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)
Erik’s truck is pulled halfway onto the curb, hazard lights blinking softly. He gets out slowly, like he’s not sure whether this is a moment he’s allowed to enter.
My heart races at the sight of him and my mind is flooded with thoughts of last night. All I can see now are the photos. The way they were framed before he pressed the shutter, with all of the consistency and care felt in every single one.
Erik doesn’t ask questions. He doesn’t comment on the emptiness or the absence of life in my childhood home. He just looks at me.
“You okay?” The question is open-ended. He’s giving me space to say no.
“I signed,” I say instead.
His jaw tightens just slightly. “Yeah?”
I nod. “It’s done.”
He exhales through his nose, something like relief and something like sorrow passing through him at the same time. “I’m glad you didn’t do it alone.”
I find myself thinking about the photographs again and about how long he has been here while I was gone, how many moments he witnessed without me, and how many things he knows that I am only just beginning to understand. The realization settles slowly, heavy but undeniable.
He steps closer and then stops, leaving just enough distance to give me space. The cold has reddened his hands and his cheeks, and for a moment he looks exactly like himself, like he did at eighteen when he used to forget his beanie and gloves without fail. And yet, at the same time, he looks completely different, shaped by years I wasn’t here to see.
“I was just driving by,” he begins, us both knowing full well Pineview isn’t small enough that driving by is never accidental.
I let out a small, unsteady laugh. I want to ask him about the photos, about why he did it at all. The questions gather in my chest, insistent and heavy, but I don’t know how to voice them without opening something I’m not ready to confront. So I stay quiet and watch the way his hands rest loosely at his sides, wondering how many times they held a camera since I left.
My phone buzzes in my pocket. It feels intrusive in this moment. I hesitate before pulling it out.
You okay? Haven’t heard from you in a few days. Was hoping to see you over Christmas. Is everything okay?
It’s not from Lena. It’s from Jack, the man I left behind in New York City.
The words blur. My worlds blur. I’m taken back to messy sheets with a warm body, city noise and a life that doesn’t ask questions.
Erik’s gaze flicks briefly to the phone, then back to my face. He doesn’t pry but something shifts anyway.
Two versions of me, pressing from opposite sides.
I lock the screen without responding and quickly slip the phone back into my pocket. Erik notices but he doesn’t comment. He just nods like he understands there are things I’m not saying yet.
“You hungry?” his deep voice thicker in the air than the tension between us. “Mrs. Kincaid’s got half the town at the center with too much food and not enough people. You know, the usual.”
I glance once more at the empty house, trying to take a mental screenshot one last time. Then I look back at him; at the man who has been standing quietly in the background of my life longer than I realized.
“Yeah,” the word barely making it out of my lips. “I think I am, but not there. Can we go somewhere else? Somewhere quieter?”
He opens the truck door for me without making a thing of it. “I know just the place.”
10
Erik
Savannah sits across from me with her shoulders drawn inward, my jacket still wrapped around her like it’s the only thing keeping her together. She hasn’t touched her food - two eggs, poached medium, sourdough, and a side of fruit. She never orders bacon or hash browns, even though that’s what she really wants, so I’ve learned to order extra, but this morning she isn’t even picking at that. She keeps stirring her coffee long after it’s gone cold.
I know that look, the way she chews on her bottom lip when she’s trying not to cry where anyone can see her. It’s the same one she used to get years ago, and seeing it now lands with more weight than I anticipate.
The diner feels louder than it needs to be. Silverware clinks against plates, hot coffee pours endlessly, Christmas carols blast through the speakers, and someone laughs too hard in the corner, like they’re trying to outrun something. The noise presses in from every direction, and it all feels wrong somehow, as if grief should come with its own private room.
“You don’t have to be okay. You don’t have to be strong right now.” I try to offer to her.
Her hand stills around the spoon.