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)
Diane believed that generosity didn’t need witnesses to matter. She thought the quiet acts counted just as much as the visible ones, and she lived that belief without ever asking for recognition.
Savannah’s mother understood things like that.
I adjust the last strand of lights and step back, taking in the square as it settles into itself. It looks ready and familiar, exactly as it’s supposed to look at this time of year.
If Savannah is really back, she’ll see it soon enough.
4
Erik
I see her before she sees me.
She’s standing just beyond the edge of the square, half in shadow, half caught in the spill of Christmas lights like she hasn’t decided which version of herself is allowed to step forward yet. Her hands are tucked into the pockets of her coat, shoulders slightly raised to her ears against the cold she always underestimated.
Some things never change.
For a second, I wonder if my mind is filling in blanks it’s held onto too long, but then she shifts her weight, tilts her head the way she always did when she was taking everything in at once, and I know.
She’s here.
New York City has written itself into her. I see it in the clean lines of her coat, tailored just enough to suggest intention without trying too hard. I see New York imprinted in the way she holds her shoulders like she’s learned how to take up less emotional space, even when her presence still pulls focus the moment she enters a room. Savannah was never meant to blend in but now she knows how to soften her edges when the world asks for it.
Her blonde hair is a shade darker than I remember, worn longer now, tucked behind her ears like she doesn’t have time to fuss with it. It catches the light anyway. Her eyes, still that unchanging, impossibly deep brown, hold more quiet than they used to. She’s hardened, yet, she has more depth.
She looks good. God, she looks so good.
Not in the way that makes you stare openly, but in the way that sinks in slow and stays. The kind of beauty that comes from surviving things and choosing yourself afterward.
She moves differently now, more contained, more careful, but when she smiles, really smiles, I catch glimpses of the girl who once leaned forward into every moment like she couldn’t wait for the world to catch up.
I can see what she’s lost. I can see what she’s gained. Standing here, watching her breathe Pineview back in, I know one thing with painful clarity; she never stopped being beautiful to me.
She pauses when Mrs. Donnelly barrels into her, laughter blooming between them, and something in my chest loosens. She hasn’t lost that softness. That way of letting people in without flinching, even when she’s braced for impact.
I grip the railing harder than necessary.
This is how it used to start.
Savannah slips into the square late, like she doesn’t realize the way the place gravitates toward her the second she arrives. I used to pretend not to watch for her, used to tell myself it was coincidence every time my eyes found her anyway.
Some habits are harder to break than others.
She moves deeper into the square, slower now, like she can feel Pineview closing in around her. The lights soften her features, catching in her blonde hair, outlining her face in radiant gold. She looks older, not tired, exactly, but layered. I can see and feel she’s lived a life that demanded something from her and didn’t give it back easily. Grief lives there, deep inside of her, settled and familiar, like something she’s learned to carry without letting it spill.
I wonder, briefly, who she’s become without me.
Not in a jealous way, just as curious men do. I know there have been other hands, other mouths, other nights that didn’t belong to me. That’s part of growing up. It’s a part of becoming who you are instead of who you were.
Still, my mind drifts where memory meets imagination.
I wonder if she still throws her head all the way back, the same way when she laughs, like she’s letting herself fall into the moment. If her body still carries that easy confidence she had even as a girl, never performative, never unsure. I wonder if she’s grown into herself the way I think she has, if time has made her softer in some places and stronger in others. I wonder if she knows her own power now in a way she didn’t when we were kids kissing behind the community center.
I remember her then, at sixteen. Barefoot summers, grass stained knees, the way she fit against me like we were still learning the shape of things and I look at her now, all sharp edges and quiet assurance. I can’t help but wonder what it would be like to meet her here. As us now.