Page 149 of It Happened on a Sunday
“No,” my abuela interrupts. “You’ve done nothing but think about her dying. And that’s not doing anyone any good. Not you and definitely not Sloane. You love her, but you’re so busy hating yourself that you’re not giving her anything to hang on to, anything to come back for.”
“What am I supposed to do? She’s unconscious, completely nonresponsive. She can’t hear me, can’t answer me. She’s just—” My voice breaks, and this time I don’t even try to talk through it. I just shake my head and pray for this nightmare to end.She’s just lying there.
“I’m not saying she can hear you.” Abuela Ximena’s voice is much softer now, as is the hand she lays gently over mine. “I’mnot even saying she knows you’re there. But Sloane loves you, and she wouldn’t want you to beat yourself up for something Vivian did. And if there is some small part of her that recognizes you’re watching over her, don’t you think you owe it to the both of you to show her more than just your misplaced self-loathing?”
Abuela Ximena’s words set off avalanches inside me—memories, conversations, and truths I’ve been trying not to feel crashing through the silence she left behind. Memories of Sloane teasing me over the phone the first time we talked.
Of Sloane eating tacos in the park, with the wind blowing through her hair.
Of us splitting a sandwich in bed, her brown eyes shining with sympathy as she listened to Lucia’s story—my story.
Of Sloane telling me that she loved me. Promising me that she wouldn’t take it back, even when she got scared.
But that’s exactly what I’ve been doing. I’ve spent the last twelve hours hiding behind my fear and guilt and shame, so afraid of making another mistake that I’m turning inward instead of trying to pull her back to me in whatever way I can.
That stops now.
Chapter 65
Sly
Sloane’s team has been in and out all afternoon, and Pauline spent much of the evening playing the guitar and singing her favorite songs. The hospital staff enjoyed it, with most of the nurses and doctors stopping in to listen for a few minutes under the guise of checking on Sloane, even the ones who aren’t assigned to her care.
But the music didn’t cause so much as a flicker, and neither has anything else. Pauline finally gave in an hour ago and left for the hotel Bianca booked for her. Like me, she’s been awake for more than forty hours, but at seventy years old, she’s definitely feeling it worse.
I have no doubt she’ll be back as soon as she’s able, but for now—for the first time since this nightmare began—I’m alone with Sloane.
And I plan on taking advantage of it.
I start with the strawberry-scented lotion Camila bought when she was getting me clothes. I pump some into my hand, then pick up one of Sloane’s feet and start gently rubbing it in the way I’ve seen her do so many times over the last few months on FaceTime.
Her toes are painted black, like always. Except for one on each foot—bright blue, the exact same color as my jersey, with tiny number sevens drawn across them like a love letter.
She told me it was her show of spirit for the playoffs.
“Do you think I’ll be able to talk you into painting all your nails blue when we make it to the Super Bowl?” I ask as I move to her second foot. “Or will that violate the Black Widow dress code?”
I move on to her ankles and calves, smoothing the lotion in circles as I wait for an answer that doesn’t come.
That’s okay. I just have to believe it will.
Once I’ve covered up to her knees in lotion, I slide her feet into the bright-blue socks the nurse brought by earlier before pulling the covers back down. Then I move to her hands.
I’m careful of her IV and the pulse ox taped to her finger as I spread lotion on first one hand and then the other, trying not to notice how small they look, how delicate. Instead, I concentrate on the calluses she has on her fingertips from playing guitar. Little and round, with string marks in a few of them, they’re so different than the weightlifting ones I’ve got on my palms.
No less a sign of strength, though. Not on Sloane, who is the strongest woman I’ve ever met. And that’s saying something, considering the sisters I’ve got.
The sweet, strawberry scent of Sloane’s favorite lotion—courtesy of abuela’s cheat sheet, I’m sure—fills the room, reminding me of a million stolen moments with her. My hands tremble at the memories, at the flashes of Sloane’s smile, her shuttered brown eyes, her head thrown back as she presses her body into mine.
It’ll happen again, I promise myself as I move to her wrists and forearms. Those moments and so many more.
I close my eyes for a second, her hands clutched in mine, and let myself imagine the more.
Sloane onstage, singing to me.
Sloane cheering at some future game.
Sloane laughing up at me, wearing nothing but my Super Bowl rings.
