I force a laugh, but it cracks in the middle. My fingers twist into the hem of my sleeve. “You’re really leaving.”
Her smile flickers, and she sets the bag down, brushing a strand of hair from my face. “Yeah, sweetheart. My time’s up.”
I hate when she calls me that — sweetheart — because it makes me want to crumple right into her arms and never let go.
“I don’t want you to go,” I whisper before I can stop myself. My voice sounds small. Too small. I feel the flutter of panic rise, that old familiar tide.
“Brit…” Corinne’s hands cup my face, thumbs brushing the corners of my eyes. “You’re okay. You’re okay, baby. Look how far you’ve come.”
My breath hitches. “Promise me you’ll meet me,” I blurt out, the words tangling. “At the café. When I get out next month. Please, Corinne. Promise.”
Her face softens. “Of course I’ll meet you. Brit, I want to meet you. Café Brighton, yeah? Right across from the old bookstore?”
I nod furiously, heart pounding. “Yes. Yes. Please don’t forget.”
“I could never forget you.” Corinne’s eyes shine, and she pulls me in, wrapping her arms around me tight. I squeeze her back,tighter than I probably should, because the panic is swelling in my throat and if I let go now, I’ll fall apart.
“Shh, you’re okay,” she murmurs, rocking me a little. “You’re gonna be okay.”
I know people are watching. I know Tate’s probably smirking in that fond way of his, and Sylvia’s got that gentle, sad look in her eyes. But right now, it’s just Corinne and me, and the scent of her shampoo, and the warmth of her arms, and the unbearable ache in my chest.
When she pulls back, I can’t help it — a little whimper escapes, and I feel the heat rush to my face. Control it, Brit. You’re not a child. You’re not. But my hands still reach out, fingers brushing her sleeve like maybe if I touch her one more time, it’ll be enough.
Corinne presses a kiss to my forehead. “You’ve got this. You’ve got all of us.”
“Not when you’re gone,” I mumble, and immediately regret it. I’m supposed to be stronger now.
“Always when I’m gone,” she corrects softly. “Look around, baby girl.”
I turn. Tate is leaning against the wall, arms folded, watching us with a crooked grin. Sylvia is already on her feet, moving toward us.
“C’mere, you sap,” Tate says, striding over and pulling me into a one-armed hug, ruffling my hair. “Don’t hog her all to yourself.”
Sylvia wraps her arms around both of us, resting her chin on my shoulder. “We’re a squad, remember?”
My throat tightens again, but this time it’s different — not panic, not grief, but something almost too big to name.
Tate leans down, murmuring in my ear, “You’re stronger than you think, Ashford. Don’t forget that.”
I laugh wetly. “Says the guy who cries at every group therapy.”
He grins, unashamed. “Hey, real men cry.”
Corinne wraps us all up in her arms, squeezing hard. For a second, we’re a messy knot of limbs and sniffles and bad jokes. My heart feels like it might split open — not from pain, but from how much I love them, how much I need them.
“I’m gonna miss you idiots,” Corinne says thickly.
“We’re gonna miss you more,” Sylvia murmurs.
When we finally pull apart, I catch Corinne’s hand again. “You’ll come to the café,” I say one more time, because the words feel like a lifeline, like a spell.
“I’ll be there, Brit,” Corinne promises. “You just keep eating those sandwiches and doing your thing, okay?”
I nod, but inside, the panic still whispers. What if she forgets? What if she moves on? What if she gets better and I… don’t?
As she picks up her bag and heads toward the door, I feel the sharp jab of fear slice through my chest. My feet move before I can think — I run after her, grabbing the back of her shirt.
“Brit!” Tate calls, startled.
