I drop my hands off Thatcher, and I find strength to move. Whether it’s the right kind of strength, I’m not certain. I’m so confused, but I step out of his hold anyway. His arm tears off my collarbones. It hurts. I can feel the air slice painfully, and I struggle to even look him in the eyes. I glance over at my best friend, and Maximoff shakes his head with a wince. Feeling my unease, possibly. Farrow is eyeing Thatcher, then me. I think he sees a strain that my leech-insecurities just created.
