Elle's Pov
I'm standing on the sidewalk of our apartment, hugging Camila tightly with my suitcase beside me, and a peppermint–colored winter scarf wrapped around my neck. Behind us, my mother is digging through the backseat of the SUV, making sure she packed every imaginable snack as if we're migrating across an ocean rather than crossing state lines into Vermont.
Camila rubs my arm through the thick wool of my coat. Her eyes are searching mine, looking for the girl who used to laugh at everything, but all she finds is the hollowed-out version of me that the gala left behind.
"Call me when you stop for gas, okay?" she says, her voice hitching just a fraction.
My mom turns, a rare, genuine grin on her face. "Gas? She'll text you even if we stop to breathe. But remember our agreement... you're spending next weekend with us. No excuses."
