Page 48 of Friends to WHAT?!

It’s selfish to take it.

It’s terrifying to not.

A crystal clear understanding of Wolfe’s psyche takes hold. Gracious, how is he overcoming this terror? How is he doing anything at all if he feels even a portion of this in all of the areas he’s expressed—his daughter, his brother, his family, his friends… me.

No wonder he looked so scared when he kidnapped me. This isscary.

I catch sight of Amia’s backpack, the same one from her first day of school photo, leaning carelessly against the front counter of the shop. It’s unzipped, and papers stick out in every direction. A single gummy worm hides in the mesh pocket meant for a water bottle.

I could zip it. I could take the gummy worm out, and organize the papers, and wash it squeaky clean, and I could zip it up. Tidily. Everything safe and sound. Everything exactly where it should be.

Could I…

Could I do the same with her, maybe? Zip her up when she feels out of control, like I remember feeling so often as a littlegirl? Tuck her hopes and dreams cozily within her, lining them all up so that they feel doable, and not like some wild far off hope?

Could I help to keep her safe and sound?

I… want to. I really, really want to.

I justdon’tknow.

“I have to leave,” I whimper. “I can’t go in there.”

A little girl’s scream takes hold of my heart before I can thaw my feet enough to move.

My eyes shoot up, through the glass, and land on Amia. Her dark hair swings as she flies toward the door, gap-toothed smile wide. Her chocolate opal eyes shine with the sort of joy only children possess as she screams again, swinging the door open andlaunchingherself at me.

I grunt as I catch her, going back on one foot and taking care that we don’t tumble over.

“MISS LEORA!” she squeals. “You came!” She hugs me so tightly I can’t breathe, and wetness teases my eyelashes.

“I came,” I wheeze. I wrap my arms around her and hug her back. My throat tightens.

This is…stars.Sheis perfect. Precious. A being so worthtryingfor.

Resolve constricts my chest, quite suddenly.

I might not know anything at all, but I will learn. I’ll learn everything I need to learn to make it so that I can be in her life, if only so I can receive more hugs like this. A million more. A trillion. An infinite amount, and I’ll do anything for them.

What is terror in the face of love, anyway?

Wolfe shows up on the sidewalk beside us and sends me an apologetic smile. For what, I couldn’t possibly hope to ascertain. I am in heaven. I am among the stars. I am wraped up in the arms of a creature made of pure starlight. There isn’t a thing to apologize for.

“Amia,” Wolfe intones. “Let’s let Miss Leora get into the shop, yeah? You can say hello inside.”

Amia lets go instantly, and I frown at Wolfe.

His eyes wrinkle at the sides when he smiles down at me and says, “Hello, my starling. I’m happy you’re here.”

My frown melts away. “You can’t just use the magic password anytime I’m cross with you,” I tell him, sniffing away leftover emotion. I swipe under my eyes and blink, taking care of the remnants of my… whatever it’s called when a person has a nervous breakdown on a public street followed by the best experience of their life and a newfound resolve to overcome the source of the breakdown. It’s been an emotionally charged few minutes.

“Are you okay?” Wolfe asks, peering closely at my face. His fingertip catches a tear I miss. “You’re crying.” He frowns, holding the tear aloft, evidence of mywhatever. “Why are you crying?”

“It’s because of the Whatever,” I inform him. “Perfectly natural. As is everything else happening here. As you well know.”

He well knows nothing of the sort, but that’s not my problem, is it?

He observes me silently for several long, drawn-out seconds, then his eyes clear of all confusion, and he nods slowly. “A Whatever,” he says. “I understand. Women have many a Whatever throughout their lives. I apologize. I’m more accustomed to the sort Amia has these days. It’s been a while since I’ve encountered one in a woman who’s grown—not since I left home, I think.” He smiles, tucks his fingertip into his mouth to rid it of my tear, then drops his hand to his side. “I am here for you,” he says. “Through your Whatevers, whether you wish to speak on them or not, whether the emotions stick or not. I will be here.” Then, as if he has not just brought forth a fresh batch oftears to my eyes, he grabs my hand, turns, and tugs me into the shop.