It’s the people who would still want you even if you never ran another route again.
I tuck my phone away, grab an ice pack, and sit down.
And for the first time in months, I have no idea what I’m going to do.
33
LOGAN
I’ve always had a key to this house.
Not that I’ve needed it since I’ve moved back in—Sloane’s usually in and out, hospice is in and out, Cameron is in and out, and Pops…Pops is here, even when he isn’t really here the way he used to be. But the key lives on my ring like it always has, metal worn smooth from years of being used without anyone making me feel like it was temporary.
I let myself in that afternoon and shut the door softly behind me.
The Rhodes’ house smells like lemon cleaner and something warm from the laundry room as I walk in. No longer the hospital. No longer the antiseptic. Just home trying its best.
From the living room, I hear Pops’s voice carry.
“Logan! Get your ass in here.”
I smile before I can stop myself.
“Hi to you too,” I call back, kicking off my shoes and walking toward the sound.
Sloane is in the kitchen, hair up, sleeves pushed to her elbows, doing that thing she does where she looks busy onpurpose—like if she keeps moving, life can’t catch her. She glances at me over her shoulder, eyes flicking to my face in a way that’s become familiar lately.
When she gives me a small smile, I can’t help but smile back.
She’s so beautiful when she smiles. I wish she’d do it more often.
“You’re back early,” she says, tone neutral but not unfriendly.
“Pops summoned me,” I reply, nodding toward the hall. “I didn’t have a choice.”
Sloane snorts lightly. “He’s been in a mood.”
“When is he not?” I say.
Her mouth twitches, but it fades fast, her gaze drifting toward the hallway like she can feel him there even when she can’t see him. Then she clears her throat and turns back to the counter, opening a cabinet too hard.
I lean against the island, letting the quiet settle.
“What’s Cameron up to?” I ask, mostly because I know she’ll answer. Routine questions are safe. Routine questions keep everything from breaking open.
Sloane’s shoulders lift in a small shrug. “Out with friends. He said he’d be back later.”
I nod once. That tracks with Pops’s text earlier.
Pops: Let’s chat this afternoon. Cam’s gone tonight.
I’d read it twice, like it mattered that Pops asked instead of me offering.
Sloane wipes her hands on a dish towel and finally looks at me again. “Did you eat?”
“Not really.”
“Shocking,” she mutters, like she hates that she cares.
