When I see Emily the next day at school, she's wearing long sleeves and makeup that's clearly covering a black eye and my gut burns knowing I caused it, caused her this pain. I wonder how no one, not even her mother, can see it, can see that she needs help...she's not as good at hiding it as she'd like to believe.

We're cutting class, sitting on the hood of her car outside my house where no one is home to notice. I don't generally make a habit of skipping school, but she makes it so hard to deny her anything. She isn't looking at me, pulling apart her split ends so I can't see what's in her eyes – I think maybe she's crying. I watch her, even though she doesn't want me to see.

"I need your help," she says softly, voice thick with emotion she's trying to swallow. She turns to look at me, then, eyes wary, like she's afraid of what I might read in her face.

"Anything," I agree without even knowing the request. I reach out, in spite of myself, as if to touch her bruise where the make up has come off, and she flinches away from my touch. I still my hand before it can get to her.

"Go pack a bag, we're going on a little road trip," she commands with confidence she doesn't feel, hopping off the car to pop the trunk. I follow her and see she has a bag packed, know she's been planning this, but didn't know how to ask.

I obey wordlessly, only thinking to question it when we're on the road. "Where are we going?" I ask, attempting to sound nonchalant, merely curious and not skeptical.

"New York," she says, staring intently out the windshield, almost like she's afraid of my reaction. She looks beautiful with her loose hair blowing in the breeze from the open window. She always looks beautiful.

"New York?" I echo dumbly. I don't know what I'd been expecting, but it wasn't that.

"It's only four hours," she says with a shrug.

That was not my concern. "Why?" I try not to make it sound like I think she's crazy.

"I'm getting an abortion and I don't want anyone to trace it back to me." She says it strangely devoid of any emotion, like she's reading off a script. She tightens her grip on the steering wheel, though, giving her anxiety away. I don't know whether it because of the procedure or my reaction.

"What?" I yelp before I can stop myself. I thought we were just goofing off, not that...never that.

"You know what my mother would do if she found out – and that's the preferable option..." She's getting defensive and I know I've hurt her with my incredulity.

That wasn't the part I was questioning, but I do know what's she's referring to. "Yes, but..." I don't have any right to question her, I'm not in her shoes, I never will be...but I have to know. "Are you sure? What about...other options?"

"I can't have a baby – not now. If he found out..." She shakes her head.

I don't know how to feel. The part of me that believed (believes?) in God has always been taught that it's wrong, that it's a life. But I know she's right, she'd likely end up dead if anyone knew she was pregnant and I'd rather have her alive than a bunch of undifferentiated cells.

"What about Ian?" I ask, trying not to infuse my voice with too much venom, "Does he know?"

"I can't tell him," she says softly, sadly, "He wouldn't understand."

"He wouldn't want it?"

"I think he'd want it more than anything..."

I don't comment on the sadness in her voice, the longing that makes me ache (I try not to examine too closely why it makes my heart hurt...) "And why am I here?"

"I need someone to look after me while I sleep off the anesthetic. You're the only one I trust." Considering two weeks ago she hadn't wanted to speak to me, I'm touched.

I reach over to hold her hand and she smiles faintly. It makes my heart hurt a little more.

"I'm scared," she whispers. "Hold my hand?"

I reach out to grip her proffered hand – it's like ice. She squeezes my fingers tightly and I squeeze hers right back until she attempts a smile, a grimace, really, in thanks.

"Stay with me?" she asks, voice quavering. She looks so frightened, so small against the stark surgical white of the room, she looks like I could break her in half if I held her too tightly.

"Always," I promise. I've never meant anything more in my life.

Her eyes shine when she looks up at me – she looks like she wants to believe me, but can't. I know I'll spend the rest of my life proving that to her, if she lets me.

She's still half-dazed from the anesthetic when we get back to the hotel. I half-carry, half-drag her into the room and deposit her on the bed. She doesn't even move when I pull her shoes off. I don't imagine she's very comfortable in her clothes, but I'm not about to undress her.

She mumbles something incoherent and rolls over, splaying out across the one bed. Looks like I'll be sleeping on the floor tonight. Even if there had been room, sharing a bed would feel too much like I was taking advantage of her.

I'm busy making a nest of spare blankets on the floor when she says my name. At first I think she's talking in her sleep, until she says it again, more insistently this time. I crouch down at the side of the bed to meet her gaze, eyes glazed but searching out mine. For a moment, before her eyes focus in on me, she looks frightened, like she thought I'd abandoned her.

"What'd you say, princess?" I stroke her hair away from her face, tucking it behind her ear with tenderness that is probably inappropriate given the situation.

She smiles dreamily at the contact. "Thank you," she murmurs.

"For what?" I can't help but smile at her sleepy voice and bleary eyes.

"For being there," she says, sleepy but serious.

"Always," I repeat, "I am always gonna be there for you."

"Why?" she asks.

I don't understand the question. "Why what?"

"Why are you still here? You should hate me...for what I've done." Her voice becomes small and meek as she says it, like she's afraid of my response as if she's expecting me to walk away and never look back.

"You haven't done anything wrong. You were right, there was no way you could safely have a baby, given your...situation. You made the best decision anyone could possibly make in your shoes and no one has any damn right to judge you because they have no idea what you've been through." I say it with blazing intensity that frightens even me.

"You think so?" she asks, hopeful.

"You've just been playing the hand that was dealt to you. It's a shit hand, but you haven't let it stop you from being a beautiful, sweet, intelligent, amazing girl." I kiss her forehead. I mean every single word.

"Yeah?" she says, daring to smile faintly.

"Yeah. Now sleep, baby girl." I pull the covers up around her body as she closes her eyes again. I doubt she'll remember a word of this conversation come morning, but it seems to have put her at peace for the time being.

I curl up in my blanket nest, but I doubt I'll be able to sleep, the events of the day running through my mind as I try to make sense of everything that's happened, how there can possibly be any justice in the world while someone so good, so pure, suffers like that.