Page 77 of It Happened on a Sunday

Sloane

The doctor walks in before either of them can answer.

“Ms. Walker, I’m Dr. Bhargava. It’s good to see you awake.”

“It’s good to be awake. Am I okay?” I ask because everyone is still looking so serious.

“Is she okay?” Sly demands at the exact same time. One look at him tells me he’s not just scared. He’s shattered .

I reach out a hand to him, shocked at how cold his fingers feel against my own, considering he’s usually the warm one in this pairing. Then again, if Sly had nearly died in front of me, I’d probably be a frozen lump on the floor, myself.

The doctor takes his time examining me, which doesn’t stress me out at all.

Especially since I’m one , dying to talk to Sly alone for a few minutes and two , desperate to find out what the PR situation is.

People already think I’m bad news. I can only imagine what a drug overdose is going to do to my mud-spattered reputation.

After what has to be the longest examination on record—yes, I know what year it is and the name of my latest album, thank you very much—the doctor says he’s going to order a few more tests. If they come back clear, I can go home tomorrow. And by home, I mean Chicago, for my next tour date.

It’s not quite the news I wanted—I’m ready to leave right now —but they did promise me I could eat before they draw blood or snap any more pics of my brain, so I’ll take the win where I can get it.

By the time the doctor leaves, Bryan’s at the door, his trusty tablet in hand.

“How bad is it?” I ask.

“Not bad at all,” he answers right before he does something that shocks the hell out of both of us. He throws himself at the bed and gives me a giant hug.

“Don’t ever scare me like that again!” he says in a voice that sounds surprisingly thick.

“Are you crying?” I ask, half touched and half horrified.

“These are tears of relief,” he shoots back, grabbing a tissue to dab under his eyes. “I was afraid you’d die and I’d have to break in a new celebrity.”

“Oh, please.” I snort. “Like anyone else would have you.”

In response, he holds up his tablet and takes a picture of me, shutter effect on full volume. “Be nice or I’ll put this on the internet.”

His words have me breathing a huge sigh of relief. At least one person is back to normal. Sly, on the other hand, is still looking like I might evacuate this mortal coil at any second. “Tell me the truth. How bad is it?”

“In the hands of a lesser PR guy…” he says, trailing off to build anticipation. Unfortunately for him, my patience is already in the negative.

“Bryan—”

He grins. “It still wouldn’t be the end of the world. In my hands, it’s fucking amazing. And that’s before the press conference set to take place in a couple of hours.”

“We’re having a press conference?” Now I’m kind of wishing for the tears back. “I’m in a fucking hospital gown, Bryan.”

“Believe me, I have absolutely no plans to trot a bunch of reporters up to your room.” He mock-shudders at just the suggestion.

“The Austin police department, however—with the help of your security team and the FBI—have uncovered enough evidence against little Ms. Skull and Crossbones to put her away for quite some time. They’re going to charge her with attempted murder, assault, stalking, and who knows what else. ”

“Stalking?” I turn to Sly, who is growing more still with each word Bryan speaks.

“She’s the one behind the dolls and the disturbing messages, Sloane.” His normally bright brown eyes are dull and hazy when they meet mine. “I’m so sorry—”

“Stop. I thought we put a moratorium on that word.”

“The moratorium’s for you, not me,” he says.

I don’t bother gracing that absurdity with an answer. Instead, I focus on Bryan and ask, “What kind of damage control do we need to do?”

“That’s what I’ve been trying to tell you. None. Unless you count dismantling the shrine downstairs. It’s currently grown so big it’s blocking half the main entrance. And that’s not even counting the fans who are keeping vigil down there, waiting to hear news about your condition.”

“Fans?” My eyes go to the window. “What are you talking about?”

“I’m talking about the fact that you nearly dying has basically broken the internet—in a good way,” he hastens to assure me before turning to Sly. “Did you show her the spider?”

“There hasn’t been time.”

“Well, no wonder you’re so freaked out. But you shouldn’t be.

These have sold out in practically every store and online vendor in the country.

” He crosses the room, then comes back with a giant, smooth Black Widow plushie, which he drops on my lap.

“The number one trending hashtag in the world right now is #BlackWidowStrong . You’re welcome for that, by the way. ”

“Thank you…?” I stare at the giant spider and all the many, many messages written on it with different pens in different handwriting and even different languages.

They say things like “We love you, Queen” and “You’ve got this, Sloane.

” There are even a few messages that read, “Thank you for saving my life” or “I wouldn’t be here without you. ”

“I don’t— I can’t— I—” My voice keeps breaking, and I have to clear my throat several times before I can even try to get anything else out. “I don’t understand.”

“What’s there to understand? They love you, queen! There are about fifty more of these spider things being passed around downstairs right now. We’re going to build a custom shelf for them at the studio. Not to mention all the cards and flowers and signs. But don’t take my word for it.”

He grabs a quick snap of my hands holding the spider and then types something up real quick. Literal seconds later, a wave of screams rings out from below. It’s so loud it sounds like it’s coming from the room next door, and it’s followed moments later by an even louder wave of cheers.

“What did you do?” I demand.

“I just posted on your Instagram that you are awake and doing well. That’s their response.”

“I don’t—” My voice breaks again, my entire body turning ice-cold as the world as I know it flips upside down.

Because in my world, everyone’s just around for the good time.

They come to the concerts to see the Black Widow, to hear the music and post about surviving the bite.

No one actually cares about me, the woman behind the reputation.

Or at least, that’s what it’s always felt like.

“It’s okay,” Sly murmurs, and once again his hand is right there when I reach for it. “I know it’s a lot.”

“I don’t understand what’s happening.”

“What’s happening is that your fans love you,” Bryan tells me. “They really love you, and they’ve been almost as worried about you as we have.”

I can hear them shouting still, can hear the cheers and the relieved cries. But it’s hard to believe—hard to accept—after spending so many years bracing against the jeers and the taunts.

“Come on,” Sly tells me as he lowers the bed railing—something it turns out you can only do from the outside. “Why don’t you go look for yourself?”

Because I’m terrified that if I do, it will disappear.

Still, I swing my legs over the side of the bed, though once I do, I make no attempt to actually stand up.

Sly doesn’t push me, doesn’t try to drag me to the window. He just waits beside me, ready to do whatever it is I want. It’s that patience, and the love shining so clearly in his eyes, that finally has me rising to my feet.

“We can see them from up here?” I ask, just to make sure I haven’t misunderstood. I’m afraid to hope, because if it turns out that they’re wrong, I’ll be shattered.

“If the crowd gets any bigger, we could see them from space,” Bryan retorts.

Sly laughs, but he doesn’t contradict him. That and his quiet strength give me the courage to find out for myself.

When I get to the window—when I look down and see the crowd covering the sidewalks and stretching over the grass to the parking lot—Sly asks if we can have a few minutes alone.

I don’t like to cry in front of people, can probably count on one hand the number of times I’ve done it in my entire adult life, but the second Bryan and Dr. Bhargava step out of the room, I dissolve.

“That’s it, corazón,” Sly croons as he scoops me up and settles us both into the armchair beside the window. “Let it all out.”

So I do. Held in the arms of the man I love, I cry for all the times I never let myself cry before.

I cry for the traumatized girl who was branded “bad” after losing the first boy she’d ever loved.

I cry for the young woman who was brutalized in that swimming pool, who fled for her life and still wore the stigma of her abuser’s death around her neck through interviews and award ceremonies, through meet-and-greets and attempted murders.

But most of all, I cry for the woman I am now, the one who made it through all of that and came out the other side not alone but with an entire community of people who lift her up. Who care if she lives or dies. Who love her because of who she is, not despite it.

“I’m sorry, Sloane,” Sly whispers in my ear. “I’m so sorry.”

“Don’t say that.” I cup his cheeks in my hands and wait until those beautiful, kind eyes of his finally meet mine before I say anything more. “I’ve built a whole career on pretending no one could love me. You proved me wrong. Don’t you ever apologize for that.”

“If I’d just left you alone, you wouldn’t be here—”

“You’re right. If you’d left me alone, I wouldn’ t be here. I’d still be locked inside myself, walled off from the world.” I bring his hand to my lips. “No matter what happens from here on out, I will always be grateful that you found me. That you see me. That you love me.

“The haters can take care of themselves, Sly. Because I’m not hiding anymore, and I’m not giving you up. We both walked through fire to be here, and fuck anyone who thinks they can take that away.”