Page 171 of Suite 7

I blink. Of everything she could have said in this moment, that was not what I expected.

“You’re still my brother, you idiot.”

“I know.” My voice comes out rough. “Thank you for that.”

She makes a sound that is almost, not quite, a laugh.

I stand and pull her toward me, wrapping my arms around her. She resists for half a second, body stiff, still angry, still carrying all of it — then collapses against me completely, sobbing into my chest.

Her whole body shakes, fingers fisting in my shirt, her face pressed hard into my shoulder. She cries the way she hasn’t cried since Dad died, like a week of hurt and fear and anger has finally found somewhere to go.

I hold her tight, one hand cradling the back of her head the way I used to when we were kids and she had nightmares, my other arm around her back, keeping her steady. My own tears come hot and fast, soaking into her hair.

“I’m sorry,” I whisper. “I’ll never lie to you again. Never. I swear.”

She cries harder.

We stand there as the sunset fades outside her windows and the room dims around us. Just holding each other. Just siblings.

“I’m angry,” she cries into my chest, the words muffled and broken. “I’m so angry.”

“I know. You have every right to be.”

“I felt so stupid about Lisa. Like everyone must have been laughing at me.”

“No one was laughing. And you weren’t stupid.” I press my cheek to the top of her head. “We were the assholes.”

A tiny sound escapes her — could be a laugh, could be another sob. “Yeah. You were.”

Her sobs gradually quiet to hiccups, then to shaky breathing, then to almost calm, but neither of us lets go.

Finally she pulls back slightly and looks up at me, face blotchy, eyes swollen, tear-streaked.

“I need time,” she says. “To process. To figure out how this works.” A breath. “And Vera — that’s separate. In my own time. Don’t push me on that.”

“I won’t.”

She searches my face to check if I mean it. I hold still and let her.

“Okay,” she says finally.

The word costs her something. I can see it. She’s giving me a door back in and it isn’t easy and she’s doing it anyway, because she’s Sloane, because this is what she does with the people she loves even when they’ve hurt her.

“We okay?” I ask.

She’s quiet for a long moment.

“We’re getting there.”

Not we’re fine. Not I forgive you. But we’re getting there, and from Sloane right now that’s everything.

I stand to leave. She walks me to the door, which is more than I arrived expecting.

At the threshold she says my name. I turn back.

She’s standing with her arms wrapped around herself, looking at me the way she used to when we were kids and she wanted to say something but hadn’t found the words yet.

“I’ll try,” she says finally. “That’s all I’ve got right now.”