I finally lift my eyes.
Cameron’s expression is rawer than usual. “Whatever it is, he’s been trying not to drop it on you. That’s…very Logan.”
That should comfort me.
It doesn’t.
Because “trying not to drop it on me” is just another way of saying he’s been holding something back.
From me.
And the part of me that’s still shattered from Pops—the part that wakes up thinking everyone leaves—wraps its fingers around that and squeezes.
I force a breath.
Then another.
I make my voice steady with pure will. “Okay.”
Cameron’s brow furrows. “Okay?”
“Okay,” I repeat, too calm. Too controlled. “Thanks for telling me.”
Cameron’s eyes narrow like he knows I’m lying with my whole body.
But he doesn’t push.
Because maybe he knows pushing will crack me.
We sit there for another minute, neither of us really eating.
Then I stand, tray in hand, legs weirdly steady.
“I need to go,” I say.
Cameron stands immediately. “Sloane?—”
“I’m fine,” I say automatically.
The lie tastes familiar.
Cameron’s gaze softens. “Do you want me to come with you?”
I swallow.
Part of me wants to say yes.
Part of me wants to run back to Logan and demand the truth like I’m entitled to it.
Part of me wants to pretend I didn’t hear anything at all.
“No,” I say quietly. “I just…need some air.”
“Okay.” Cameron nods, reluctant. “Text me later.”
“I will.”
I walk out into the sunlight, and it hits my face like a slap.
