There’s a difference.
“I’m not calm,” I say softly. “I’m just…trying not to fall apart in front of him or any of you.”
Cameron’s gaze flicks toward the house.
“Yeah,” he whispers. “Me too.”
We stand there in the cold for a long moment, neither of us speaking, both of us breathing in the same grief like it’s oxygen we didn’t ask for.
Finally, Cameron scrubs his face and straightens, like he’s putting his armor back on.
“I should go,” he says, voice clipped. “I’ve got class. Lift. Whatever. I’ll come back later.”
He doesn’t look at me when he says it. Because if he does, he might not be able to leave.
I nod once. “Text me.”
Cameron jerks his chin. “Yeah.”
Then he turns and heads to his car, movements rigid, like if he stops walking he’ll shatter.
I watch him drive away.
The house behind me feels heavier than it did before.
I take a slow breath and force myself back inside.
Pops is still in the recliner when I walk in, blanket pulled higher, eyes closed like he’s resting but not really sleeping. The TV is still on low.
He opens his eyes when he hears the door.
“Cameron okay?” he asks.
The question is so Pops it almost breaks me.
I swallow. “He’s…Cameron.”
Pops hums like he understands everything that sentence contains. He rubs his temple again, slower this time.
“You want me to help you to bed?” I ask.
Pops’s mouth twitches. “You?” he teases weakly, eyes flicking to my brace. “Even after your rehab today?”
“Yeah, well.” I adjust my grip on the crutch. “I’ve got heart and a hard head on my side.”
“That you do,” he murmurs.
He pushes himself up carefully. I move in anyway, offering my arm. He takes it without comment, like we both know pride is pointless tonight.
His weight is heavier than it used to be.
His steps are careful.
When we reach his room, he pauses and looks down the hall toward Sloane’s door.
“She eat?” he asks softly.
My chest tightens. “I don’t know.”
