“But he didn’t. He chose to leave me.”
I rubbed her back gently and said softly, “You’re not alone, Sloane. I promise I’ll always be here.”
She shook her head slowly and closed her eyes, but she didn’t say anything.
I sat there, her head on my chest, my eyes stayed with her until she finally drifted to sleep.
Sloane kept it all to herself for years—the trauma, the guilt, the fear of being left behind. She forced herself to believe she was better off alone.
She was afraid of affection, convinced she didn’t deserve it, and certain it would only end in pain.
She never spoke about it to anyone.
She had just buried it deep, locking it all away... until it finally exploded.
It took two days before she could even begin to function again, before the tears finally dried.
Right then, all I wanted to do was march to her parents’ house and fucking break their bones.
How could parents do this to their own children?
How could they not love them, not care for them the way they’re supposed to?
I would never do that to Harper. Sloane wouldn’t either.
God, to think what Xander went through.
And their parents could sit there at dinner with Sloane, relentless in their pressure, pushing her toward a career path,making it clear she was never good enough. Without a fucking shred of guilt for driving their son to end his life, they still did the same to their remaining child.
Sloane would never go back there again. Never.
My phone buzzed in my pocket. It was Caroline.
She was the one who helped us get an appointment at this clinic through her connections, even though it was already fully booked.
Sloane was the one who suggested it, once she was finally lucid enough to remember that Caroline had mentioned a friend who owned a psychiatric clinic. She asked me to call her.
“At that time... I was thinking of going,” Sloane said quietly. “I—I wanted to ask Caroline to help. To get me in. But I didn’t... I couldn’t. I was still scared. Because therapy, counseling... it meant talking. About it. About everything.”
And I knew, for her, talking about feelings was the hardest thing of all.
Caroline, clearly confused about why we were suddenly asking for that kind of help, came right away. She climbed onto the bed, knelt in front of Sloane, and hissed at me, “What happened?”
Honestly, I wasn’t sure what to say at the time. I didn’t even know if Sloane wanted Caroline to know.
But then she shocked us both—reaching out, gripping Caroline’s hand, and whispering, “Get me help, Car. Please help me. Please. I can’t do this anymore.”
Caroline was so stunned that all she could do was gape at me, demanding an explanation.
I picked up the call and heard my sister say, “How is she? Are you still at the clinic?” She sounded worried. Of course, she was. She had come over and seen it for herself—the state of ruin Sloane was in.
“Yes,” I answered.
“Fuck, Cam. What really happened to her?” Caroline asked. She only knew fragments, not the whole story. “Why didn’t we see it?”
I didn’t know how to answer.
Maybe because Sloane never let anyone see. Maybe because we weren’t looking hard enough, or maybe we saw just enough to be afraid of what it meant.
