“She’ll know.”
“Probably.” He shrugs, unbothered. “But at least she won’t have confirmation. Plausible deniability.”
“That’s a terrible strategy.”
“It’s worked for twenty years,” he says. Then, softer, “Let me have this one, kid.”
I nod, throat tight. “Okay.”
“Okay.” He claps my shoulder once, firm and warm. Then he’s gone, disappearing inside his room, the door clicking shut softly behind him.
I stand there for a moment, crutch digging into my armpit, staring at the closed door.
Then I hear it.
Movement from Sloane’s room. Not a sob. Not a breakdown.
Just…breathing. Existing. Bedsprings creaking softly, followed by a drawer opening. Closing. Normal sounds that somehow feel weighted.
I know I should go back to the living room. Mind my business. Give her space.
But Pops’s words are still sitting in my head.
Just be around.
Try not to make things harder.
I don’t knock. I don’t say anything.
I just stand there in the hallway for a moment, one hand braced against the wall. Close enough that if she opened the door, she’d see me.
Close enough that she’d know someone’s there.
Even if that someone is me.
After a minute, I turn and head back to the living room, my crutch tapping against the hardwood. Tap-step. Tap-step.
I lower myself back onto the couch, my knee screaming in protest.
The TV is still on. Still muted.
I stare at it without seeing it.
Because maybe that’s all I can offer right now.
Just being here.
Even when she doesn’t want me to be.
Even when I don’t know how to help.
I can be here.
I can try not to make things worse.
It’s not much.
But it’s what I’ve got.
