Abby keeps feeling like Ellie's going to walk back in at any moment. She can sort of imagine Ellie coming in and seeing Clarisse in her arms — something out of a sitcom, funny and stupid, a misunderstanding. But she isn't coming back, the thought shattered, rebuilt, shattered again when Clarisse slumps her weight into her and cries into her shirt hard, holds her even harder.
This is so horribly familiar. Losing someone; the little moments where you look instinctively for them and realise all over again that they are never going to be there again; when you forget temporarily while you're distracted with something else, then remember and feel guilty. She's done this before, so many times.
Abby can't tell if she cries because she's upset, or if she's crying because Clarisse is crying and listening to her hurts. Either way she doesn't move. She holds onto her just as tight, wet cheek pressed against her head.
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This is so horribly familiar. Losing someone; the little moments where you look instinctively for them and realise all over again that they are never going to be there again; when you forget temporarily while you're distracted with something else, then remember and feel guilty. She's done this before, so many times.
Abby can't tell if she cries because she's upset, or if she's crying because Clarisse is crying and listening to her hurts. Either way she doesn't move. She holds onto her just as tight, wet cheek pressed against her head.