I cross the room and sit beside her on the couch. "It's going to be fine."
"I know." She nods. Her eyes wet. "I just — I keep thinking about what I did wrong. What I said that made her—"
"You didn't do anything wrong."
"Maybe I shouldn't have asked her to bring the coffee. Maybe that was—"
"Hannah." I put my hand on her shoulder. "Rebecca will calm down. I'll handle it. This is what she does. She escalates, she makes a scene, and then she stops. It's a pattern."
The words come out smooth. Practiced. The same lines I always reach for after every fight, every silence, every cold dinner where Rebecca ate without looking at me. I tell myself it's a mood. Moods pass.
Hannah leans into my hand. Just slightly. The pressure of someone who trusts me to fix what's broken.
I tell myself that's
