“I’m glad,” I say and open my arms, offering her a hug. She immediately wraps her own arms around my waist, squeezing me tightly. “No matter what you decide, we’ll always be here for you and support you.”

Christina murmurs her gratitude and then leaves in a haste, probably to stop me from seeing the tears threatening to spill down her cheeks. I stare after her for a long moment, my shoulders slumped.

It might be only two more months left for me, but it’s years and years for other people. There are so many of us drowning in plain sight, and so little the rest of us can do to help.

I turn back to my locker, exhaling a deep breath. As I start to spin the dial, 32, 15, 41, footsteps echo in the hallway, someone walking up to me slowly.

I glance to the side and I miss 41 completely, my heart skipping an uncertain beat.

Emmitt is watching me, his eyes calm and appraising. His British accent is back when he says, “We need to talk.”

“We do?” I ask, forcing my expression into a blank slate. My feelings are still raw and this is the last thing I was expecting. “About what?”

“Your offer.”

“My offer,” I repeat dubiously and turn back to the dial, spinning it until I hear a click.

In my peripheral vision, Emmitt nods, inclining his head toward my locker. A film club magnet sits below my lingering fingers.

I drop my hand entirely and turn to face him, crossing my arms. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

There’s something strange about his expression, something a little too honest and grim. Did he overhear me talking to Christina? The thought of him witnessing such a vulnerable conversation makes my skin crawl.

But then a sliver of a smile passes across Emmitt’s face, patronizing enough that I dismiss the thought. No. There’s no way he would have sat through that entire conversation without offering unsolicited advice. “You were begging for my help five days ago.”

“Begging is a stretch,” I say mildly, although it’s more spot-on than I care to admit. “If you’re here to antagonize me, keep it moving, dude. I’m not in the mood.”

Emmitt leans a shoulder against the off-white wall beside the row of lockers. “And if I’m here to help you?”

My eyes narrow, and I observe him. There’s an ease to his countenance. Sunlight streams through from my English classroom, setting his dyed hair alight, as if a halo of gold is crowned upon his head. It’s unfortunate that he’s as attractive as he is. “Is that right?”

“I’ll be in your film,” he says, and I blink in surprise. “But you have to help me in return.”

I don’t like the sound of that.

“Help you how?” I ask, brow furrowed. “Did Grant talk to you?”