I’ve been sitting in the chair next to her bed, checking the pulse oximeter like it’s my job, since a nurse took pity on me shortly after Sloane was admitted. The old habit fired right up, and I slid back into the bedside vigil like it hadn’t been two decades since I’d been here before.
My mother’s oxygen regularly dropped into the low nineties near the end. The alarm would sound, and I’d sit up straighter and hold her hand and tell her everything was going to be fine, while Jamie stayed home because he couldn’t handle hospitals. At nineteen, I didn’t know the first thing about fine. But someone had to say it.
Sloane shifts in her sleep, and my spine goes rigid. Her fingers twitch against the sheet, and I lean forward to confirm she’s still breathing steadily. The monitor beeps its dependable rhythm, so I ease back.
She’s going to be pissed that I called Avah in order to reach Jeremy. Calling her people might be deemed a direct violation of everything she’s been fighting for. But she’s immunocompromised, and she passed out from the fever, which, based on her history, could have meant sepsis. I’ve heard enough medical terminology in my life to know which combinations demand a tough call.
My mother spent years keeping secrets about how bad it really was because she didn’t want to worry us. By the time Jamie and I understood the full picture, it was too late for anything but watching her go. Even if there was a minuscule chance of Sloane’s condition being life-threatening, the risk was too much. I’d make the call to her brother again without hesitation.
I failed my mother, and every person I’ve taken care of since has been, in some way, trying to rewrite that ending.
And I’m in love with Sloane, but I don’t know where loving her ends and needing to save her begins.
“You look so serious.”
I startle and glance up to find her blue eyes are fixed on me with an alertness that doesn’t match the pallor of her skin or the IV snaking into her arm.
I scoot the chair closer and take her hand. Her skin is regular warm, not the scorching heat of eight hours ago, and a breath I didn’t know I was holding releases inch by inch.
“I’m sorry,” I say.
“Why are you sorry? I’m the one who cost you a night of sleep.” She flashes a wan smile. “And at your age, you need your beauty rest.”
She’s going to be the death of me.
“What time is it?”
“Almost ten.”
“Wow.” She blinks. “I guess I’m the one who needed a nap.” Her gaze drops to the IV in her arm, and a bleak look flickers across her face. “God, I hate these things. I have poke PTSD for sure.”
I know what she’s doing. Wrapping the heaviness in a joke so it’s easier to carry. But I can’t match her lightness right now.
“I’ve been sitting here going over everything I got wrong.” I press my thumb against her knuckles. “You had to do the lion’s share of the work on the trail because I was hurting. And I knew we should have flown to Tahoe instead of tackling a long-ass drive. We didn’t need to close down the bar last night, but you felt so good in my arms.” I scrub a hand over my jaw and hold her gaze, willing her to understand. “I kept choosing what I wanted over what you needed, and I’m so fucking sorry.”
She slides her fingers out of mine and sets her hand on the blanket. “I can take care of myself.” Her voice is flat in a wayI haven’t heard since the bookstore in Skylark. “That’s the whole point of why I’m here.”
“I thought the point was meeting your hero.”
“She was a means to an end.” Anger and frustration flare in her eyes. “And the end is that I refuse to be defined by having cancer.”
“Nobody’s trying to define you, Sloane. I just want to keep you safe.”
“I don’t wantsafe.” She says it like the word leaves a bitter taste in her mouth. “I mean, I do. But that’s notallI want. I want adventure and to be brave even when it’s scary. I spent a year letting a disease decide what was good for me. What I could eat, where I could go, how many stairs I could climb before a nurse needed to check my pulse. I’m done with that, Jensen.”
“You’ve been plenty brave.” I lean forward, elbows on my knees. “I know what it takes to win the kind of fight you’re in. And it’s easier when someone’s looking out for you instead of the other way around. It’s a lesson my mother never learned. At the end, she was more worried about Jamie and me than?—”
“I’m not your mother.”
The words cut straight to the nerve. Not because of her tone, which is almost flat. Because of how swiftly they find it. I realize she’s not angry. She’s afraid of becoming another broken thing for me to arrange my life around.
“I know,” I manage.
“Do you?”
“This is who I am. I take care of the people I?—”
The door opens and Jeremy Winslow enters the room with the authority of a man who knows he’s at the top of the food chain. Avah is half a step behind him, worry tight across her features. Another one of Sloane’s friends—who’s familiar from that afternoon in the bookstore, but I can’t name—brings up the rear.