That thread expands, pushing against the wood-paneled walls and the humming window unit, crowding out the emptiness we’re both so intent on hiding from the world. Even from ourselves.
“Can I come to Tahoe with you, Sloane?” he asks after a moment. “Please.”
I can’t refuse him. That one word—please—coming from him demolishes every one of my defenses. It nearly demolishes me. Also, I don’t want to say no. I want more mornings and miles andmore of whatever this is, despite understanding it has to end. And ending it will hurt in ways I’m not letting myself acknowledge. Not yet.
I wasn’t prom queen or one of the cool kids. I was the girl in the shredded dress who couldn’t stop running from things she couldn’t control. I might still be that girl, but right now the thing I’m afraid of is saying goodbye to this man before I’m ready.
“Yeah,” I tell him. “You can come.”
The storm in his gray eyes calms so suddenly it steals my breath. I want to press this moment between the pages of my golden notebook so I can keep it forever.
“Should I book flights, or are you borrowing your brother’s?—”
“We’re driving.” I sit up straighter. “I want to experience every mile it takes me to find her.”
“Yeah.” He laughs softly. “I get that.”
I point at him. “Just so we’re clear. My car, my playlist.”
“Yourcar?”
“Myrentalcar. Semantics.”
The smile he flashes deepens the lines around his eyes, and…cue the butterflies. It’s frankly unfair that wrinkles make himmoreattractive. I can’t think of one thing that could make him less, at least for me.
Maybe I don’t need Kristen Quinn’s carefully curated brand of courage anymore. I’m learning to build my own.
But I still want to finish what I started. I need to look her in the eye and ask if any of what she said about transforming your life—the words that guided mine—was real. Or if I have to figure out that part for myself as well. Although, I’m beginning to think I already am.
22
JENSEN
Seven hoursinto the road trip, after a break for gas and snacks, Sloane and I climb back into the SUV she rented for the fifteen-hour drive to Tahoe. I’m behind the wheel for this stretch—we’ve been switching off every couple hours—but she maintains firm control over the aux cord, and I’m not about to fight her for it.
Every song she picks, from old-school Joni Mitchell to current Sabrina Carpenter, feels like another window into the woman I’m flat-out obsessed with understanding. Does everyone read too much into the playlists of people they’re falling for?
I want to believe all of this means something more.
I’ve got a fresh cup of black gas-station coffee wedged into the cupholder, and Sloane is sorting through our convenience store haul like she’s evaluating a new shipment of books.
“Dude, come on.” She holds up a bag of trail mix. “This is too healthy to be allowed.”
I chuckle and signal to change lanes. “Do you know how much of my life has been spent on tour buses? If I only ate garbage, my body would’ve staged a rebellion years ago.”
“Well, my body’s revolt is what started this whole thing.” Shedrops the trail mix into the center console and grabs a package of Twizzlers instead, tearing the top open with her teeth. “We’ve come to an understanding, and now it wants some red licorice.”
“The perfect road trip snack,” I agree, trying to sound casual.
It’s not the first time Sloane has referenced her cancer offhandedly. Well, not counting the conversation on the trail, which was anything but casual. But hearing her deliver a throwaway line about the disease that almost killed her sends a wave of something that straddles the line between regret and respect rushing through my veins. I don’t know why her attitude is affecting me so much, but it does.
When my mother was sick, her illness consumed everything. She talked about it constantly. Her symptoms, her prognosis, and which herbal supplement some woman at church recommended. Cancer wasn’t just inside her body, it filled every crevice of our lives. Jamie and I couldn’t take a breath that wasn’t touched by it.
But most of the time with Sloane, I forget. I know she doesn’t want sympathy or special treatment. She’s just herself, irreverent and fierce, and it startles me when I remember there’s a disease she’s still fighting, because she makes it easy not to see it.
Sometimes I worry that I’m being negligent or willfully trying to ignore reality. I know she has cancer, and even at her stage of treatment, it can take a toll. And because of what my mom went through, my mind can spiral to some pretty dark places if I let it. Like when she fell asleep so fast in the ATV yesterday and stayed that way for the entire ride. Was that her body hammering home a message she’s been actively trying to ignore? But I’ve also known plenty of roadies and musicians who spend most of their highway time unconscious. Sleep in a moving vehicle doesn’t have to mean anything.
But it could, and I’m sure that’s a fact she never forgets.
