Page 145 of The Route to You

Besides, Elle had given birth a week ago, and she wouldn’t have been able to live with herself if he had missed it because of her.

And she’d seen it then—the fear in his eyes. The worry.

She knew why, too. The last time she’d faced this challenge in her life, she’d taken it out on him.

A text buzzed in, breaking into her thoughts.

Cheyenne: How’s the world’s best sister?

Sloan: Hmmm . . . don’t think I qualify for that yet.

Cheyenne: You are. You just don’t give yourself enough credit. You going to see her?

Sloan didn’t answer, swallowing hard. She’d visited Penny twice since arriving, but she’d been mostly in protective isolation, so Sloan’s time with her had been swift and unremarkable. Not the stuff of movies where reunions meant resolutions.

Swiping a tear from her cheek, Sloan typed a message to Cheyenne.

Sloan: Probably not. She’s mostly sleeping anyway.

Cheyenne: I really think you should. Even if it’s just to hold her hand.

The guttural sound of a throat clearing made her lift her head. “Sloan?” Dad said, his voice ringing with a familiarity that had once made her heart leap but now made her bristle. “Can I come in?”

“Sure,” Sloan said, slipping her phone face down on the small table beside her.

Dad pushed the curtain to the side and stepped in, pausing mid-step as his eyes fell on Sloan.

He froze, face paling, eyes stricken.

When he blinked again, color returned to his face in blotches of red, and his throat bobbed. “For a moment there,” he said in a low, shaky voice, “you looked just like Deborah.”

The word shattered through her rib cage, lodging as deeply as a knife.

Over the years, they hadn’t talked that much—never about anything meaningful, for certain—but never, ever, about Mom.

Dad had thrown Mom out of his vocabulary the moment she’d died.

Gotten rid of everything—photo albums, scrapbooks, memorabilia—and in a move that had especially devastated Sloan—Mom’s wedding dress.

She’d found out about it over Thanksgiving break, her freshman year of college. She’d come back to an empty house, stripped down to bare walls, a sold sign on the front lawn.

She’d always pinpointed that as the moment Dad had died to her, too, though she needed him in ways that had forced her to keep him in her life—his money to pay for school, for one thing. So, she’d gone back to school after break and gotten very, very drunk for a week straight.

And then dumped Kyle.

In one fell swoop—three of the people she loved the most in the world—had been expunged, one way or another.

All of those memories flashed through Sloan’s brain as she stared at her father in the small patient room, her thoughts ticking through at such a rapid pace that she couldn’t completely control her normally practiced reactions with him. “You remembered her name, did you?” Anger tinged her voice, burning hotter than she wanted it to.

Dad’s gray brows furrowed, and he took another step forward. “Sloan⁠—”

“No, don’t Sloan me. How dare you? How fucking dare you say that to me while I’m sitting here like this?”

She dashed away a tear as Dad glanced around nervously, as though worried someone might have overheard his foul-mouthed daughter.

“I don’t know why you’re so upset,” he said stiffly, his shoulders sinking. “I always feel like I’m walking on glass with you, Sloan. Every little thing makes you upset.”

“Do you have any idea how hard it was for me to come here?” Sloan asked, voice shaking. “How hard it was for me to come to San Francisco?” She dug in her purse for a tissue.