s terrified Pops heard.
Then she looks back at me, eyes sharp and wet.
“I don’t have space for you right now,” she whispers.
The words hit like a punch.
My throat burns.
“I know,” I say softly.
Sloane’s jaw tightens like she hates my softness more than my sharpness. Then she turns and disappears into her room, the door clicking shut like a verdict.
I stand in the hallway for a long second, staring at the wood grain of her door, feeling my heart thud against my ribs like it’s trying to break out.
Then I limp back to the couch and sit down, ice pack already melting against my knee, Pops asleep in his recliner.
And I realize something that makes my chest ache in a whole new way:
I’m not scared of Cameron finding out.
I’m scared that Sloane is right.
That she doesn’t have space for me.
And that I’m going to want her anyway.
19
SLOANE
