She furrows her brow at me, but her lower lip trembles. “That’s not how it works, Emmett. Just go. Get on your plane and chase the next story. I’ll be fine.”
She says it with the conviction of someone who’s spent her whole life learning how to be left behind.
Andfuck,that hurts me for her.
“I’m not leaving without full consent and a happy Georgia,” I say, as gently as I can. “I promise.”
She shakes her head. “You don’t have to say that.”
I lean in, elbows on my knees, voice dropping to a whisper. “I don’t want to leave you, Georgie.”
Her breath shudders out, and she drops her forehead to her knees.
I reach for her hand, but she draws back. “Don’t,” she says, voice wobbly. “If you touch me, I’ll lose it.”
I sit back, hands up. “Okay. No touching.”
There’s a beat where I think maybe that’s the end of it, and then she says, without lifting her head, “Everyone leaves eventually. My mom died. My dad basically made it clear I’m dead to him now. Why would you guys be any different?”
That lands like a punch to the gut. I don’t even have a fucking answer for it, not one that would do any good.
“Because I’m not those people, Georgia.”
She sits there for a few moments, letting the silence suffocate us. And finally, when she does lift her head, it’s because the door creaks open.
I follow her gaze to see Brody, standing there, his face drawn tight. He’s holding a coffee mug in both hands, as if it’s the only thing keeping him upright.
How nice of you to finally show your face.But I swallow the tinge of bitterness. Honestly, maybehecan help me get through to her.
“Can I come in?” he asks, as if this isn’t his fucking boat.
Georgia doesn’t say yes, but she doesn’t say no. Brody takes it as an invitation, steps in, and sits on the floor at the side of the bed. He sets the mug down, then looks up at her with a gentleness I don’t think I’ve ever seen on his face.
He waits until she meets his eyes. “Just so you know, I’m not leaving this—us,” he says. “If you want me gone, you’ll have to throw me overboard.”
Georgia makes a noise, and I can’t tell if it’s a scoff or if she’s about to start crying again.
Brody reaches up and takes one of her hands in his. “We’re going to make it through this, Georgie. We will.”
I slide a little closer, then rest my arm behind her shoulders on the pillow. She leans into it, though just barely.
Eventually, Georgia uncurls a little. She rests her cheek on my shoulder, still holding Brody’s hand. I feel the tension drain out of her in slow waves.
“I don’t know what to do,” she says, voice raw.
“You don’t have to do anything,” I say, smoothing a stray strand of hair behind her ear. “We’ll just sit here, and if you want to scream or cry or throw something at my face, I’ll take it.”
She sniffs, then gives a little laugh. “Throwing has never really been my thing. My aim is terrible.”
Brody smiles. “So is mine.”
Georgia lets out a sigh at that and shifts so she’s half in my lap, legs stretched across the bed, head resting on my chest. I stroke her arm in slow, gentle circles.
Brody stays where he is, kneeling by the bed now, his hand curled around her ankle. It’s such a simple gesture—stupid,almost, for three adults to sit here like this—but I can feel how much it means to her.
And how much it means to me.
I tip my head down to kiss the top of her head, and she tilts her face up, eyes bright and searching.
