Total pages in book: 39
Estimated words: 37164 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 186(@200wpm)___ 149(@250wpm)___ 124(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 37164 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 186(@200wpm)___ 149(@250wpm)___ 124(@300wpm)
He nods, slow and constant. “I know.”
There’s no accusation in it. No disappointment he doesn’t have the decency to hide. He simply accepts and somehow that hurts more than if he had pushed.
“I don’t want this to feel like a rush,” he adds. “Or like you owe me time you don’t have.”
“I don’t,” I say softly. “I just…”
“I know,” he says.
For a moment, neither of us moves. The cart sits between us, half full of joy, half full of waiting.
“Hey,” he breaks the silence finally, a small smile pulling at his mouth. “The kids are still getting spoiled. That part’s handled. That’s what is most important here.”
“And the rest?” I ask, wanting reassurance in this moment, but knowing I shouldn’t ask for it when everything in my life is so unclear.
He doesn’t respond and the phone keeps ringing. I step back, already grieving the space opening between us even as I answer the call.
6
Savannah
The problem with small towns is that they don’t let moments stay private.
They echo. Loudly. With very colourful commentary.
I’m barely twelve minutes away from the toy store when I spot my aunt’s car in the rearview mirror. That familiar blue sedan with one headlight dimmer than the other, like it’s permanently winking at me. She doesn’t honk. She doesn’t flash her lights. She just follows, patient and unyielding, the way only family can.
That or the police.
I don’t bother pretending this is a coincidence. She parks behind me like she’s staking a claim.
“You look flushed,” Aunt Carol announces the second I open the door, breezing inside without waiting to be invited, coat already halfway off like she owns the place. “Which means one of three things: you’re sick, you’re lying, or Erik Beaumont is involved.”
She squints at me, lips twitching. “Judging by your face, I’m ruling out the flu.”
Aunt Carol is the kind of woman who makes sixty-five look like a suggestion, not a rule. She keeps her hair long, usually pulled back in a loose twist or a low ponytail that never quite stays neat, silver threaded through the dark like she earned it on purpose. Sometimes she wears glasses, sliding them onto the bridge of her nose only when she needs them, as if reading glasses are an accessory she refuses to commit to.
There’s something quietly quirky about her, whether it’s her unexpected scarves, worn boots that have clearly seen some life, or her laugh that comes out sharper than you expect. She has the calm confidence of someone who knows exactly who she is and stopped explaining herself years ago.
“I was outside,” I say, shrugging out of my coat. “Also, hi by the way.”
“It’s forty degrees!” Her eyes piercing into me. “Also yes, hi.”
“I walk fast.”
We enter the rental she is so graciously covering as she watches me hang my coat, her gaze sharp and practiced, taking in the details I wish she wouldn’t like the color still lingering in my cheeks, the slight tremor in my hands when I set my keys on the counter. I try my best to shake it all off.
She takes inventory of the space. “It’s cute but you know, you could just stay with me when you come home? We can stay up late? Eat chips? Drink too much wine? You know, have a a girls night. I don’t know why you always insist on being so alone when you’re surrounded by so much love.”
Oof.
“I saw you with Erik,” spoken like she’s offering a fact, not a verdict.
She delivers another hit with no reprieve.
Nothing like a one-two combo.
I stay silent.
“In the square,” she continues. “Then at the toy store. Then walking back together, staring into each other’s eyes.”
“That’s called volunteering,” I defend too quickly. “That’s the assignment. And what you’re doing? That’s called stalking.”
She smiles, small and knowing. “It’s called Pineview noticing and Aunts being aunties.”
“Please don’t,” I plead. “I don’t need an Aunt Carol lecture right now.”
“I’m not pushing,” she replies, hands in the air like I’m about to arrest her. “I’m grounding you, well not like that since you’re a woman now, but I’m grounding you back into Pineview. Into why you’re here.”
That lands harder.
She sets her purse down on the counter, the sound deliberate. “The realtor called this afternoon.”
I freeze.
“They moved everything up,” she continues. “Those heartless fools. Paperwork’s tomorrow morning.”
“Tomorrow?” Grief and shock flood all of my systems at once.
She nods. “The buyers want possession before Christmas Day. I can’t blame them but it sucks for us. The movers are scheduled for the afternoon. Anything left in the house gets packed and cleared. This is it.”
December twenty-fourth. The date hits like a blow to the chest.
Tomorrow isn’t just paperwork. It’s finality. Tomorrow I sign my name and release the house, with the walls holding all of my childhood, to strangers who will never know my mother’s laugh lived in those rooms.