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)
“I didn’t say Christmas.”
I close my eyes and lean back against the counter. Behind me, the man slips on his jacket, gives me a quick, affectionate kiss on the shoulder and lets himself out.
“Okay,” I say, trailing off.
“I said December,” she continues. “Your mom’s house is still sitting there, Savannah. The realtor needs your signature on a few things. And…” her voice softens. “…we miss you. We all do.”
That part lands somewhere behind my ribs, sharp and unexpected.
I’ve built a life here in New York City. I’ve busted my butt to get here. I work in publishing now, romance, of all things, shaping other people’s happy endings with a precision that feels almost ironic. I have friends who know me only as I am now, not as the girl who left town with grief packed into every suitcase, into every crevice of her being. Pineview remembers too much and for the first time in as long as I can remember, I’m starting to forget that version of myself.
“I can come for a few days,” I concede. “In and out.”
“That’s all I’m asking.”
When the call ends, the apartment feels quieter than before.
Too quiet.
I stare at my reflection in the darkened window - grief sure takes a toll on the body. I study my sharper cheekbones, a harder mouth, eyes that don’t quite soften anymore. I’ve lost weight. I know it.
I tell myself this is practical, being away from everyone back home.
I don’t tell myself the truth.
That December always finds me and that no amount of warmth in my bed has ever been enough to make the cold stop coming.
Three days later, I’m standing in a Manhattan grocery store checkout line, my fingers grazing over the packages of gum and candy that make my teeth ache just by existing, while my friend Lena tries to convince the cashier that a string of battery-powered Christmas lights qualifies as a non-optional emotional support item.
“I’m not decorating,” Lena says gravely, holding up the box like she’s testifying under oath. “I’m preventing seasonal despair. This is mental healthcare.”
The cashier stares at her, unimpressed. I smile despite myself.
Lena is one of those people New York gives you when you stay long enough. She’s sharp-tongued, loyal, unafraid to call you out and show up anyway. We met two years ago at a publishing happy hour, bonded over cheap wine, a mutual disdain for small talk, and somehow never stopped orbiting each other after that.
Lena is tall and willowy in a way that feels effortless, like she could have walked off a runway and never bothered to mention it. Her long brown hair falls in soft, unstudied waves, and her striking green eyes miss very little, sharp and alive with curiosity and confidence. There’s a fearlessness to her, rooted in knowing exactly who she is and moving through the world without apology. Despite her elegance, she’s grounded, solid in a way that makes people trust her instantly, like beauty was never the point, only a side effect.
She glances over at me. “You okay? Because you’ve been staring at that rack of candy like it personally offended you.”
“I’m fine.” My reply is automatic, like a reflex.
She arches a brow. “We both know that’s a lie. But I’ll let it slide for now.”
The line inches forward. I’m surrounded by miniature Christmas trees wrapped in burlap and overpriced wrapping paper that promises elegance and delivers cardboard disappointment. Somewhere near the front, a child is singing an off-key carol with wild enthusiasm.
My phone buzzes in my hand. The number is unknown but the area code is familiar.
Seasons Greetings! This is the Pineview Volunteer Committee League. You signed up to help with The Christmas Kindness Drive. We can’t wait to see you this season!
Heat creeps up my neck.
I don’t remember signing up. I haven’t signed up in years.
I think you have the wrong person.
Three dots appear almost immediately.
Is this Savannah Joy?
You signed up online last year. We’re so glad you’re back this year. You’ve already been paired with a co-volunteer. We meet on December 22rd for our volunteer round up in the square, followed by toy collection with the big drop off happening Christmas morning! We will see you soon!
The cashier clears her throat. The conveyor belt hums. My pulse rapid, loud enough that I swear Lena can hear it.
I won’t be in town long. I’m not sure I have the time this year. I am so sorry for any inconvenience.
The message comes back, relentlessly cheerful.
Oh, that’s fine! You only need to help fill one cart.
One cart.
The words blur, the store suddenly too bright, too loud.
I hear my mother’s voice as clearly as if she’s standing beside me, her hand warm on my shoulder, her smile gentle and unyielding.
One cart can change everything, Savannah.
“Hey,” Lena interjects softly, her teasing tone gone. “What is it?”
“Nothing.” The words almost escape as whisper. I lock my phone and shove it into my coat pocket like it might burn me. “Just… home stuff.”