Page 43 of Someone To Claim
I get that fame makes personal correspondence a challenge. When “Lucky Me” blew up, I had to hire an assistant to manage my inbox. But Sloane isn’t some random fan. She’s a bookstore owner and a fucking cancer patient, and both of those should count for something. I tried to make time when the letters came from people who resonated with my story. They were the ones who needed to be seen. Sloane needed that.
It about killed me watching her whole body deflate in real time. I wanted to gather her up and carry her somewhere safe, which is the type of impulse that would make her furious, so I kept my mouth shut and let her walk into that bedroom and close the door.
And hated every minute of it.
The shower starts running, which seems like a good sign. There’s no amount of emotional wreckage that hot water can’t ease, at least temporarily.
I close the book with a silent apology to Henry David for my lack of focus, and move into the tiny kitchen. The gas stove lights on the second try, and I set the pot of water I filled earlier onto the burner. I find a bag of frozen meatballs in the freezer, plus a jar of marinara and a box of vermicelli on the shelf next to the fridge. At least I can provide a meal that’s a step up from camp food.
I thought about checking for cell service so I could reach out to her friends and let them know we arrived safely. But this is Sloane’s story, so I’ll let her decide how to tell it.
I’m stirring the sauce when I hear the bathroom door open. “Something smells edible,” she says from behind me a moment later. Her voice is rough at the edges but steady, and the relief that floods me is so strong I have to lock my knees to keep from sinking to the floor.
She stands at the edge of the kitchen in leggings and an oversized flannel, her hair damp and her eyes red-rimmedbut clear. And definitely daring me to comment on her emotional breakdown.
I hold up the spoon instead. “Frozen meatballs and jarred sauce, so set your expectations accordingly.”
“My expectations are currently set at freeze-dried pad Thai level, so you’re already exceeding them.” She leans against the counter, arms folded, and checks out the cabin. “This place is nice for being so remote.”
“It is.”
“I almost cried when I sat on an actual mattress, which would have been embarrassing if I hadn’t already been bawling my eyes out.”
She wraps the vulnerability in a joke, which I recognize as her pattern by now. It makes me want to reach for her. The need is so sharp it scratches my throat.
“You don’t have to pretend you’re okay,” I say.
“Pretending is one of my favorite things.” She holds my gaze for a beat, and then her mouth curves into an almost smile. “Is there any alcohol in this joint?”
I grin. “As a matter of fact, there’s a bottle of Prosecco in the fridge. Girlie drink.”
“Good thing I’m a girl.”
I pull the bottle out and work the cork free while she takes two mismatched cups from the cabinet. Both plastic and maybe a thousand years old.
I grimace. “There’s definitely BPA leaching out of those things.”
“But more dignified than guzzling out of the bottle,” she says with a laugh, then pours wine to the rim on both cups. We toast to nothing, and she takes a long sip while I turn back to the stove to check on the pasta.
Which is when I realize the sauce has gone from simmering to scorching. As I grab for the pot, Sloane appears at my elbow, hip-checking me away from the burner.
“I got this,” she says, reaching for the spoon. She scrapes the bottom of the pot, lowers the heat, then tastes the sauce from the spoon. “I love a hint of char in my sauce.”
“You make saving me look easy,” I tell her and wonder if she knows I’m talking about more than the sauce and my blistered feet.
“It is.” For a second, her expression is so unguarded and pleased, my pulse stutters in response. What I wouldn’t give to see that look on her face all the time.
We eat at the small wooden table in front of the window while the distant peaks fade to silhouettes. The meatballs are mediocre, and there’s way more than a hint of char, but it might be the best meal I’ve ever had. Because Sloane is across from me, and she doesn’t seem sad anymore.
She talks about the foods she missed during chemo and how everything tasted like metal for weeks. The first thing she ate when her taste buds came back was a frosted strawberry Pop-Tart and cheese enchiladas from her favorite local Mexican restaurant in Skylark. When she asks about my favorite food, I tell her about my mother’s chicken and dumplings, the meal she made on birthdays and special occasions.
“She didn’t write down the recipe, and I’ve been trying to reverse engineer it ever since.”
“How’s that going?” She tilts her head to study me, and I feel like a horny teenager with a crush on the homecoming queen.
I shrug as I feel my cheeks heat. “About as well as the sauce tonight. But I keep trying.”
Sloane twirls pasta around her fork. “Do you try with all the women you pursue across state lines, or am I special?”
