Sloane & AJ: A Second Chance

March 2006 – San Diego, California
The late afternoon sun slanted through the windows of Cathedral Catholic High School's main hallway, casting long shadows across the trophy cases that lined the walls. Sloane Kehlani O'Brien stood in front of one, her reflection ghosting over the gleaming awards inside. Three years of track medals. Three basketball championships. The volleyball state finals plaque from last fall. Her name engraved on nearly every one.

"Sloane! Wait up!"

She turned to see Coach Martinez jogging toward her, a manila envelope in his hand and that familiar excited gleam in his eyes. She knew what was coming before he even opened his mouth.

"Another one came today," he said, slightly breathless. "UCLA. Full ride. Track and field." He held out the envelope like it was made of gold. "That makes what, fifteen? Sixteen?"

"Seventeen," Sloane said quietly, taking the envelope. The paper felt heavy in her hands. Too heavy.

"Seventeen scholarship offers." Coach Martinez shook his head, grinning. "You know most kids would kill for even one of these, right? You've got your pick of the country, Sloane. The world's your oyster."

The world's your oyster. The phrase made her want to laugh. Or scream. She wasn't sure which.

"Thanks, Coach," she managed, forcing a smile that felt like it might crack her face in half. "I'll look it over."

"You okay, kid? You seem—"

"I'm fine. Just tired. Long practice."

It wasn't entirely a lie. She'd spent two hours on the track after school, pushing herself through interval sprints until her legs burned and her lungs screamed. Then an hour in the weight room. Then shooting hoops alone in the gym until the janitor had politely suggested she go home.

Anything to avoid going home.

Coach Martinez studied her for a moment, his expression shifting from excitement to concern. But Sloane had perfected the art of deflection over the past few months. She glanced at her watch, a deliberate gesture and widened her eyes.

"Actually, I should get going. Mom's expecting me."

Another lie. Her mother was always expecting her, but never in the way that phrase implied. Not with dinner on the table and questions about her day. More like expecting her to explain herself. To justify her choices. To pick a side.

"Alright," Coach said, though he didn't look convinced. "But Sloane? Whatever you decide, wherever you go, you're going to do amazing things. You know that, right?"

She nodded, throat tight, and turned away before he could see the tears threatening at the corners of her eyes.
The parking lot was nearly empty by the time she reached her truck, a beat-up Ford Ranger that had seen better days but ran like a dream because she'd learned to maintain it herself. Her father had taught her that, back when he still lived in San Diego. Back when her parents were still married. Back when her life made sense. She tossed her backpack and the UCLA envelope onto the passenger seat, where they joined a growing pile of similar envelopes. Stanford.

University of Washington. Arizona State. University of Texas. And the one that sat on top of the stack, the one that had started all the trouble: University of Florida.

Her father's dream for her. His escape plan. His way of getting her away from her mother and closer to him.

Sloane started the engine and sat there for a moment, hands gripping the steering wheel, staring at nothing. Just yesterday, Mr. Henderson had stopped her in the library, holding up her latest essay on AP European History to show the class, calling her the standard they should all strive for. Later, at lunch, the girls on the varsity basketball team had crowded around her table, begging her to show them her signature crossover dribble one more time before the regional playoffs. To everyone else, she was the girl who had everything under control.

They didn't see the divorce that had shattered her family three years ago. They didn't see her Irish father packing his bags and moving across the country to Florida, promising to stay in touch, promising it wasn't goodbye. They didn't see her Samoan mother's face hardening with each phone call from him, each mention of his name, each scholarship offer that arrived from schools near his new home.

They didn't see Sloane caught in the middle, being slowly torn in half.

She pulled out of the parking lot and headed home, taking the long way, driving slowly through neighbourhoods she'd known her entire life. The sun was setting now, painting the sky in shades of orange and red that would have been beautiful if she'd had the capacity to appreciate them.

Her phone buzzed. She glanced at the screen.

Dad calling.

Her stomach clenched. She let it go to voicemail. Two minutes later, it buzzed again. 

A text this time.
Call me back, sweetheart. Important.

Everything was important to him lately. Every conversation was about Florida. About the University of Florida. About the opportunities waiting for her there. About how much he missed her. About how they could finally spend real time together again. About how she should leave her mother. He never said that last part out loud, but Sloane heard it anyway.

She pulled into the driveway of the small house she shared with her mother. The lights were on inside. Her mother's car was parked in its usual spot. There was no avoiding this. Sloane sat in the truck for a full minute, gathering her courage, before finally grabbing her backpack and heading inside.

The house smelled like adobo, her mother's specialty, the scent of garlic and soy sauce and bay leaves filling every corner. On any other day, it would have made Sloane's mouth water. Tonight, it just made her nauseous.

"You're late," her mother called from the kitchen.

"Practice ran long," Sloane said, dropping her backpack by the door and toeing off her shoes.

"You're always at practice. Or games. Or training." Her mother appeared in the doorway, wiping her hands on a dish towel. Leilani O'Brien stood with her shoulders squared, taking up the entire frame of the doorway with an quiet, unyielding posture that made the rest of the room seem to shrink around her. She'd passed that strength down
to her daughter, along with her high cheekbones and the warm undertones in Sloane's olive complexion. "You eat?"

"I'll grab something later."

"I made dinner."

"I know. I'm just not hungry right now."

Her mother's jaw tightened, a warning sign Sloane had learned to recognize. But before either of them could say anything else, Sloane's phone rang.

Dad calling.

The sound seemed to echo in the sudden silence.

"You going to answer that?" her mother asked, her voice carefully neutral.

Sloane looked at the phone, then at her mother, then back at the phone. The plastic casing of her cell phone vibrated violently against the palm of her hand, a harsh, mechanical buzzing that made her skin prickle. She squeezed her fingers around the plastic, trying to smother the vibration, but the pulse of it seemed to travel straight up her arm, settling as a cold, heavy weight in her chest. She took a breath, steadying her thumb over the green button.
She answered.

"Hey, Dad."

"Sloane! Finally!" Her father's voice boomed through the speaker, warm and excited. "I've been trying to reach you all day. Did you get the package I sent?"

"What package?"

"Should have arrived today. University of Florida gear, sweatshirt, hat, the works. Thought you might want to start showing some Gator pride."

Sloane closed her eyes. She could feel her mother's stare burning into her.

"Dad, I haven't decided—"

"I know, I know. But listen, I talked to the track coach there again. He's really excited about you, Sloane. Really excited. And the scholarship they're offering is incredible. Full ride, plus a stipend for living expenses. You'd have your own apartment. Complete independence."

"Patrick." Her mother's voice cut through the conversation like a knife. She'd moved closer, close enough to hear every word. "She's eighteen years old. She doesn't need an apartment. She needs to focus on school."

There was a pause on the other end of the line. Then: "Leilani. I didn't realize you were listening."

"It's my house. My daughter. Of course I'm listening."

"Our daughter," her father corrected, his tone sharpening. "And I'm trying to talk to her about her future."

"Her future is here. In California. She has seventeen scholarship offers, Patrick. Seventeen. She doesn't need to run across the country to you."

"I'm not asking her to run to me. I'm asking her to consider an incredible opportunity—"

"You're asking her to choose you over me."

"That's not—"

"That's exactly what you're doing!"

Sloane's hand tightened around the phone. Her heart was pounding now, her chest constricting. This was how it always went. Every conversation. Every phone call. Her parents using her as a weapon against each other.

"Maybe we should talk about this later," Sloane tried, but neither of them heard her.

"She deserves to make her own choice," her father was saying.

"She's making her own choice! You're the one pressuring her!"

"I'm giving her options—"

"You're trying to take her away from her family!"

"You mean away from you. That's what this is really about, isn't it, Leilani? You can't stand the thought of her being happy if it means she's not under your control—"

"Don't you dare—"

"Stop!" Sloane's voice cracked like a whip through the kitchen. Both her parents fell silent. "Just stop. Both of you. Please."

"Sweetheart—" her father started.

"Kehlani—" her mother said at the same time.

"I can't do this right now." Sloane's voice was shaking. "Dad, I'll call you back later."

"But we need to talk about—"

"Later."

She hung up before he could protest. The silence that followed was deafening. Her mother stood there, arms crossed, that dish towel still clutched in one hand. Her expression was a complicated mix of anger and hurt
and something that might have been fear.

"You're really considering it," she said quietly. "Florida."

"I'm considering all of them."

"But Florida especially."

Sloane didn't answer. She didn't need to.

"I see." Her mother's voice had gone cold now, distant. "So you're going to leave. Just like he did."

"That's not fair—"

"Fair?" Her mother laughed, but there was no humour in it. "You want to talk about fair? Is it fair that he left us? That he moved across the country and now he's trying to take you too? Is that fair, Sloane?"

"He's not trying to take me—"

"Then what do you call it? All these phone calls, all this pressure about Florida, sending you Gator gear like you've already decided—"

"Maybe I have decided!" The words burst out of Sloane before she could stop them. "Maybe I want to go to Florida! Maybe I want to be close to Dad for once! Maybe I'm tired of being stuck in the middle of your divorce!"

Her mother flinched as if she'd been slapped. "Stuck in the middle."

"Yes! Every single day, I'm stuck in the middle! You hate him, he's hurt by you, and I'm the one who has to deal with both of you! I'm the one who has to listen to you talk about what a terrible person he is, and then listen to him talk about how controlling you are, and I'm just —" Her voice broke. "I'm so tired, Mom. I'm so tired of this."

"So your solution is to abandon me."

"I'm not abandoning you!"

"That's exactly what you're doing. Choosing him over me. Choosing Florida over your family—"

"My family?" Sloane felt something snap inside her chest. "What family? You and Dad can't even have a civil conversation! My family has been broken for three years, and you both keep pretending like I don't notice! Like I'm not affected by it!"

"Of course you're affected by it. That's why you need to stay here, where you have support, where you have—"

"Where I have you watching my every move and making me feel guilty for even thinking about leaving!" Sloane was shouting now, tears streaming down her face. "Why does every choice I make have to be about someone else? Why can't it just be about me? About what I want? About my future?"

"Because your choices affect other people, Kehlani! That's how family works!"

"No, that's how your family works! Dad's family! Not mine! I didn't ask for any of this!" She grabbed her backpack from where she'd dropped it. "I didn't ask for you two to get divorced. I didn't ask for Dad to move to Florida. I didn't ask to be the rope in your tug-of-war. I just want to live my life without feeling like I'm betraying someone every time I make a decision!"

"Kehlani—"

But Sloane was already moving, heading for the door, her vision blurred with tears.

"Where are you going?"

"Out."

"Sloane Kehlani O'Brien, don't you dare walk out that door—"

The door slammed behind her, cutting off her mother's words. Sloane was in her truck before she could think, before she could second-guess, before the guilt could catch up with her. She started the engine with shaking hands and backed out of the driveway too fast, her mother's silhouette visible in the doorway. She didn't look back. Sloane drove with no destination in mind, tears streaming down her face, her breath coming in ragged gasps. The streets of San Diego blurred past her windows. She didn't know where she was going. She just knew she couldn't be at home.

Her phone buzzed. Her mother calling. She ignored it.

It buzzed again. A text this time.

Come home. We need to talk about this.

Then another.

Kehlani, please.

She turned her phone to silent and tossed it onto the passenger seat. The sun had fully set now, the sky fading from deep purple to black. Streetlights flickered on. Traffic thinned. Sloane drove on autopilot, her mind replaying the argument over and over. You're going to leave. Just like he did. Choosing him over me. Abandon me.

Was that what she was doing? Was wanting to go to Florida really about abandoning her mother? Or was it about finally, finally making a choice that was hers alone?
She didn't know anymore. She didn't know anything anymore. Without consciously deciding to, she found herself turning onto a familiar street. Dylan's street. Dylan's house.

Dylan.

Her boyfriend of three years. Her best friend since freshman year. The one person who'd been there through everything, the divorce, the arguments, the pressure, the expectations. The one person who made her feel like she could breathe. She needed him right now. Needed his arms around her. Needed him to tell her everything would be okay. That she wasn't a terrible person. That she wasn't abandoning anyone. That it was okay to want things for herself. She didn't call ahead. Didn't text. Just drove straight to his house, pulling up behind his truck in the driveway. His parents' cars weren't there, they usually worked late on weeknights. It would just be him.

Perfect.

For the first time since the argument, Sloane felt herself smile. Just a little. Just enough. She got out of her truck and walked to the front door. It was unlocked, Dylan's parents were trusting like that, especially in their quiet neighbourhood. She let herself in, calling out softly.

"Dylan? It's me."

No answer.

But she could hear something. Music, maybe? No ... laughter. Coming from upstairs. Sloane frowned. She moved toward the staircase, her footsteps silent on the carpeted steps. The laughter got louder. A girl's laughter.
A familiar girl's laughter.

Cindy.

Confusion washed over Sloane. Cindy was, well, she was a friend. Sort of. They ran in the same circles, played on some of the same teams. What was she doing here?

Sloane reached the top of the stairs. Dylan's bedroom door was closed, but not all the way. Light spilled through the crack. And voices. Dylan's voice. Cindy's voice.

Something cold settled in Sloane's stomach.

She should have turned around. Should have left. Should have called out, announced her presence, given them a chance to— To what?
Her hand moved on its own, pushing the door open. The scene that greeted her seemed to unfold in slow motion. Dylan's bed. Tangled sheets. Dylan and Cindy, both half-dressed, frozen in the act of— Time stopped.

Sloane's brain couldn't process what she was seeing. Couldn't make sense of it. This was Dylan. Her Dylan. The boy who'd held her when she cried about her parents' divorce. The boy who'd driven her to track meets at five in the morning. The boy who'd told her he loved her. The boy who was currently staring at her with wide, guilty eyes.

"Sloane," he said, his voice strangled. "I .... this isn't—"
But he didn't finish. Didn't try to explain. Didn't move.
Cindy sat up, pulling the sheet around herself, her face flushed. "Oh
my God. Sloane, I'm so sorry, I—"
But she didn't finish either.
They both just stared at her. Guilty. Embarrassed. Frozen.
And Sloane just stood there.
She didn't scream. Didn't cry. Didn't throw things or demand
explanations or make a scene. She just stood there, looking at them,
feeling something inside her chest crack and splinter and shatter into a
thousand pieces.

"Sloane, please, let me explain—" Dylan started, finally finding his
voice.
But Sloane was already turning away. Already walking back down
the hallway. Already descending the stairs.
"Sloane, wait!"
She didn't wait.
"Sloane, please!"
She didn't stop.
She heard footsteps behind her, Dylan, probably, scrambling to
follow but she was faster. She was always faster. She was out the
door and in her truck before he made it down the stairs, before he
could catch her, before he could try to explain away what she'd just
seen.
She started the engine and pulled out of the driveway, her hands
steady on the wheel even though everything inside her was shaking.
In her rearview mirror, she saw Dylan standing in the doorway,
shirtless, one hand raised as if to call her back.

He didn't chase her.
Didn't run after her truck.
Didn't try.
And somehow, that hurt more than the betrayal itself. The
indifference. The ease with which he let her go.
Sloane drove.
She didn't know where she was going. Didn't care. Just drove, her
eyes dry now, her face numb, her mind a blank white noise of
nothing.
The tears came later. Slowly at first, then all at once, blurring her
vision until she had to pull over to the side of the road just to breathe.
Great, heaving sobs that tore through her chest and left her gasping.
Her mother's words echoed in her head.
You're going to leave. Just like he did.
Abandon me.

And now Dylan. Dylan, who she'd trusted more than anyone. Dylan,
who she'd given three years of her life to. Dylan, who'd promised her
forever.
Gone.
Everyone left. Everyone abandoned her. Or she abandoned them. She
couldn't tell anymore which was which.
Her phone was buzzing again. She grabbed it, hoping, stupidly,
desperately hoping ... that it was Dylan. That he was calling to
explain, to apologize, to tell her it was all a mistake.
But it was her mother.
Where are you?
Kehlani, answer me.
I'm worried.
Sloane turned the phone off completely and threw it back onto the
passenger seat.

She started driving again. The streets were emptier now, the night deepening. She drove past her school. Past the track where she'd spent countless hours training. Past the beach where she and Dylan had gone on their first date.

Every landmark looked different in the yellow glare of the streetlights, stripped of the warmth they used to hold. Why does every choice I make have to be about someone else? Her own words, thrown at her mother just hours ago. But now they felt hollow. Because maybe the problem wasn't everyone else. Maybe the problem was her. Maybe she was the one who ruined everything. Maybe she was the one who wasn't worth staying for.

Her father had left.

Her mother wanted her to stay out of obligation, not love.

Dylan had cheated.

Cindy had betrayed her.

What did that say about her? What was wrong with her that no one chose her? That no one fought for her?

The city lights blurred together as she drove, and she realized she was
crying again. Silent tears this time, streaming down her face, dripping
off her chin.
She didn't know how long she drove. Minutes. Hours. Time had lost
all meaning.
And then, without consciously deciding to, without planning it, she
found herself approaching the San Diego-Coronado Bridge.
The bridge stretched out before her, elegant and imposing, its lights
reflecting off the dark water below. Sloane had driven across it a
thousand times. Had never thought twice about it.
But tonight, something pulled her toward it.
She took the exit, merging onto the bridge, and then, instead of
driving across, she pulled over into the emergency lane and stopped.
For a long moment, she just sat there, engine idling, staring out at the
darkness.
Then she turned off the truck and got out.

The wind hit her immediately, whipping her long dark hair around her
face, carrying the salt-smell of the ocean. It was cold out here, colder
than she'd expected, but she barely felt it.
She walked to the railing and looked down.
Black water. Endless darkness. The lights from the bridge reflected
on the surface, dancing and shimmering, beautiful in a terrible way.
It would be so easy.
The thought came unbidden, unwanted, but once it was there, she
couldn't shake it.
It would be so easy to just ... stop. To stop fighting. To stop trying. To
stop disappointing everyone. To stop hurting.
Her mother would be sad, maybe. But she'd get over it. She'd
probably blame Sloane's father, and he'd blame her, and they'd go on
fighting just like they always did. But at least Sloane wouldn't be
caught in the middle anymore.
Dylan would feel guilty, probably. But he'd move on. He already had,
clearly. Cindy would move on too.

Her father would be upset. But he had his new life in Florida. He'd be
fine.
Everyone would be fine.
Maybe they'd even be better off without her. Without the constant
source of conflict. Without the daughter who couldn't make anyone
happy. Without the girl who was never quite enough.
Sloane looked down at the water again. It looked almost peaceful
from up here. Quiet. Still.
She thought about her scholarship offers. Seventeen of them. All
those opportunities. All those futures she could have.
But what was the point? What was the point of any of it if she was
always going to be torn between what she wanted and what everyone
else wanted from her?
Why does every choice I make have to be about someone else?
Maybe this could be her choice. Finally. The one choice that was
entirely hers.
She climbed onto the railing.

It was easier than she'd thought it would be. Her athlete's body,
trained for balance and strength, made it almost effortless. She stood
there, the wind buffeting her, her toes hanging over the edge, nothing
between her and the water but air and darkness.
She closed her eyes.
Thought about her mother's face during their argument.
Her father's voice on the phone, always pushing, always wanting.
Dylan and Cindy, tangled together in sheets that smelled like betrayal.
Everyone who'd left her. Everyone she'd disappointed.
She took a breath.
Took one step forward—
"Don't."
The voice came from behind her, deep and commanding, cutting
through the wind and the darkness and the white noise in her head.
Sloane froze.

Slowly, carefully, she turned her head.
A man stood several yards away, hands raised slightly as if
approaching a frightened animal. He was tall, massive, really, with
the build of a football player. Long dark hair whipped around his face
in the wind. Brown eyes locked onto hers with an intensity that made
her breath catch.
"Please," he said, his voice gentler now. "Don't."
Sloane stared at him. "Who are you?"
"Nobody. Just, someone who's asking you not to jump."
"Why do you care?"
He took a small step closer. Not too fast. Not threatening. Just, closer.
"Because if I walk away," he said quietly, "and you jump, I'll spend
the rest of my life wishing I'd done something."
Sloane's eyes burned with fresh tears. "You don't even know me."
"No," he agreed. "But I know that whatever you're going through,
whatever brought you here, it's not worth this."

"You don't know what I'm going through."
"You're right. I don't." Another small step. "But I know pain when I
see it. And I know that pain doesn't last forever, even when it feels
like it will."
"How do you know?" Her voice cracked. "How do you know it gets
better?"
"Because I'm still here," he said simply. "And there were times I
didn't think I would be."
They stared at each other across the distance. The wind howled
around them. Cars passed on the bridge, their occupants oblivious to
the scene unfolding in the emergency lane.
"What's your name?" he asked.
Sloane didn't answer. Couldn't answer. Because if she told him her
name, if she made this real, then she'd have to face what she'd almost
done. What she'd been about to do.
"My name's AJ," he offered when she didn't respond. "Andrew James
Turner, but everyone calls me AJ."

"AJ," she repeated, her voice barely audible over the wind.
"Yeah." He smiled, just a little. "And you are?"
The tears were flowing freely now, hot against her cold cheeks. Her
legs were shaking. Her whole body was shaking.
"I can't—" she started, but her voice broke. "I can't do this anymore. I
can't, everyone wants something from me, and I don't know how to, I
don't know who I'm supposed to be—"
"You're supposed to be you," AJ said, taking another step closer. He
was only a few feet away now. Close enough that she could see the
concern etched into his features. "Just you. Not who your parents
want you to be. Not who your boyfriend wants you to be. Just you."
"I don't know who that is anymore."
"Then figure it out. But not like this. Please, not like this."
Sloane looked down at the water again. It still looked peaceful. Still
looked like an escape.
But AJ's voice pulled her back.

"One step," he said. "Just take one step back. Toward me. That's all
I'm asking. One step."
"I don't—"
"One step. Please."
Something in his voice, the desperation, the genuine fear, the care
from a complete stranger, broke through the numbness that had
settled over her. Broke through the pain and the anger and the
overwhelming sense of being lost.
She looked at him. Really looked at him. At this stranger who'd
stopped his own night to stand on a bridge and talk her down from the
ledge. This stranger who cared whether she lived or died, even though
he didn't know her name.
"One step," he said again, extending his hand toward her.
Sloane's legs were shaking so badly now she wasn't sure she could
move. But she tried. Shifted her weight backward. Felt the solid
concrete of the railing beneath her feet instead of empty air.
"That's it," AJ encouraged. "One more. You can do it."

She took another step back. And another. And then AJ was there, his
large hands gripping her waist, pulling her off the railing and onto
solid ground.
The moment her feet hit the pavement, everything inside her
collapsed.
She fell against him, her legs giving out, sobs tearing through her
chest with a violence that scared her. AJ caught her, held her, lowered
them both to the ground so she was sitting with her back against the
bridge railing and he was kneeling in front of her.
"It's okay," he murmured, one hand on her shoulder, steady and
grounding. "You're okay. I've got you."
But she wasn't okay. Nothing was okay. Everything was broken and
wrong and she didn't know how to fix it.
"I'm sorry," she gasped between sobs. "I'm sorry, I'm sorry—"
"Hey, no. Don't apologize. You have nothing to apologize for."
"I almost ... I was going to—"
"But you didn't. You're here. You're still here."

They sat like that for what felt like hours but was probably only
minutes. AJ didn't try to make her stop crying. Didn't tell her
everything would be fine. Didn't offer empty platitudes. He just
stayed, solid and present, an anchor in the storm.
Eventually, the sobs subsided into hiccups, then into shaky breaths.
Sloane wiped her face with her hands, suddenly aware of how she
must look, red-eyed, tear-stained, a complete mess.
"I'm sorry," she said again, quieter this time.
"Stop apologizing." AJ's voice was gentle but firm. "You're allowed
to fall apart. Everyone falls apart sometimes."
"Not like this."
"Especially like this."
She looked up at him. In the light from the bridge, she could see his
face more clearly now. Strong features. Kind eyes. The face of
someone who'd seen his own share of darkness.
"Why were you here?" she asked. "On the bridge. Tonight."

"Driving home from work," he said. "Saw your truck pulled over.
Saw you standing on the railing." He paused. "Couldn't keep driving."
"You could have. Most people would have."
"I'm not most people."
No, Sloane thought. He definitely wasn't.
They sat in silence for a moment, the wind still whipping around
them, the water still dark below.
"What's your name?" AJ asked again, his voice soft.
This time, Sloane answered.
"Sloane," she whispered. "My name is Sloane."
AJ smiled, a real smile this time, warm and relieved. "It's nice to meet
you, Sloane. I wish it was under better circumstances, but, I'm glad I
met you."
"Why?"
"Because you're still here. And that matters."

Fresh tears pricked at Sloane's eyes, but these felt different. Less like
despair and more like, something else. Something she couldn't quite
name.
"I don't know what to do now," she admitted. "I don't know how to go
back to ... everything."
"You don't have to figure it all out tonight," AJ said. "You just have
to get through tonight. And then tomorrow, you get through
tomorrow. One day at a time."
"That sounds impossible."
"It's not. I promise you, it's not." He stood, offering her his hand.
"Come on. Let's get you off this bridge."
Sloane looked at his hand for a long moment. Then, slowly, she
reached out and took it.
His grip was strong and steady as he pulled her to her feet. She
swayed slightly, her legs still shaky, and he kept his hand on her
elbow until she was stable.
"You okay to drive?" he asked.

Sloane looked at her truck, then back at AJ. "I don't know."
"Okay. Then I'll drive you. Where do you need to go?"
"I—" She stopped. Where did she need to go? Not home. She couldn't
face her mother right now. Not Dylan's. Never Dylan's again. "I don't
know."
"Friends? Family?"
She shook her head.
AJ studied her for a moment, then nodded. "Alright. How about this,
there's a diner about ten minutes from here. Open all night. We'll go
there, get you some coffee or hot chocolate or whatever you want,
and you can figure out your next move. Sound good?"
It sounded better than anything else she could think of.
"Okay," she said quietly.
"Okay." AJ smiled again, and Sloane felt something in her chest
loosen just slightly. "Come on. I'll follow you in my truck, make sure
you get there safe."

They walked back to their vehicles together. Before Sloane got into
her truck, AJ stopped her.
"Sloane?"
She turned.
"I'm really glad you're still here," he said.
And for the first time that night, maybe for the first time in months,
Sloane believed that someone actually meant it.
"Me too," she whispered.
And as she started her truck and pulled back onto the bridge, AJ's
headlights steady in her rearview mirror, she realized it was true. She
was glad she was still here.