I try to smile. It falls apart somewhere in transit. “Try me.”
He picks at the frayed edge of the blanket covering his knees, pulling at a loose thread. “Sloane’s not handling this as well as she thinks she is.”
Yeah. That tracks. I’ve seen the cracks forming, even if she’d never admit they’re there.
“She’s trying to control everything,” he continues. “Every detail, every emotion. She thinks if she can just manage it all perfectly, nothing bad will happen.”
The fact that his cancer is back is implied but never said outright. He always tries to soften the blow with other words, especially around Sloane.
“She’s got this idea in her head that she has to hold everything together,” Pops says. “Has to be strong for everyone.”
I shift on the couch, my brace creaking. “What do you want me to do?”
“Just…be around,” he says. “I know you two have your issues?—”
“Understatement of the year.”
He chuckles weakly. “She gives you a hard time.”
“She hates me.”
“No,” he says, calm and certain. “She doesn’t.”
I stare. “You weren’t at that party her freshman year.”
“Oh, I heard about it,” he says. “From both of you. Different angles but the same wound.”
My chest tightens.
“She kissed some asshole to get my attention,” I mutter.
“And you punished her for it,” he says, sharper than I expect. “Because you were too chickenshit to admit you cared.”
He gives me a look. “I’m serious, Logan. She needs people right now, even if she won’t admit it. And you’re here.”
“She doesn’t want me here.”
“Maybe not,” he agrees easily. “But you’re here anyway. So just…try not to make things harder for her.”
It’s not a big ask. It’s not profound or heavy. It’s just practical.
And somehow that makes it easier to agree to.
“Okay,” I say. “I can do that.”
“Good.” He nods. “Now help me up. I’m going to bed before Cameron comes back.”
I push up carefully, the crutch biting into my palm as I lever myself to standing. The movement is awkward and ungraceful, but I manage. Pops takes my arm when he stands, and I feel the full weight of him leaning on me. His grip is still strong—that hasn’t changed—but there’s a hesitation in his movements that wasn’t there before. Like his body is betraying him in small ways he can’t quite compensate for yet.
We move down the hall with slow, measured steps. My crutch taps against the hardwood with each step, creating an uneven rhythm. Tap-step. Tap-step.
“You need anything?” I ask when we reach his door. “Water? Another blanket? I can grab?—”
“I’m good,” he says, cutting me off gently. Then he pauses, hand on the doorknob. “Actually—if Sloane asks, tell her I ate more than I did.”
I almost laugh. Almost. “You want me to lie to her?”
“I want you to spare her the worry,” he corrects, meeting my eyes. “There’s a difference.”
