My hand finds the back of her seat first—an anchor point—then my fingers slide down, just enough to brush her shoulder.
Not a hug.
Not a claim.
Just…a reminder that she’s not alone in this car.
She doesn’t turn around.
But her shoulders drop a fraction, like her body recognizes support even if her brain can’t.
Cameron pulls out of the driveway.
The Rhodes’ house disappears behind us.
And the closer we get to the church, the more the air inside the car changes—thickening, tightening, like reality is bracing for impact.
Sloane whispers something I almost don’t hear. “I don’t know how to say goodbye.”
My chest caves.
I lean forward slightly, voice low so only she can hear me.
“You don’t have to say it right,” I tell her. “You just have to show up.”
Her throat moves. A shaky inhale.
And then the smallest nod.
Cameron turns the corner toward the parking lot.
Black cars line the curb.
People in dark clothes.
A building waiting.
Sloane’s hand lifts to the door handle and stops.
Like she’s about to step out of the car and into a life that doesn’t have Pops in it.
And I can’t fix it.
I can’t soften it.
I can only be here—behind her, beside her, with them.
The car rolls to a stop.
Cameron kills the engine.
And for one last second, we sit in silence, holding our breath like we’re allowed to stay suspended.
Then Cameron opens his door.
And one of the hardest days of our lives begins.
39
