I try to memorize her face.
The exact shade of her eyes.
The curve of her lips.
The way she looks at me like I'm the only solid thing in a world that keeps shifting beneath her feet.
"I love you," I tell her, my voice breaking on the words. "Come back to me. Promise me you'll come back."
"I will." She rises on her tiptoes and presses a kiss to my lips. Soft. Gentle. A promise sealed with the taste of her tears. "I love you, Garrett. I've always loved you, even when I was too lost to show it."
"I know." I cup her face in my hands one last time, brushing my thumbs across her cheekbones. "You're going to do this, Vanna. You're going to fight, and you're going to win. And I'll be right here waiting when you come out the other side."
"Really?" she whispers.
"Always. There's no version of my life that doesn't include you."
She pulls back, and I can see her steeling herself. Gathering her courage. Becoming the warrior she needs to be to fight this battle.
And then she turns and walks through the door, and I'm left standing there alone.
I watch through the window as she disappears down a hallway, following the counselor toward whatever comes next.
I watch until I can't see her anymore, until she's gone completely, and then I keep watching anyway.
It takes everything I have to turn around.
To walk back to my truck.
To climb inside and start the engine and pull out of the parking lot.
I make it about ten miles before I have to pull over.
The first sob hits me like a punch to the gut, doubling me over the steering wheel.
And then they just keep coming—great, heaving sobs that I've been holding back for years.
For every overdose. Every hospital visit. Every time I thought I'd lost her for good.
I cry for the girl she used to be and the woman she's become.
I cry for the years we've lost and the years we might still lose.
I cry for the fear and the hope and the desperate, clawing love that won't let me give up on her no matter how many times she gives up on herself.
And when there's nothing left, when I'm empty and raw and hollowed out, I wipe my face with the back of my hand and put the truck in drive.
Twelve weeks.
She'll be home in twelve weeks.
I hold onto that thought like a lifeline as I head back toward Morgantown, leaving a piece of my heart in the Poconos with the woman I love.
One day at a time.
That's all any of us can do.
CHAPTER THREE
