Because I know she’s sleeping. Because she deserves that.
And because I’ll be home soon.
I point at Beck as I back toward the door. “Don’t forget where you came from when you’re famous.”
“Yeah, well, I kinda like you,” he calls after me. “Which is unfortunate.”
I flip him off without turning around.
In the hallway, the football house is louder than it used to be—guys yelling, TVs blaring, life moving forward like it always does. Posters on the walls. The smell of protein powder. Someone’s music thumping through a closed door.
This place is home to some.
But it isn’t mine. Not anymore.
As I step outside into the soft California air, warmth already settling in, the sky bright and clean, I catch myself smiling again.
Because I know exactly where I’m going.
Right back to Sloane.
Back to the life I didn’t plan for but somehow ended up needing more than the one I always thought I wanted.
Today, I’m not scared of the uncertainty that my future holds. I can’t be.
Not when the one thing I’m sure about is waiting for me on the other end of the drive.
—
Sloane
From April through May, I barely survive. But in June, I finally start to come back alive.
Summer doesn’t come in with a bang.
It slips in like a quiet agreement the world makes with itself—blue skies, warm air, the kind of sunlight that makeseverything look like it should be easier than it is. Like grief should evaporate if you just give it enough time.
It doesn’t.
But it changes.
It gets less…sharp.
Less like drowning and more like carrying a heavy backpack you can’t take off. You get stronger in tiny ways without realizing it. You learn which floorboards creak and which grocery aisle will make you cry because Pops always bought the same brand of cereal. You learn you can laugh in the kitchen and still feel the ache in your chest at the exact same time.
Life kept going.
Even when I didn’t want it to.
Cameron graduates on a Saturday that feels too bright for how complicated I am inside. He wears his cap crooked, like he’s allergic to taking anything seriously, and he keeps messing with the tassel until I swat his hand away.
“You’re going to blind someone,” I mutter.
He smirks. “You love me.”
“I tolerate you.”
He leans in like he’s about to whisper something heartfelt and then says, “Logan’s crying right now, isn’t he?”
