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)
Snow crunches beneath our boots, the sound startlingly loud in the hush, each step echoing farther than it should, a reminder of our presence in a town that has otherwise turned inward for the night.
“She used to make me walk this way,” I break the tension because the silence feels too consuming if I let it linger. “Every Christmas Eve and Christmas Day night. We would walk the square after dinner. She said we needed to get our steps in.”
Erik turns his head slightly. “Your mom?”
I nod. “She said Christmas didn’t end until the town went quiet. That joy needed somewhere to land.”
He exhales slowly, something like recognition passing through him. “My mom used to say the same thing. She said if you rushed the night, you forgot what you were grateful for.”
That stops me. I look at him then, really look at him, and for a moment I can see us as kids again. Two families circling the same traditions. The same truths and already intertwined long before either of us understood what that meant.
We pass the gazebo, its lights glowing soft and gold against the dark. I remember sitting on those steps at sixteen, knees pulled to my chest, Erik beside me, both of us pretending we were not terrified of what came next.
“You said once you would never leave,” I hush.
He smiles faintly. “You said you would never stay.”
“That feels like a lifetime ago.”
“It kind of was.”
We stop near his truck. Snow dusts the hood, untouched, the engine long cold. Erik leans back against it, hands in his pockets, shoulders squared like he is bracing for something he already knows is coming. He looks exactly the way he did as kids. It takes me back.
“I leave tomorrow morning,” the words come out almost as whisper. “Early. too. Six a.m.”
The words land between us, heavy and final.
“I know.”
That hurts more than if he had asked me to stay.
“I didn’t know my mom like that,” I continue, because now that I have started, I cannot stop. “Not the girl in Ruth’s photo. Not the woman who walked back into that toy store with an envelope and a plan. I had no idea Erik. I had no idea what she did for you, for your brothers, for your mom.”
“She never stopped being her,” he chokes back a tear, looking up to the sky, trying to locate her. “She just kept becoming more.”
My throat tightens. “I didn’t.”
He turns fully toward me. “We both know that’s not true.”
“I ran,” the shame creeping up my throat. “When she got sick, I ran. I chose distance because I did not know how to stay and watch her disappear. I couldn’t handle it.”
He does not interrupt. He never does.
“Your mom loved you,” he says softly. “She still does. I know she still does.”
That almost breaks me.
“She used to say you were brave,” he adds. “That it takes courage to want more than the place that made you. She was proud of you. Very proud, Sav. Don’t you ever for a second forget that.”
Tears burn behind my eyes. “She said that?”
“Any chance she got.”
I step closer without meaning to. My hands slide into the front of his coat, fingers curling there like I’m sixteen all over again. Erik stills, then lifts one hand slowly, settling it at my lower back. His fingers flex once against my back, betraying him. I feel the tension, the restraint he’s fighting against building inside of him.
“I have no idea how to leave after today,” I whisper. “How do I go back to my life in New York like this did not happen.”
His chin lowers until it rests against my forehead. “You do not have to decide tonight.”
“But I do,” I’m sharp in my response, feeling the pressure and the overwhelm. “I have a boarding pass. A calendar. A life waiting for me.”
His hand tightens just slightly at my back. “I loved her,” he says quietly. “Your mom. Not like you did, but she mattered to me. A lot. She taught me how to stay. How to keep choosing the thing that needs you.”
I pull back enough to look at him. His eyes are icy like the snow around us, yet open, filled with years of wanting he never asked me to carry.
“And you, Erik?” I question him, because I don’t ever think I’ve asked him before. “Did you ever want to leave?”
He exhales slowly, then lifts his gaze to meet mine. “There were moments,” he says, calmer now, “especially after my brothers moved away and started different lives, when I wondered if I should do the same.” He pauses, but there’s no hesitation in it. “But every time the thought came up, I remembered what it felt like to be chosen, and what it felt like to keep building something that mattered.”