“Sloane?”
Chandler had picked up on the second ring. I’d spent the last five minutes gathering enough courage to press the button, and now that he was there, I had absolutely nothing to say.
“Sloane, hey.” His voice sharpened. “Are you okay? Did something happen?”
I tried to answer, but my throat felt like somebody had dragged sandpaper across it. “I’m okay,” I managed, which was a generous interpretation of the word. “Still at the hospital. Sixth floor.”
He went quiet long enough for me to hear something scrape against the floor on his end. “Do you need me to call your dads?”
“No. They’re here. Well, Pops is looking for coffee, and Dad went home to shower.” I took a careful breath and glanced at the clock above the door. “I called because I wanted to talk to you.”
“Oh.” He sounded surprised, which was fair considering I’d spent the last five weeks making sure he knew I didn’t want to talk. “Okay. I’m listening.”
I picked at a loose thread on my blanket, trying to figure out how to ask him to come without making it sound like an emergency. “Can you come? Not right this second if you’re busy. I know it’s Saturday, and you probably have stuff going on.”
“I’m not busy.” There was a pause, followed by the faint jingle of keys. “Are you sure you want me there?”
I closed my eyes. He had every reason to ask. I’d spent weeks making sure he understood I wanted him gone, and now I was calling out of nowhere and asking him to believe the opposite.
“I’m sure,” I whispered, rubbing the blanket between my fingers while I waited for his answer.
“Okay. I’ll come as soon as I can.” He hesitated before adding, “I’m glad you called, Sloane.”
After we hung up, I set the phone on my blanket and looked at it. I had no idea what to do with my hands. I couldn’t pace, and getting up to look out the window meant asking somebody to help me into the wheelchair. Instead, I sat there listening to the IV pump and rehearsing an apology that got worse every time I tried to improve it.
I wanted to tell Chandler I was sorry. I wanted to tell him I loved him and ask about soccer, Dashiell, and whether he’d eaten an actual meal on his birthday. Mostly, I wanted to see him walk through the door and know I hadn’t waited too long.
Stetson came back a few minutes later with a bottle of water and a cup of applesauce. He stopped beside my bed when he noticed the phone in my lap. “You okay?” he asked, setting the applesauce on my tray.
“I called Chandler.” I watched his face, waiting for the inevitable commentary.
His eyebrows lifted. “Oh. How’d that go?” He pulled the chair closer and sat down, looking considerably more interested than he had a moment ago.
“He’s coming.”
Stetson nodded, and the corners of his mouth started creeping upward. “Cool. You want me to go?”
“Eventually. He’s not here yet, and I’m not sitting here by myself for an hour while you celebrate in the hallway.”
“Wow. Kicked out of my own overnight shift.” He reached for his phone and leaned back in the chair. “I’ll text Dad that you’re awake. And before you start worrying, I’m not telling Chandler what to say.”
“Good.” I took the water bottle he offered and managed a small sip.
“I’m also not telling you what to say.” He gave me a pointed look over the top of his phone. “Mostly because you never listen.”
I would’ve thrown a pillow at him if lifting one didn’t feel like an athletic event. Instead, I rolled my eyes and watched him settle back into his chair, satisfied that he’d contributed something useful to the conversation.
By the time Chandler arrived, the evening light outside had faded to a dull blue. Stetson met him in the hallway. Their voices were too low to make out until my brother said, “She’s awake. Just don’t make me regret being a supportive brother.”
Chandler appeared in the doorway a moment later, wearing a gray hoodie, dark jeans, and the same worn sneakers he always claimed had another six months left in them. His strawberry-blond hair stood up at the crown where he’d clearly run his hands through it on the drive. He looked tired enough that I wanted to ask when he’d last slept properly, but I wasn’t sure I had any room to talk.
He stopped when he saw me, and I suddenly remembered I wasn’t wearing a beanie. My lips were cracked, my skin had that hospital-gray look, and an IV line disappeared beneath my gown. I wanted to apologize for all of it, as if he’d caught me doing something embarrassing.
“Hi,” I whispered, trying to smile without stretching my lips too much.
“Hi.” His eyes moved over my face, then to the chair beside the bed. “Can I come in?”
“Please.” I shifted against the pillows to make room for him beside the bed.
He pulled the chair close enough that I wouldn’t have to strain to see him. He didn’t reach for my hand, and although I wished he would, I understood why he didn’t. I’d been the one who told him not to come back.
“You look tired,” I said, studying the faint shadows beneath his eyes.
He glanced at my face and raised an eyebrow. “That’s a bold opening from you.”
A laugh escaped before I could stop it, and my throat immediately punished me. Chandler leaned forward, concerned, but I waved him off and reached for my water. The laugh had been worth it, even if swallowing afterward wasn’t particularly enjoyable.
For a minute, we listened to a cart rattle down the hall. I’d thought seeing him would make everything easier, but every word I’d rehearsed suddenly seemed too small for the space between us.
“I was cruel to you on Valentine’s Day,” I said finally. My voice scraped, so I took another careful sip of water before continuing. “I was angry about Coach Hartman, and I had a right to be upset that you didn’t tell me. But I said things I knew would hurt you. I wanted you to leave before you could decide to leave on your own.”
Chandler watched me without interrupting, his hands resting loosely between his knees. I couldn’t tell what he was thinking, which was unusual enough to make me nervous.
“I kept telling myself I was doing it for you,” I continued. “That you could get back to soccer and your friends and everything you were supposed to be doing instead of sitting in waiting rooms with me.” I rubbed my thumb over the edge of the blanket, trying to keep my voice steady. “I was scared you’d give up something important and resent me. Or that you’d stay and I’d get worse, and then you’d have to live with all of it.”
“You don’t have to explain being scared.” He leaned forward slightly, his expression softening. “I know you’ve had a lot going on.”
“I know. But I do have to explain being mean.” I looked down at my hands, remembering how carefully I’d chosen my words that night. “You didn’t deserve that.”
He was quiet for a moment before looking down at his own hands. “I should’ve told you about conditioning. I kept thinking if I could make it work without you knowing, then it wouldn’t be another thing for you to worry about. Coach made it pretty clear that wasn’t a plan.”
“Did you talk to him?” I asked, watching him rub the back of his neck.
“Yeah. After Valentine’s Day. We talked for a long time.” Chandler gave a humorless little laugh. “He was not impressed with my decision-making skills.”
“What happens now?” I asked, trying not to sound as worried as I felt.
“I have to show up, train, and earn back the trust I messed up. There’s still a chance for me to play, but I can’t keep treating practice like something I can skip without consequences.” He lifted his eyes to mine. “I love soccer, Sloane. I didn’t stop loving it because I love you.”
I watched him for a moment, thinking about all the practices and games he’d worked toward since we were kids. He’d never been the kind of person who did anything halfway, especially when it came to soccer, and I hated knowing he’d put that at risk without telling me.
“I don’t want to be the reason you lose it,” I said, reaching for my water again.
“You’re not responsible for every choice I make.” He paused, watching me struggle with the cap before reaching over to loosen it. “And I’m not responsible for deciding what you can handle, either. We both did that.”
I nodded, taking the bottle from him. It was the closest we’d come to agreeing about what had happened in weeks, and neither of us seemed particularly interested in starting another argument.
“I love you,” I whispered. “I never stopped. I just got really good at pretending I could.”
His eyes shone, and he looked toward the window for a second before turning back to me. “I love you too,” he said, his voice quieter than before.
He didn’t promise that nothing would ever go wrong again. Instead, he reached for my hand, slowly enough that I could choose whether to meet him halfway. I slipped my fingers between his, feeling the warmth of his palm against mine.
“Your hands are freezing,” he said, rubbing his thumb over my knuckles. “Do they not believe in heat up here?”
“Apparently not. It’s part of the luxury package.” I glanced toward the thermostat, which Pops had been adjusting for days without any noticeable improvement. “That and the food.”
Chandler smiled, then looked down at our joined hands. “Does this mean we’re okay?”
“I don’t know if we’re magically okay,” I admitted. “I want to try, though. I want us to talk about stuff instead of deciding what the other person needs.”
“Good, because I have several complaints about your communication style.” He leaned back in the chair, looking far too pleased with himself.
“Get in line.” I gave his hand a small squeeze, and he smiled at me with the same crooked expression that had been getting him out of trouble for years.
I looked at our joined hands, then at his mouth. “I was going to kiss you, but my mouth is currently a public-health warning.”
“Then I’ll wait.” He brought the back of my hand against his cheek for a moment before lowering it to the blanket. “I’m pretty good at waiting.”
I smiled, although I wished he hadn’t needed quite so much practice lately. When he shifted his chair a little closer, I rested my head against the pillows and kept my hand in his.
Dad arrived twenty minutes later carrying coffee and a paper bag of breakfast sandwiches he’d somehow convinced the cafeteria to make after breakfast hours. He saw Chandler beside my bed and stopped, his eyes dropping briefly to our joined hands.
Chandler started to stand, but Dad waved him back into the chair. “Stay where you are. You’ve got the comfortable one.” He set the bag on the counter, studied my face for a second, and added, “You look less miserable.”
“High praise,” I croaked, watching him unpack the sandwiches.
Pops came in behind him with his own coffee, took in the scene, and grinned. “Well, this is an improvement over the last few weeks.”
“Pops,” I warned, already recognizing the expression on his face.
“What? I didn’t say a word.” He set his coffee beside Dad’s and looked entirely too pleased with himself.
“You said several,” I pointed out, which only made his grin wider.
“Fine. I’m delighted. Arrest me.” He leaned over to kiss my forehead before moving toward the window.
Stetson, who’d returned from the vending machines with a granola bar, leaned against the doorway. “Can we all be normal about this for thirty seconds?” he asked, looking between Pops and me.
“No,” Pops and I said together, earning an exhausted sigh from my brother.
That made Chandler laugh, which made Dad smile into his coffee. I was still in a hospital bed, still weak, and still waiting for my mouth to heal enough to eat something that wasn’t soft and depressing. But Chandler’s hand was resting beside mine on the blanket, and I didn’t feel the need to pull away when my family noticed.
Later, when Angelina came to check my vitals, Chandler stepped aside without being asked. He washed his hands again before returning to the chair and straightened the tubing that had gotten caught beneath the edge of my tray. Nobody had to explain the hospital rules to him. He’d been learning them with us since October.
We talked about Dashiell after dinner. Chandler had been working with him on Saturdays, keeping sessions short and familiar. Some days Dash did well, while other days he retreated to the corner and watched the door. Miss Davison had postponed the evaluation because rushing him wasn’t fair to anyone, and Chandler agreed that he needed more time.
“I thought he’d forgotten everything,” I admitted, looking at the latest entry in the training notebook.
“He hasn’t.” Chandler tapped the page with his finger. “He still knows the cues. He just gets overwhelmed. We’re doing more breaks and less proving things.”
I glanced at him over the notebook. “That sounds suspiciously like advice for people.”
“Don’t tell Miss Davison. She’ll start charging us for therapy.” He grinned when I rolled my eyes, then turned the page to show me the notes from Thursday.
We went through the notebook together until my voice gave out. Chandler read the entries aloud while I pointed at things he’d missed. He had a habit of writing good session when what he meant was Dashiell only hid under the bench twice. I made him add actual details, and he called me a tyrant before writing them anyway.
When he left later that evening, it was because he had somewhere to be the next morning. He told me he had training followed by dinner with Uncle Jake, and I told him to go instead of trying to convince him to stay until visiting hours ended.
“Text me when you get home,” I whispered as he stood beside the bed, gathering his things.
“I will.” He leaned down and rested his forehead lightly against mine for a moment. “Get some sleep, okay?”
I nodded and watched him leave, then reached for the notebook again. We’d both made promises that evening, and I hoped we were finally getting better at keeping them.
I didn’t get out of the hospital that Saturday. My blood counts were improving, but the team wanted to make sure I could drink enough and manage the pain without IV medication before they sent me home. By Monday, March twenty-third, they were satisfied, and Dad brought the car around while Pops and a nurse helped me transfer safely into the wheelchair.
On the way out, we passed Lylah’s old room, where the purple butterfly was still taped to the door. A little girl inside was arguing with someone about whether glitter counted as a color. I couldn’t see her, only the corner of a bright quilt and a pair of fuzzy socks sticking out beneath it.
I looked at the butterfly, remembering the first time Lylah had shown me the ridiculous collection of stickers she’d convinced the nurses to let her put on her door. She would’ve had an opinion about the glitter argument, probably several, and I could almost hear her announcing that glitter was a hostile act before stealing the craft supplies and making a bigger mess than anybody else.
I smiled to myself as Pops pushed my chair toward the elevators. I didn’t know the little girl’s name, and I wasn’t going to stop and ask, but I hoped she had somebody willing to argue with her about glitter for as long as she wanted.
At home, Bernard met us at the door with enough enthusiasm to qualify as a minor weather event. Stetson held his collar while Pops helped me inside, and Bernie spent the next hour following my wheelchair around as though he’d been assigned to supervise my recovery personally.
The next couple of weeks weren’t a montage of me getting stronger. There were labs and calls from the oncology team, days when I could eat soup and days when even the smell of it made me nauseated. My next treatment plan had to be adjusted around my recovery, and I spent more time resting than I wanted to admit. I stayed off my left leg, used the wheelchair when I needed to, and let Dad and Pops help with things I’d once done without thinking.
Chandler came by when he could, usually after practice. Sometimes we talked, and sometimes he sat on the rug beside Bernard while I slept. We didn’t pretend the breakup had never happened, and there were still moments when one of us slipped into an old habit. Once, when he offered to cancel a training session because I was having a bad afternoon, I told him to go. He argued that he was allowed to want to stay, and I agreed before pointing out that he was also allowed to keep the commitments he’d made. He went to practice, then called afterward to check on me.
Miss Davison sent videos from Happy Paws. In one, Dashiell took three steps toward Kendra before retreating behind Chandler’s legs. In another, he let Rhett clip on his lead without trembling. I watched each video more times than was probably reasonable, looking for the little changes that were easy to miss if you didn’t know him.
When the rescue confirmed Saturday, April eleventh, as the new evaluation date, Dr. Giacherio didn’t give me an automatic yes. He asked about my symptoms, reviewed the latest labs, and reminded me that a kennel full of animals and people wasn’t an ideal place for someone recovering from chemotherapy. We worked out a plan only after he was satisfied it was safe for me to go: a short visit, no crowd, wheelchair the entire time, careful hand hygiene, and no dog climbing into my lap. If I felt unwell or my counts changed, I’d stay home and Chandler would handle the evaluation with the staff.
I hated the last part, especially after spending so much time away from Happy Paws, but I agreed. Dashiell needed an evaluation that wasn’t interrupted because I’d pushed myself too hard, and I didn’t want Miss Davison worrying about me when she was supposed to be watching him.
On Saturday, April eleventh, the morning of the rescheduled evaluation, the sky over Sierra Vista was the pale blue of a Colorado spring that hadn’t decided whether it trusted itself. Old snow lingered in the shadows beside Happy Paws, and the gravel in the play yard was damp from overnight rain.
Dad parked near the entrance while Pops helped me into my wheelchair and tucked a fleece blanket over my legs, careful to leave my left thigh supported. I wore my charcoal Happy Paws quarter-zip over a hoodie, Chandler’s gray beanie, and Lylah’s bracelets. My volunteer lanyard hung from the chair handle instead of my neck because I hadn’t been cleared to work, and I wasn’t about to pretend otherwise.
Miss Davison met us at the door. She’d arranged for the yard to be quiet and the evaluation to take place without a crowd. Kendra was inside with Dashiell, and Macy, the evaluator from the Boulder rescue, stood beside the gate with a clipboard. Uncle Jake waited near the fence, coffee in hand, while Stetson positioned himself behind my wheelchair and announced that he was prepared to accept compliments on his driving.
Chandler crouched beside me before we went in. “You don’t have to do every part,” he said. “Macy knows you’re here as one of his familiar people, not to prove you can run the whole thing.”
“I know.” I adjusted the blanket over my knees, checking that it wasn’t caught beneath the wheels.
“Do you?” he asked, giving me a look that suggested he knew exactly how much I hated sitting on the sidelines.
“I’m considering it.” I glanced at him, and he grinned before squeezing my hand.
Chandler stood and went to help Kendra bring Dashiell out. Dash emerged on a lead, low to the ground, his scruffy gray-brown coat sticking up around his ears. He paused when he saw the unfamiliar evaluator, and Kendra waited instead of tugging him forward. Chandler moved to his side, gave him a moment to sniff the air, and spoke softly enough that I couldn’t hear the words.
Dashiell noticed me while Chandler was adjusting the lead. His ears lifted, and his nose worked furiously as he took two quick steps in my direction. He stopped and looked back at Chandler, as if he needed confirmation that he was allowed to come over.
“Hey, buddy,” I called, keeping my voice gentle. It was still softer than it used to be, but it carried across the quiet yard.
Dashiell approached the wheelchair with Chandler holding the lead loosely. He stopped just short of the footrest and leaned forward to sniff my outstretched hand. I kept it low and let him choose, waiting until his nose pressed against my fingers before moving them slightly.
“Hi, Dash,” I whispered. “I missed you too.”
His tail gave one uncertain wag, then another. He stayed close to Chandler’s leg, watching Macy from the corner of his eye, but he didn’t retreat when she shifted her weight near the gate.
Macy let us have another minute before she began. She’d read the training notes and wanted to see how Dashiell responded to ordinary handling, unfamiliar people, and a few simple cues. If he became overwhelmed, they’d stop and make a plan from there rather than pushing him through something he wasn’t ready for.
I liked her immediately, especially when she explained that she wasn’t expecting Dashiell to behave like a dog who’d never had a reason to be afraid. She wanted to see what he’d learned and how he recovered when something made him nervous.
Chandler handled the loose-leash walk while Stetson pushed me along the firmer edge of the yard. Dashiell started too fast, slowed when Chandler stopped, and checked back toward me every few steps. When Macy approached at a normal pace, he tucked closer to Chandler, then accepted a treat tossed onto the ground near his paws. He wasn’t ready to take food from her hand, and nobody insisted.
During the handling portion, Kendra showed Macy the gentle routine they’d practiced. Chandler kept the lead relaxed while Macy asked to touch Dashiell’s shoulder and briefly examine one ear. Dash stiffened, but he stayed. When she reached toward his front paw, he pulled away, and Macy stopped immediately.
“That’s useful information,” she said, making a note on her clipboard. “We don’t need to push that today.”
Chandler praised Dash for settling again. The first time he’d tried walking Maverick, he’d been dragged halfway across the play yard while I laughed too hard to help him. Now he knew when to talk, when to wait, and when to leave a frightened dog alone. I caught his eye when he looked toward me and gave him a small smile.
For the recall, Chandler walked Dashiell a short distance away while I stayed beside the gate. Macy wanted to see whether he could move toward a familiar voice without getting distracted, so Chandler waited until Dash was calm before giving me a nod.
“Dashiell. Come.” I held my hand low beside the wheelchair, watching him turn toward me.
For one awful second, he didn’t move. Then his ears came up, and he trotted across the damp gravel until he reached my chair. He stopped close enough to touch my fingers with his nose, and Chandler rewarded him while I praised him, careful to keep him off my lap.
“Good boy,” I whispered, scratching gently behind his ear. “That’s my good boy.”
Behind me, Pops made a suspicious sniffing noise. Stetson muttered something about allergies, which was rich coming from a boy who’d been blinking hard for the last five minutes. I glanced over my shoulder, and he gave me a look that clearly warned me not to say anything.
Macy finished her notes while Chandler gave Dash a break near the fence. I couldn’t read her expression. She wasn’t smiling broadly or shaking her head, which left me with absolutely nothing useful to work with.
Finally, she turned to Miss Davison. “He’s made meaningful progress. His recovery is better, and he’s responding to more than one handler. There are still things to work on, especially unfamiliar handling, but I don’t see a reason he can’t move forward with a carefully matched foster or adoption plan.”
My chest tightened, and I looked from Macy to Miss Davison. “So he passed?” I asked, almost afraid of the answer.
“He met the goals we agreed on for this evaluation,” Macy said. “That doesn’t mean he’ll never be scared again. It means the training is working and we know what support he needs.”
I looked toward Dashiell, who was sitting beside Chandler with his ears tilted toward the sound of Kendra opening a treat pouch. He hadn’t suddenly become a different dog, but he’d stayed with us through the evaluation and recovered when something frightened him.
Miss Davison exhaled, and Kendra covered her mouth with one hand. Uncle Jake raised his coffee in a silent toast, while Chandler stayed crouched beside Dashiell, scratching gently behind his ear. He looked up when he realized everyone was watching him, and his smile spread slowly across his face.
“What happens next?” he asked, standing and brushing the gravel from his jeans.
“Home assessment, paperwork, and a transition plan,” Miss Davison said. “Macy’s team can help us place him with someone who understands his history.” She glanced between Chandler and Uncle Jake. “If anyone’s interested.”
Chandler looked at his dad, who took a long sip of coffee before answering. “There’s been a bag of dog food in our garage since January,” Uncle Jake said. “I was beginning to think you’d bought it for me.”
“Dad.” Chandler shook his head, but he was smiling.
“What? I’m just saying the garage is getting crowded.” Uncle Jake shrugged and looked toward Dashiell, who had settled beside Kendra.
Chandler turned back to Miss Davison. “I want to apply. If you think he’d do okay with us.”
“We’ll make sure it’s the right fit,” she said. “But I think it’s worth talking about.”
There would be questions about routines and space, a meeting at Uncle Jake’s house, and a slow transition if the rescue approved it. Chandler nodded through all of that with the serious expression he wore before a penalty kick, asking questions about how to make the first few days easier for Dash.
When he came back to my chair, I held out my hand. He took it, still looking a little stunned, and glanced toward his dad before turning back to me.
“You knew?” he asked, looking at me like I’d been keeping a secret.
“About the dog food? Absolutely. Your dad is the least subtle person alive.”
“About wanting him,” Chandler clarified, nodding toward Dashiell.
I looked past him to Dash, who’d settled beside Kendra and was watching us with his head tilted. “I figured it out somewhere around the hundredth Saturday you spent sitting on the floor with him.”
Chandler laughed softly. “That obvious?” He glanced toward his dad, who was pretending not to listen.
“To everyone except you.” I squeezed his hand, and he leaned closer, resting his forehead lightly against mine for a moment.
“I love you,” I told him, smiling when he pulled back enough to look at me.
“I love you too,” Chandler said, brushing his thumb across my knuckles.
Behind me, Stetson groaned. “Seriously? In front of me?” He made a face at Uncle Jake, who was already laughing.
“You can close your eyes,” I told him, looking over my shoulder.
“And push you into a fence? Tempting, but Dad would kill me.” He tightened his grip on the wheelchair handles, determined to make sure I knew he was still in charge of transportation.
Uncle Jake laughed loudly enough that Dashiell lifted his head. Chandler gave him a reassuring word, and Dash settled again beside Kendra, watching the people around him without trying to hide.
I looked at all of them, at the damp gravel and the spring light and the ridiculous people who kept showing up even when I made it difficult. My leg still hurt, treatment was still waiting, and Chandler and I had plenty left to figure out. Dashiell would need time to feel safe in whatever home came next, and none of us knew exactly what the next few months would look like.
When Stetson asked whether I was ready to head inside, I nodded and let him turn the wheelchair toward the gate. Chandler walked beside me with his hand resting lightly on my shoulder, and I reached up to cover it with mine as we made our way across the yard.