Silence.
Then, softer, and it’s the softness that kills me. “Sloane?—”
“I said go away!” I scream, and I slam the door so hard the mirror rattles.
The sound echoes in the tiny bathroom.
My breath comes in jagged bursts.
Through the door, I hear him. Still there.
“I’m not going anywhere,” he says. “I’ll be right here.”
“I don’t want you here,” I choke out.
“I know,” he says. “I’m staying anyway.”
And somehow that’s worse than anything. Because it means he sees me at my absolute worst, and he’s choosing to stay.
I slide down the wall until I’m sitting on the cold tile floor, knees pulled to my chest, arms wrapped around myself like I can hold my body together by force.
I squeeze my eyes shut.
Breathe.
Lock it down.
Because Pops will come home in an hour.
He’ll walk in carrying a bag of food like this is a normal day.
He’ll smile at me and ask how practice was.
And I will smile back like my father’s brain isn’t being taken over by something we can’t outrun.
7
LOGAN
Pops doesn’t say he feels wrong, but I can see it anyway.
It’s in the way he moves through the living room like the floor might shift beneath him. In the way he pauses at the doorway—not because he’s tired, but like he’s listening to his own body for instructions. In the way his hand finds his temple again and again, fingers pressing lightly like he’s trying to quiet something that won’t settle.
He’ll admit it’s a headache. He’ll shrug off our concerns, not admitting that he’s in any sort of pain.
Because Pops has always been the kind of man who pushes on through just about anything to put the needs and peace of others above his own.
But his eyes are different lately. Less sharp. Less amused. Like he’s been running a race in his head that the rest of us can’t see.
And Sloane…
Sloane is the epitome of strength. Stubborn, yes, but only because it’s the only way she knows how to protect herself. Only today, her “fine” feels thin as paper.
She’s been moving like she’s trying to outrun the house itself—slipping down the hall before anyone can look too closely, disappearing behind her bedroom door, reappearing only when she has to. Like existing in the same space as all of us is too much.
I’ve seen her angry. I’ve seen her cold. I’ve seen her mean when she’s cornered.
This is different.
