“How’s Karen?” I asked.
“Mom is holding up. She’s spending the night with a few friends at a spa. They’re having facials tonight and the works tomorrow. It sounds like a safe space to let her feel sad and…” Sloane closed her eyes for a moment.
It was more words and fewer insults than I was used to from her.
“Relieved?” I guessed.
Those green eyes fluttered open and bored into me. “Maybe.”
“He was suffering. It’s natural to be glad that part of it is over.”
She hopped up on the counter, planting herself next to my fast-food dinner. “Still seems wrong,” she said.
I reached around her and snagged a French fry from the plate. It was just an excuse to get closer to her. To test myself.
“Why are you here, Sloane?”
Even as I conspired to get closer, I was still pushing her away. The dynamic was taxing on a good day. On a day like today, it was fucking exhausting.
She took another fry and pointed it at me. “Because I want to know why my mom greeted you like you were a long-lost Walton today. What does she think she owes you? What were you talking about?”
I wasn’t about to begin that conversation. If Sloane had any hint of what I’d done, she’d never leave me in peace again. “Look, it’s late. I’m tired. You should go.”
“It’s 5:30 in the evening, you grumpy pain in the ass.”
“I don’t want you here.” The truth snapped out of me in a desperate rush.
She sat up straighter on the counter but made no move to leave. She’d always been too comfortable with my temper. That was part of the problem. Either she overestimated her invincibility or she underestimated what raged beneath my surface. I wasn’t going to let her stick around long enough to find out which.
She cocked her head, sending that long swing of blond hair over her shoulder. She’d changed up the tone, going from a faded raspberry to a silvery shimmer at the tips. “You know what I kept thinking about today during the services?”
She as well as her mother and sister had spoken in front of the crowd, eloquently, emotionally. But it was the single tear that slid down Sloane’s cheek, the ones she dashed away with my handkerchief, that had sliced me open and left me raw.
“A dozen new ways to piss me off, starting with invading my privacy?”
“How happy Dad would have been if we’d ever pretended to get along.”
It was my turn to close my eyes. She landed the strike with expert precision. Guilt was a sharp weapon.
Simon would have loved nothing more than to see his daughter and his “project” at least friendly toward each other again.
“I guess there’s no reason to start now,” she continued. Her eyes were locked on mine. There was nothing friendly in her gaze. Only a pain and grief that mirrored my own. But we weren’t going to mourn together.
“I guess not,” I agreed.
She heaved a sigh, then hopped off the counter. “Cool. I’ll show myself out.”
“Take the coat,” I said, holding it out to her. “It’s cold.”
She shook her head. “If I take it, I’d have to bring it back, and I’d rather not come back here.” Her gaze flicked around the space, and I knew she too had ghosts here.
“Take the fucking coat, Sloane.” My voice was hoarse. I pushed it into her arms, not giving her the choice.
For a second, we were connected by cashmere.
“Are you here for me?” she asked suddenly.
“What?”
“You heard me. Are you here for me?”
“I came to pay my respects. Your father was a good man, and your mother has always been nothing but kind to me.”
“Why did you come back this summer?”
“Because my oldest friends were behaving like children.”
“And I didn’t factor into those decisions?” she pressed.
“You never do.”
She nodded briskly. There was no hint of emotion on her lovely face. “Good.” She took the coat from me and slid her arms through the too-long sleeves. “When are you going to sell this place?” she asked, fluffing that silvery blond hair out of the collar.
“Spring,” I said.
“Good,” she said again. “It’ll be nice having decent neighbors for a change,” she said.
Then Sloane Walton walked out of my house without looking back.
I ate the cold burger and fries instead of the chicken, then washed the plate and returned it to the cabinet. The counters and floors were next as I wiped away any trace my unwanted visitor may have left behind.
I was tired. That hadn’t been a lie. I wanted nothing more than to take a hot shower and go to bed with a book. But I wouldn’t sleep. Not until she did. Besides, there was work to be done. I headed upstairs to my old bedroom, a space I now used primarily as an office.
I sat down at the desk under the large bay window that overlooked the backyard and offered a view of Sloane’s. My phone signaled a text.
Karen: We’re having a wonderful time. Just what the soul needed today. Thank you again for being so thoughtful and generous! P.S. My friend has a daughter she wants you to meet.
She included a winking smiley face and a selfie of her and her friends in matching robes, all with green goop on their faces. Their eyes were red and swollen, but the smiles looked genuine. Some people could withstand the worst without it damaging their souls. The Waltons were those people. I, on the other hand, had been born damaged.
Me: You’re welcome. No daughters.
I scrolled through the rest of my text messages until I found the thread I was looking for.
Simon: If I could have chosen a son in this lifetime, it would have been you. Take care of my girls.
It was the last text I’d ever receive from the man I’d admired. The man who had so foolishly believed I could be saved. I dropped the phone, my fingers flexing, and once again I wished I’d saved the day’s cigarette for now. Instead, I pressed the heels of my hands to my eyes, willing away the burn I felt there.
I tamped it down, picked up the phone again, and scrolled through my contacts. She shouldn’t be alone, I rationalized.
Me: Sloane isn’t at her sister’s. She’s home alone.
Naomi: Thanks for the heads-up. I had a feeling she was going to try to wrangle some sneaky alone time. Lina and I will handle it.
Duty performed, I booted up my laptop and opened the first of eight reports that required my attention. I’d barely made it through the financials on the first when my phone vibrated on the desk. This time, it was a call.
Emry Sadik.
Deciding to wallow in my misery instead of discussing it, I let it go to voicemail.
A text arrived moments later.
Emry: I’ll just keep calling. You might as well save us both the time and answer.
I had barely finished rolling my eyes when the next call came through.
“Yes?” I answered dryly.
“Oh good. You’re not completely spiraling into self-destruction.” Dr. Emry Sadik was a psychologist, elite performance coach, and—worst of all—an accidental friend. The man knew most of my deepest, darkest secrets. I’d given up trying to disabuse him of the belief that I was worth saving.
“Did you call for a specific reason or just to annoy me?” I asked.
I heard the unmistakable crack and clink of his predinner pistachios shells as they hit the bowl. I could picture him at the table in his study, a basketball game on mute, the day’s crossword in front of him. Emry was a man who believed in routine and efficiency…and being there for his friends even when they didn’t want him.
“How did it go today?”
“Fine. Depressing. Sad.”
Crack. Clink.
“How are you feeling?”
“Infuriated,” I answered. “A man like that could be doing more good. He should have had more time. His family still needs him.” I still needed him.
“Nothing rocks our foundations like an unexpected death,” Emry empathized. He would know. His wife had passed away after a car accident four years ago. “If the world was a fair and just place, would your father have had more time?”