Page 13 of It Happened on a Sunday
“No, but they’re the prettiest,” she answers with authority. “Her favorite color is black.”
I’m not so sure about that. Oh, I’m certain she tells her fans that black is her favorite. She certainly dresses like it is. But something in me suspects that the woman with the shaking hands and eyes like stained glass prefers a different color entirely.
Sloane Walker may look like a badass who doesn’t give a shit about anything or anyone, but there’s more to this woman than meets the public’s eye. That much I know.
Which is why the last thing I should be doing right now is pumping my abuela for information about her. Sloane’s obviously been hurt before. I don’t know by whom, or how, but the scars are right there on the surface, her mistrust fully unmasked. The last thing she needs is me crashing in and somehow making it worse.
Besides, this is the worst timing in the world for both of us. Her focus is on her tour. My focus is on the season about to start. Between football, the foundation, and my family, I’ve got no time for anything else. Certainly not a world-famous pop star, no matter how many multitudes she contains.
And still, knowing all that doesn’t stop me from hoping sheuses that number she asked for.
My abuela runs out of steam right about the time I pull up the drive to the old farmhouse I grew up in. The fact that she lives so close to Austin is one of the reasons I was so happy when the Twisters drafted me. Even though it meant I had to play second string for two years while I waited for Sanchez to retire, it also meant I was close enough to check in on my abuela and the girls every week or so.
As I walk her to the door, my abuela rips a piece of paper out of her journal and presses it into my hand, playfulness lighting her eyes.
“What’s this?” I ask.
She grins. “Let’s call it a cheat sheet. A list of likes and dislikes, just in case you decide to send her something else along with the flowers.”
My hand clenches involuntarily on the list. “You didn’t.”
“Sure I did. Top five snack foods, her favorite candle and perfume scents, and a bunch of other things including, but not limited to, how she likes her popcorn.” She waggles her brows. “Caramel with chocolate drizzle, in case you’re interested.”
“That’s shockingly thorough.” I look from her to the list and back again. “Not to mention unnervingly specific.”
She shrugs. “When you’re one of the most photographed people in the world, there are no secrets.”
And suddenly I get it. Not just with my head but deep in my gut.
Of course Sloane keeps her guard up.
Of course she wears the Black Widow like a second skin.
When the world’s always watching—always waiting to twist your heartache into headlines—what choice do you have but to make yourself untouchable?
The spotlight doesn’t just light her up. It burns her to a crisp. So she sharpens her edges, turns herself into someone to beworshipped or vilified but never held. Never seen. Never truly understood.
Because once you’ve been burned badly enough, everything feels like a setup. The only safe place left is behind walls only you can breach.
The knowledge makes me ache for her in a whole new way as I look down at abuela Ximena’s hopeful face. “IfI send flowers, it would only be as a thank-you for having us backstage. Nothing else.”
“Okay.” She leans over and presses a kiss to my cheek. “But if you decide you want something else—”
“I won’t.” Sloane has enough to carry. The last thing she needs is me and my baggage, too.
“Of course you won’t. But if you do, you need to know that Sloane hasn’t had it easy.” Her eyes meet mine, and they’re as clear as a west Texas road at midnight as she continues. “She’s been through a lot more than people think. She’s a real person underneath all that eyeliner.”
I start to tell her I already know. But I settle for a simple, “Are you warning me not to break her heart?”
“I’m warning you that broken pieces have jagged edges. Don’t push so hard that they cut her…or you.”
The underlying steel in her voice has me taking note. It’s not often I hear that tone from her, but when I do, I know she means business. “You raised me better than that,” I answer quietly.
“I know I did.” She reaches over and pats my cheek. “Just be careful, whatever you do. And text me when you get home so I know you’re safe.”
I wait until I hear the lock slide into place before heading back to my car. As I drop the list of Sloane’s likes and dislikes on the seat beside me, I’m tempted to take a look just in case they help me better understand what I saw tonight.
But the truth is, I don’t want a cheat sheet. If I’m going to getto know her, I want it to be because she let me in, not because I snuck in through a back door made of bullet points.
