Chapter 16
Savannah
Just checking in to make sure you’re okay and not being slowly absorbed into small-town life via casseroles and unresolved feelings.
Also, if there’s a man involved, I require updates.
I stare at the chaotic text from Lena until the screen dims.
It’s 4:11 a.m. It’s too early to function.
Aunt Carol’s house is quiet in that deep, sleeping way that only happens after family has filled it and then slowly disappeared again. The guest room smells faintly like lavender, clean sheets and something more; home in a way I forgot how to recognize.
My suitcase sits open on the floor, half-packed, because finishing it felt too final.
I type back before I can talk myself out of it.
Alive. Barely. Christmas happened.
Three dots appear immediately. Not only does New York City never sleep, but apparently neither does Lena.
That sounds ominous. Are we talking “small-town emotional reckoning” Christmas or “slept with your high school sweetheart” Christmas?
I close my eyes, and everything rushes in at once.
Erik’s hand at my back, the way his fingertips lingered and traced my skin.
The photographs trembling between my fingers.
My mother’s life unfolding in ways I never knew how to ask about, stretching wider than I ever imagined.
And the way he said I know when I told him I was leaving, like he understood without needing anything more.
Worse. And better. I don’t know yet.
The pause this time is longer. When she replies, her tone has shifted.
Do you want me to tell you to come home? Or to stay?
That’s the problem. Everyone thinks it’s one or the other.
I set my phone down and pad quietly into the hallway, careful not to wake anyone.
Aunt Carol’s house is warm even at this hour, heat humming softly through the vents.
Family photos line the walls, everything from birthdays, weddings, faces I recognize and some I don’t.
My mother appears in more frames than I expect, smiling in moments I wasn’t there for.
I pause in the kitchen.
The mug I grew up seeing in my mom’s hand sits drying on the rack, clean now, carefully placed there last night by Aunt Carol like an act of remembrance. It makes me smile knowing she has her own KEEP box too.
I rest my fingers against the counter and draw in a slow breath, grounding myself in the cool solidity beneath my skin.
Grief has a way of finding me when I am not looking for it, slipping in softly, already knowing where to settle, how to make itself felt known.
This time, it’s not as sharp. It’s just there, present.
I pick up my phone again to reply to Lena.
Can you just… be there when I land?
Her reply comes instantly.
Always. But Sav, you don’t sound like someone who’s done yet.
I swallow hard, because she’s right.
I’m not done with the boxes I didn’t open.
With the photos I haven’t asked about.
With the man who didn’t ask me to stay but somehow made leaving feel heavier than it ever has.
My phone buzzes again.
A different name.
Morning. Just checking to see if you’re up and alert. You never liked mornings or warm coats…
Erik.
I lean back against the counter, the cool surface grounding my fluttering heartbeat.
I am. Thank you for your concern. Just finishing up and then I’m heading out.
There is a pause long enough that I can picture him standing in his kitchen, barefoot and half awake, wearing nothing but boxers and a worn robe he never bothers to tie, the fabric hanging open, his body still warm from bed, skin smelling faintly of sleep and musk, like if I were there I could reach out and feel the heat of him without even touching.
Drive safe.
Two words. Nothing else.
It shouldn’t pull a seam from me but it does.
I press my lips together, forcing a breath, then type before I can overthink it.
Thank you. For everything.
The reply doesn’t come right away.
I head back toward the guest room, suitcase still waiting, half-open like it’s holding space for a decision I haven’t made yet. My flight leaves at six. In less than two hours, I’m supposed to be moving forward again, back to a life that never stopped without me.
My phone vibrates.
I’m really glad you stayed with family this time.
I stand near the edge of the bed, the house settling around me, the quiet thick with unsaid things. Down the hall, a floorboard creaks as someone else wakes. For the first time in years, I’m not alone in this.
My phone buzzes. It’s Lena again.
Sav… Just a reminder that decisions are not tattoos. Whatever you choose right now can still change later. I love you. xx
“Thought I heard movement,” a voice whispers at the threshold of the door. Aunt Carol emerges.
“I didn’t mean to wake you,” I apologize.
“Nonsense,” Aunt Carol says immediately, her arms tightening around me for a moment longer before she lets go, hands still resting on my shoulders like she needs the contact to hold. “How are feeling? Are you ready? Most importantly, have you had coffee?”
She steps back just enough to look at me properly, her eyes catching on the open suitcase on the bed, the quiet incompleteness of it, the coat over my arm, the way I’m already braced to go. There’s something knowing in her expression.
“I’d love a cup of coffee.” It’s a request for more than just caffeine.
Aunt Carol heads for the kitchen to put on a pot, and I zip my suitcase shut, sealing up more than just clothes. I pause at the doorway, whispering see you later to the guest room, as if it might remember me when I’m gone.
The smell of freshly brewed coffee fills my nostrils as I pat my coat pockets out of habit, then check the small table by the door, the dresser, the nightstand again, despite knowing better. Apparently, my ability to lose my keys travels well, even outside New York City.
“Have you seen my rental car keys?” I ask, trying to keep my voice casual as I glance toward Aunt Carol in the kitchen.
She looks up from the counter, coffee mug in hand, and something flickers across her face. “Your keys?”
“Yeah,” I say, turning back toward the guest room, scanning surfaces that suddenly feel unfamiliar. “I must’ve set them down somewhere. You know, I always do this…”
She sets the mug down slowly. “Savannah…”
I stop.
“You can’t find them because you don’t have them,” she says gently. “Your uncle returned the car yesterday.”
I turn back to her, confusion giving way to understanding, then something softer and sweeter settling in its place. “You… already took care of it.”
She nods once. “I told you. You’re not doing this alone.”
“I was going to drive myself,” I say quickly, the words tumbling out of habit. “It’s early. You don’t need to…”
She shakes her head before I can finish. “Absolutely not.”
“Aunt Carol…”
“I am driving you,” she punctuates the air, already moving past me to reach for her my mom’s mug, now her mug, the conversation clearly settled in her mind. “I want this time. I’m not letting you disappear out the door like a ghost.”
I hesitate. “Okay, but how did you return it? Don’t I need to sign for it?”
“It’s handled,” she breezes, pouring herself coffee. “Your uncle knows a guy who knows a guy. Apparently it’s all very official and no big deal says hum. Funny enough, it’s that same neighbor from the story he always shares every Christmas Eve.”
I can’t help the small smile that pulls at my mouth. “Of course it is.”
That’s Pineview for you.
I swallow, emotion rising unexpectedly, sharp and sudden. “You don’t have to do this.”
“I know,” the words are simple. “That’s why I am. One day you’ll learn to ask for help, but until then, I’ll just keep showing up.”
She reaches for my coat, helps me into it the way my mother used to, smoothing the collar, tucking my scarf closer. The familiarity of the gesture feels like a hug from both of them.
“This is the last morning I get you for a while,” she places a hand tenderly on my cheek. “I’d like to keep it.”
I nod, unable to trust the strength of my voice.
“Don’t be a stranger this time, Savannah.” She smiles then, gentle and resolute, picking up my suitcase as if it weighs nothing at all. “Shall we then?”
We step out into the cold morning together, the door clicking shut behind us, Pineview still half-asleep and hushed under a dark winter sky.
The air smells like frost, a stark contrast to the exhaust I’ll inhale later today.
I let myself linger in it, walking slower than I usually do when I’m back, as if moving carefully might stretch the moment.
Something inside of me shifts and I reach for my phone in a panic.
Can you please meet me at the airport? I don’t want to leave without saying goodbye.