Remain

Chapter 1

Savannah

New York City doesn’t ease you into Christmas. It slinks a garland around your neck and slaps you across the face with mistletoe. Hard.

Then asks why you’re not smiling.

It glitters at you, loudly, aggressively, as though Christmas showed up uninvited and immediately took over the whole damn house.

You can’t escape it even if you try with lights everywhere, wreaths zip-tied to scaffolding like the city panicked at the last minute, and bells ringing with the enthusiasm of someone who’s never met seasonal depression.

Rockefeller Plaza looms like a dare. An iconic shrine to Christmas past, present, and impossibly well-lit. The kind of place you grew up watching in movies, where everyone falls in love, nobody slips on ice, and coats apparently provide zero insulation but look great doing it.

This is the Christmas people picture when they think of the holidays and New York City is turned all the way up to an eleven. The city comes alive buzzing with tourists, overpriced cocoa, and the unspoken understanding that we are all pretending this is magical and not deeply inconvenient.

I kind of like that about it. Even if I dread this time of the year.

Snow drifts between buildings that have never known my mother’s name, and that anonymity feels like mercy.

No one here expects me to decorate a tree or show up for traditions I abandoned years ago.

No one looks at me like they’re waiting for me to remember who I used to be.

I can just dip into it momentarily and find refuge back in the safe space I built for myself.

I wrap my fingers around my coffee mug and stare out the window of my Brooklyn studio apartment, watching the city pulse below. Somewhere down the block, Mariah Carey is threatening to defrost, and I shut the window before the sound can crawl inside my chest.

I step back from the glass.

My apartment is quiet in a way Pineview never was.

Clean lines. Neutral colors. No hand-me-down furniture.

No photographs framed with love instead of symmetry.

Everything here is intentional, curated.

A life assembled piece by piece until it fits neatly around the parts of me I’m willing to acknowledge.

Behind me, the bed creaks.

“You always drink coffee like it personally offended you,” a rugged voice, rough with sleep.

I don’t turn around right away.

He’s stretched out across my bed, naked and unbothered, one arm tucked behind his head, the sheet pooled low on his hips like it forgot its job sometime during the night.

His hair is mussed, his mouth curved into an easy smile that suggests he’s very pleased with how the morning started. I won’t lie, so am I.

“I’m thinking bagels,” he adds. “Or we could be ambitious. Eggs. Something with effort. I make a mean scramble.”

I glance over my shoulder. “You don’t strike me as an effort-before-noon person.”

He laughs softly. “You seemed to like my effort last night.”

Heat flickers in my chest. “Coffee first,” I blush. “Then we’ll see.”

“Fair,” he pushes himself upright, the sheet slipping further. I catch a glance of what lies beneath, the pressure of him still lingering inside of me. “You’re staying in today?”

“For a bit.”

“Good.” He stretches, unhurried. “I could be convinced to stay too.”

“Don’t tempt a girl,” I tease.

He grins. “Challenge accepted.”

I don’t respond. My gaze falls to the floor as I turn back to the window, to the city that keeps moving.

My phone buzzes against the counter. I don’t need to look to know who it is. I already know.

Aunt Carol.

I let it ring.

“Everything okay?” he asks casually, reaching for his jeans.

“Yeah,” I sigh, louder than I’m expecting. “You know, that time of the year. Family.”

“Oof,” he says softly, sympathy in his eyes as he buttons his shirt. “Do you want me to head out?”

The question is careful and kind. We matched on a dating app not long ago, and I know what he’s hoping for. I only wanted the distraction along with the brief forgetting. I’m not ready for more from him.

I’m not even ready for more from myself.

“I think I do. Thank you for understanding. I’ll text you later, okay?”

He nods, unfazed. “I’ll hold you to that.”

The phone buzzes again, insistent now, the way Pineview people are when they’ve decided something is happening whether you like it or not.

I answer. “Hi, Auntie.”

“Oh thank God. I was worried you wouldn’t pick up. I’ve been texting and emailing. Next I thought, I’d have to show up there myself.”

“I’m in the middle of something,” I half-lie, because that’s easier than admitting I was standing still, wrapped in a life that looks complete from the outside, watching a man I barely know finish dressing.

“Well, I’ll be quick.” A pause. “It’s December.”

There it is.

Pineview never dives straight in. It circles, building momentum and waits for the inevitable.

“I’m not coming home for Christmas,” I affirm, voice light. I’ve practiced and rehearsed this all year. “You know that.”

“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.”

She studies me for a second, the way only someone who knows your silences can. “You’re going back, aren’t you.”

I exhale. “For a few days.”

“For Christmas.”

“For paperwork,” I correct, too quickly.

Lena snorts. “Sure. And I buy wrapping paper because it’s practical. We both know what’s waiting for you in Pineview.”

I pretend to not hear her.

The cashier finally looks at us expectantly. I tap my card, gather my bags, and follow Lena out into the cold. Snow dusts the sidewalk, melting as soon as it lands, like the city refuses to let anything settle.

Outside, Lena pauses. “You know,” she says carefully, “running away only works if you don’t keep looking over your shoulder.”

“I didn’t run,” I object.

She gives me a look. “Okay. You relocated very aggressively.”

I laugh, surprised by the sting behind my eyes. “I’ll be back before you know it.”

She pulls me into a quick hug, the kind that’s casual but rooted. “Text me when you land. And Savannah?”

“Yeah?”

“Whatever you’re carrying? You don’t have to bring it back with you.”

I nod, even though we both know that’s not how it works.