My heart raced in my chest.
The last time I had a moment alone with Sloane was when we talked in front of her bedroom, sitting on the floor, spilling out the truth.
This time, I hoped with everything in me that it could be the start of a new beginning for us.
The oven dinged, and Sloane moved to take out the dish while I set the table. Everything was still in its old place, so it was easy to find what I needed.
We stayed quiet as we sat across from each other and began to eat. I was still fairly full, and I was grateful that Sloane had given me only a small serving. And all the while, I was thinking hard about what to say.
“It doesn’t have to be this awkward, Cam,” Sloane said, and I lifted my head to look at her. She laughed when she caught my expression. “You look really nervous.”
I laughed too, trying to sound at ease, but the sound gave me away. “I don’t know why, but I am nervous.”
“You don’t have to,” she said. “Because it’s me, Cam. And I’d like to think this is the better version of me.”
I looked at her and felt myself melting. In her eyes, I could see the desperate hope that I had noticed how hard she had been trying. “I’ve learned something, Sloane,” I said softly. “No matter what version of you there is, I’ll always love you.”
She let out a small sigh, her shoulders easing as if in relief.
And then, as if she hadn’t finished surprising me today, she said, “You know that I love you, Cam.”
I searched her face, almost bracing myself for the shift I had come to expect. But it never came. I just kept staring at her, unable to believe it.
And she noticed. “I’ve been practicing,” she said softly. “Saying it when I was alone and in therapy. I want to be able to say it without flinching, without the fear.” She paused, then added with a shy smile, “I think I’m doing a good job, aren’t I?”
My eyes grew warm. “You’re doing more than a good job, Sloane. You’re incredible. I’m so proud of you.”
“Thank you.” Her smile widened as she turned back to her plate, and I caught the faintest blush on her cheeks. Sloane never blushed. “You have to know I’m doing this for you, too.”
“I know,” I said, my voice catching. “That means everything to me.”
Her gaze dropped to her plate. “Let’s finish eating.”
We continued eating, and afterwards we slipped into the rhythm we used to know so well, especially on our good days—clearing the dishes, wrapping up the leftovers, and tucking them into the fridge. It felt easy, like no time had passed at all. Then we poured ourselves some wine and sat across from each other at the dining table.
The conversation started light, circling around Harper, but slowly drifted into heavier things—stories about our patients and the weight of our days. At one point, she told me she wanted to go on a holiday. I didn’t dare ask if that holiday included me.
When her yawns grew more frequent and her eyes lingered shut between blinks, I knew it was time for me to go. She walked me to the front door and opened it, and every part of me resisted stepping outside. I didn’t want to leave. I wanted to stay.
We stood there, facing each other, our eyes holding more than words could say. Then, without hesitation, she rose onto her toes, her hands resting lightly on my shoulders, and pressed her lips to mine. And lingered.
I froze, stunned, caught between believing and doubting, afraid it might vanish if I moved too quickly.
“Good night, Cam,” she said gently, pulling away. “Tomorrow night I’m making Ranch Grilled Chicken Burritos, your favorite. Don’t eat dinner at Anita’s, okay?”
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Sloane
Iwas up early that morning, already showered and dressed, as I moved through the kitchen to make breakfast. A cup of coffee was cooling in my hand while I watched Harper pick at her cereal. I sat across from her. All the while, I was counting down the minutes until Cameron’s car pulled up out front and the doorbell rang.
This had become the highlight of my day—waiting for that sound, knowing he’d be on the other side of the door. How simple it was, and yet how much it meant. Just him showing up, smiling at me, saying my name like it was something precious. My life was moving forward, carefully but steadily, collecting new memories that felt like the first stones of a path I was finally meant to walk. And the thought of it filled me with something I hadn’t dared to feel in a long time: excitement.
It hit me then, how far we’d come. How much we’d broken, how much we’d bled, and somehow we were still standing. Maybe even stronger. We’d laid our mistakes bare, owned the wreckage, and tried—really tried—to rebuild for each other and for the little girl who was our whole world.
But beneath that hard-won triumph was the harder question: what came next? What did moving forward actually mean for us?
Did it mean finding our way back to each other?
