Since the first time I walked into practice with red eyes and insisted it was allergies.
Blakely’s voice is soft. “Sloane.”
I keep my hands busy, untying my shoes. “What?”
Jade crosses her arms. “You were a mess today. Like…aSloanemess. Which is saying something.”
“I’m fine,” I say again, because it’s my favorite lie.
Blakely doesn’t move. “Did something happen?”
My throat tightens.
There’s a moment where I consider saying no.
Where I consider locking it down and walking away and letting them think I’m just tired or stressed or being dramatic.
But then Jade’s expression shifts—less teasing, more serious.
“You don’t have to do this alone,” she says, her voice blunt in the way Jade is blunt when she cares. “You know that, right?”
The words hit me in the sternum.
I swallow hard.
My hands stop moving.
I stare at my shoes because if I look at their faces, I’m going to break.
“My dad,” I manage, voice too quiet. “His scan came back.”
Silence.
Blakely’s breath catches. “Sloane…”
I keep going because stopping would kill me.
“It’s…worse,” I say, and the word is thin and useless. “It’s progressed. They…they said there aren’t really any more options.”
Jade’s eyes go wide, then harden like she’s looking for something to punch. “What the fuck.”
Blakely steps closer, hand hovering like she wants to touch me but doesn’t know if I’ll flinch. “What did they say?”
I finally look up.
Their faces are open. Unarmored.
And that’s what does it.
My chest tightens. My vision blurs.
I blink hard, forcing it back.
“They said…comfort care,” I whisper. “Hospice. At this point, with the treatments available, the cons outweigh the pros. It’s terminal.”
Blakely’s eyes fill instantly. Jade’s jaw clenches, and I can see her fighting the same impulse Cameron always has—the need to rage at something because rage feels better than helplessness.
“Oh my God,” Blakely breathes.
