Chapter 5
Savannah
Running into Erik in the square felt like fate.
I left him once when I was young, scared, certain I was choosing my future and some small, defensive part of me expected him to make me pay for it.
I braced for distance or resentment. I mentally prepared for the kind of polite indifference that hurts worse than anger.
I told myself he’d be colder now, sharper, maybe even a little cruel in the way men sometimes become when they’ve been left behind or feel their egos bruised.
He is none of those things. He couldn’t be farther from them.
Erik is patient, stable and kind in a way that isn’t performative or strategic, the way a lot of men are when they want one thing and one thing only.
He doesn’t flinch when he looks at me. He doesn’t punish me with silence or nostalgia.
He treats me like someone who mattered and still does.
That might be the most disarming thing of all.
Not to mention the problem I wasn’t prepared for at all.
He is devastatingly hot.
Being assigned to work with him feels like punishment.
I learn this the next morning in the back room of Pineview’s community center that smells faintly of burnt coffee and old pine cleaner, the kind of institutional warmth that never quite disappears no matter how many winters pass.
Folding chairs line the walls, mismatched and scuffed from decades of town meetings and holiday planning, and a long table in the center is buried beneath clipboards, half-dried markers, and a tray of cookies no one ever admits to bringing.
The room hums with quiet chatter, every face is a familiar one and too many curious glances to keep track of.
People are pretending not to look at me while absolutely looking at me.
I grip the clipboard I definitely did not ask for and shift my weight, painfully aware that I am once again visible in a place that remembers me too well.
The realization lands suddenly, like a door closing behind me. I haven’t been in this room since my mother was alive.
My eyes drift to the whiteboard at the back of the room.
It’s still there and most importantly, so is her handwriting.
It’s faded now, half-erased beneath newer notes, but it’s hers. I would know it anywhere. I’ve memorized the rounded letters, slightly slanted O’s and L’s. It felt optimistic even when she was being practical.
One cart can change everything.
Love each other. Don’t overthink it.
My throat tightens.
This is where she used to stand, marker tucked behind her ear, calling people sweetheart and pretending not to notice when they teared up but having a tissue at the ready. This is where she used to glance at me across the room like she was sharing a secret only we knew.
I look away before the grief can crest too high.
Mrs. Kincaid stands at the front like a general preparing for battle, steel-gray hair swept into place.
She taps her pen against her clipboard, the sound sharp enough to cut through the murmurs.
She’s been at this for as long as I can remember.
The Christmas Kindness Drive is synonymous with Mrs. Kincaid.
She’s in her seventies, petite and immaculately composed, with a presence that snaps rooms into order before she ever raises her voice.
Her posture is straight, her expression unreadable, and her clipboard might as well be an extension of her.
Deep lines bracket her mouth, earned rather than softened, and her eyes are sharp and assessing, the kind that take inventory the moment they land on you.
She’s strict, efficient, and absolutely unyielding about procedure. Volunteers learn quickly that she doesn’t repeat herself and she doesn’t tolerate chaos. She moves through the room with practiced authority, issuing instructions that sound less like suggestions and more like commands.
At first glance, Mrs. Kincaid is intimidating in the way only someone deeply competent can be, but every year, without fail, she has to turn away when the gifts are handed out, blinking hard as if emotion is the one thing she never quite managed to discipline.
“All right,” she booms. “The Christmas Kindness Drive volunteers, listen up.”
The room stills.
“We’ll be pairing you off ,” she instructs, voice crisp and practiced.
“Each pair is responsible for one full cart. You’ll be assigned an age range and a family list. Please stick to it.
The budgets are fixed for those of you shopping with monetary donations, and if you’re collecting toys, they must be new and unused. No exceptions.”
She pauses, eyes sweeping the room like she’s daring someone to test her. No one does. No one ever could.
“One cart per pair,” she repeats. “Thoughtful, age-appropriate, and complete. This isn’t about quantity, it’s about making sure every kid in Pineview wakes up Christmas morning with a visit from Santa.”
She scans her list, lips moving silently as she reads names. My pulse ticks louder with every second.
“Erik Beaumont.”
My breath catches.
I don’t look at him yet. I don’t trust myself to.
“You’ll be with—”
I already know.
“—Savannah Joy.”
The room reacts as one. It’s not a gasp. It’s not applause. It’s a collective shift. Someone near the back mutters, “About time.”
A flush warms my neck as I close my eyes for half a second, letting the moment take hold before I can stop it.
“Perfect,” Mrs. Kincaid says, unfazed. “You two know each other, so this should be easy.”
Easy.
The word lands wrong.
When I open my eyes, Erik is already looking at me. He usually was the first to make eye contact.
His hair is darker than I remember, threaded now with the faintest hint of copper where the light hits it.
His eyes, the same clear blue that once followed me everywhere, hold steady on mine, calm in a way that makes my pulse stutter instead of slow.
His hands rest loosely at his sides, big and capable, knuckles scarred lightly in places that tell quiet stories.
He has true builder’s hands.
Lena and I found this out the way all emotionally responsible adults do: with wine, curiosity, and absolutely no shame.
One minute we were trading childhood trauma like party tricks, the next Lena was already on her phone, eyes lighting up. Then she was Googling before I could stop her.
We ended up on his company site, shoulder to shoulder on my couch, scrolling in silence. Gorgeously crafted homes with clean lines, warm wood and light pouring through windows like it had been invited. Houses that looked like they were built for slow mornings and late nights.
“Well,” Lena finally said, breaking the quiet. “That man did not peak in high school. Maybe he will build you a home like this one day.”
The town knows that part of him too. What most don’t know and what I do, is that Erik carries a camera everywhere. He sees things most people miss. When we were younger, he used to photograph abandoned houses, empty roads and sunsets no one else stayed long enough to notice.
He always knew how to hold moments.
He crosses the room with the easy confidence of someone who has never had to prove he belongs. Boots scuff softly against the linoleum, shrugging out of his coat and slinging it over his shoulder like it’s an afterthought.
It isn’t.
The movement pulls my attention immediately and I watch as his sweater stretches over his chest, his forearms bare now, solid and veined, dusted with dark hair that catches the light when he moves.
His hands look stronger than I remember, bigger somehow, like they’ve spent years gripping tools, steering wheels and real responsibility.
When his fingers curl briefly around the back of a chair, I notice the veins there too, the quiet strength in the way he holds himself.
No ring.
The thought lands uninvited and settles anyway.
He stops in front of me, close enough that I can see the fine lines at the corners of his eyes, the familiar shape of his mouth, the way his presence fills the space without trying to.
“Looks like we’re partners,” he remarks quietly, voice low and unshakeable.
Lord have mercy.
“Looks like it,” I reply, hoping my voice sounds stronger than the ache inside of me.
Mrs. Kincaid cuts in before either of us can find our footing.“Your cart needs to be finished by five. Age range and family list are already assigned. Drop-offs happen Christmas morning!”
She fixes me with a look that’s sharp but not unkind. “But you already know how this works, don’t you?”
She pauses, eyes flicking between us.
“Oh, and Savannah?”
“Yes?” I brace myself.
Her smile softens. “Your mother always finished early.”
The words slip past my defences.
My breath stutters, grief rising fast and unfiltered. It’s all of it. Being back in Pineview. The house. The mug. The whiteboard. The memory of my mother’s voice layered over everything like it never left. I stare at the floor, willing myself not to break.
Erik shifts closer. Close enough that I can feel the warmth of him, firm and grounding. “She would be so happy you’re here,” he assures me, quietly.
Something in my chest gives way just enough to breathe again. I nod once, gripping the clipboard like it’s the only solid thing in the room.
Erik stands, beside me, as if he knows grief doesn’t need fixing. Only company.
The toy store sits at the edge of Main Street, its windows crowded with displays that look like they’ve survived every decade since I was born.
Stuffed animals stacked into smiling towers.
Plastic trains looping endlessly around a fake snow village that has absolutely never seen a zoning permit.
A handwritten sign is taped crookedly to the door:
SANTA’S ANONYMOUS — TOY SHOPPING TODAY
Funded by Community Donations
The letters are uneven, the tape yellowed with age, like it’s been holding on out of sheer loyalty.
“Some things in Pineview are apparently immortal,” I joke, slowing as we approach.