I keep walking past the bathroom to Sloane’s room.
Her door is closed, but not locked. I know because I’ve known this house forever.
I hesitate, hand hovering near the knob, heart pounding.
This is stupid. Probably a little invasive.
This is the kind of thing she’ll hate.
But the sob in the shower echoes in my head, and I think of Cameron’s face outside and Pops rubbing his temple like he’s trying to press pain back into silence.
And I think of Sloane sitting in that oncology room, made of stone.
I open her door quietly, just a crack.
Her room is dim, blinds half closed, bed perfectly made as though she hasn’t allowed herself to exist in it today. The air smells faintly like her lotion—something clean and floral and controlled.
I step inside just enough to see her nightstand.
A book stacked neatly. A phone charger coiled. A water ring from a glass that used to be there.
I set the new glass down carefully, as if sound might break her.
Then I stand there for one second longer than I should, staring at the closed bathroom door down the hall, listening to the shower and the quiet grief underneath it.
I don’t say her name.
I don’t leave a note.
I just do the only thing I know how to do without making it about me.
I give her water.
Because she’ll need it when she’s done pretending she’s fine.
I slip back out, shutting her door softly behind me.
The shower keeps running.
Her crying keeps hiding in it.
And I return to the living room with my leg throbbing and my chest tight and the sick certainty that this house is changing shape around us.
We’re all trying to keep our heads above the water, but some things are just too heavy.
10
SLOANE
Normal is a performance.
It’s the way I tie my shoes in a double knot like it’s just another Tuesday. The way I pull my hair into a ponytail so tight my scalp aches. The way I stand in front of my mirror and practice a face that doesn’t look like it just watched the world end.
I brush my teeth. I rinse. I spit.
I look up at myself and whisper, “Get it together.”
My reflection doesn’t argue.
