Thirty Five
The hallway smelled like someone else’s cinnamon and far too many candles burning at once. Tilly shifted the coffee cup in one hand and knocked twice, loud enough to cut through the empty quiet on the other side.
Footsteps. A pause. The lock turned.
Savannah opened the door, looking polished but not rested. Her scarf was already looped, her coat zipped, her hair perfect in a way that suggested tension more than care. The apartment behind her was spotless. Not neat. Scrubbed.
Tilly lifted the coffee a little. “Morning.”
Savannah blinked like she hadn’t been expecting an actual greeting. “I still don’t know what to bring.”
“Bring yourself,” Tilly said, stepping back while she locked the door. “And prepare for my aunt to invent three new stories about you before dessert.”
Savannah tried to smirk, but it didn’t make it all the way. She followed Tilly down the hall without a word.
The elevator hummed the way old buildings did when they were tired of surviving winter. Savannah stood stiffly, gloves clamped in her hands, watching the numbers crawl upward. Tilly watched her reflection in the metal doors. Shoulders tight. Jaw set. Eyes too alert for the hour.
The silence wasn’t awkward. It was something else. Like both of them had agreed not to touch a live wire hanging between them.
When the doors opened, Tilly gestured her forward. She hesitated for half a second before stepping out. A small, deliberate movement. It looked like she was pushing herself to keep going.
The parking lot glittered with frost. No snowfall yet, but the sky seemed to be practicing. Savannah slid into the passenger seat with careful movements, fastening her belt like she wanted the click to anchor her.
Tilly started the engine. Static on the radio. Then a brassy Christmas song.
Savannah made a noise of quiet despair. “Please no.”
“Same,” Tilly said, switching to something calmer. “Better?”
She gave a tiny shrug. “Sure.”
They drove in a silence that felt almost neutral.
Boston was still half asleep, lights blinking yellow over empty intersections.
Savannah kept her eyes on the window, her reflection ghosted faintly in the glass.
She looked softer like that. Less carved.
Less armored. Tilly kept glancing at her before reminding themself to watch the road.
Halfway across the bridge, Savannah spoke without turning. “You didn’t have to invite me.”
Tilly let out a quiet breath. “Probably not.”
“But you did.”
“Seemed better than letting you spend the day alone.”
“I’ve done it before.”
“I know.”
Savannah pressed a gloved hand lightly to the glass, the smallest gesture. “It usually doesn’t feel strange until later.”
Tilly didn’t know what to do with that, so they just nodded. The conversation faded again.
Brookline came into view with its postcard houses and aggressively cheerful inflatables. Tilly’s mom’s place looked the same as always. Lights strung at confusing angles. A plastic deer was leaning against the railing, as if it had retired mid-season.
Savannah stared. “That’s festive.”
“That deer’s survived more than most politicians,” Tilly said. “I respect the longevity.”
She made a faint sound that could’ve become a laugh if she’d let it.
The front door opened before they reached the steps. Their mom still wore her apron, dusted with flour and something suspiciously green.
“You’re late,” she announced, pointing a spatula at them before turning it toward Savannah. “And you must be the reason why.”
Tilly sighed. “Mom, please.”
“Come in,” she said, already ushering Savannah inside like it was prearranged. “I told everyone you were bringing someone. And I told them you weren’t. This way I’m not wrong.”
Warmth wrapped around them. Cinnamon. Lemon cleaner. Voices from every room. A dog barking like he wanted to join all of them at once.
Savannah paused just long enough for Tilly to notice the way she scanned the space. Not panicked. Just measuring. Tilly stepped a little closer.
“Told you she was unstoppable,” they murmured.
“You undersold it,” Savannah whispered back.
Mom swooped in again, tugging Savannah’s coat from her shoulders with practiced efficiency. “Shoes by the mat, sweetheart. Oh, you’re freezing. Come taste this.”
A spoon appeared in Savannah’s hand before she could protest. “What is it?” she asked.
“No idea. I improvised. Taste.”
She shot Tilly a helpless look, then obeyed. “It’s good.”
“Told you,” Mom said, triumphant, already sweeping away to her next target.
Savannah stared at the spoon like she hadn’t realized she’d passed some kind of test.
Dinner was the exact brand of controlled chaos Tilly had remembered. Folding chairs were shoved around the table. Voices climbed over each other. The dog stationed under Savannah’s seat like he’d assigned himself the job.
Aunt Denise leaned in. “So you’re the reporter. Our Tilly always hides behind the camera.”
Savannah straightened. “I wouldn’t call it hiding.”
Tilly almost choked on water. The speed of that defense took them by surprise.
Their cousin Nate pointed a fork at Savannah. “My teacher said you made a guy confess on live TV.”
Savannah stiffened, like she wasn’t used to being seen from that angle. “Sometimes people tell the truth when they’re ready.”
“And sometimes the edit helps,” Tilly added quietly.
The table laughed. Savannah’s eyes flicked toward them, startled but grateful. It lasted a second, but Tilly felt it settle somewhere deep.
As dinner went on, Savannah thawed in tiny increments. Not enough to relax, but enough to exist. She nodded. She listened. She asked if the rolls were homemade. Her laugh, when it came, was small but real.
Tilly kept catching her watching the room. Watching people talk over one another without consequence. Watching familiar stories told again. Watching the easy warmth. It wasn’t longing exactly, but it was close enough that Tilly had to look away once or twice.
When dessert ended, and people drifted into post-meal clusters, Tilly found themself adjusting an eternally crooked ornament on the artificial tree. Savannah wandered over, cider in hand, hovering at the edge of the rug like she wasn’t sure if she should cross into the scene.
“That one’s losing the fight,” she said.
“It always does,” Tilly replied. “I admire the resilience.”
The lights reflected in the window, casting a soft glow across her face. She looked peaceful for the first time all day. Or maybe just still. It was hard to tell.
Tilly felt a familiar ache in their ribs. They turned away first.
Mom drifted by with a tray of cookies and whispered, “Don’t ruin this,” before vanishing again.
Tilly groaned. Savannah pretended not to notice.
The evening swelled into its loudest point. Someone turned up the TV. Someone else complained about it. A cousin argued with an uncle about football stats that absolutely weren’t real. Mom shouted above all of them while packing leftovers into mismatched containers.
Savannah stood near the mantle, cider warming her hands, and Tilly watched her take everything in. Her expression hovered somewhere between uncertainty and something Tilly couldn’t quite name.
Aunt Denise swooped in. “You eat like a bird,” she said, stacking three rolls on Savannah’s plate without permission.
Savannah startled. “I ate plenty.”
“No, you didn’t. You’re tiny. Tiny people are unhappy.”
Tilly nearly spat out their drink. “Aunt Denise. Please.”
Savannah froze, plate in hand, like she wasn’t sure if she was supposed to argue or retreat. “I’m not unhappy,” she said finally.
“Good,” Denise said. “Then have another roll.”
Mom appeared behind her. “Denise, stop diagnosing people. This is why no one tells you secrets.”
“No one tells me secrets because I tell the truth.”
“Exactly. Savannah, ignore her. She’s nosy and sometimes wrong, but mostly nosy.”
Savannah nodded like she’d weathered a natural disaster.
Nate reappeared with the dog. “Tilly says you cover crime. Do you get scared?”
“Sometimes.”
“Do you run toward danger?”
“Usually not,” she said. “I ask questions. That’s the job.”
Nate nodded solemnly. “Tilly runs toward danger.”
Tilly groaned. “Please stop talking.”
Aunt Denise jumped in. “It’s true. You broke your wrist climbing that fence and lied about it.”
“That was eight years ago,” Tilly said.
Savannah’s eyes flicked toward them, sharp and briefly protective.
Mom clapped. “Enough. Someone help me with the pie.”
Savannah stepped forward before anyone else. “I can help.”
Tilly watched, surprised, as Mom handed her a towel and guided her through the kitchen like she already belonged. Savannah followed every instruction quietly, trying not to take up space but inevitably doing so anyway.
It struck Tilly gently but deeply. Savannah Wells looked like she’d never learned how to handle a room that wanted her.
Later, while cousins debated whether the dog should wear a Christmas sweater, Savannah stood watching with a mix of confusion and something warmer.
Mom joined her at the counter, nudging her gently. “Do you like ham, sweetheart? I wrapped a plate for you to take home.”
Savannah blinked at the Tupperware. “You… made one for me?”
“Of course. First-timers get leftovers. And you’re welcome back anytime.”
Savannah opened her mouth, closed it, then managed, “Thank you. That’s very kind.”
Mom smiled knowingly. “You were good for the room.”
Tilly felt that one all the way through.
Eventually, coats reappeared. People dispersed. The dog sighed dramatically like he’d personally hosted the event.
Savannah hovered near the entryway, holding her gloves like she wasn’t sure where to put them.
“Ready?” Tilly asked.
“Yes. Probably before someone tries to feed me again.”
“They absolutely would.”
Outside, the air was sharp and brittle. Their breaths drifted white in the porch light. Savannah walked to the car beside Tilly without speaking, but the silence was gentler now. Not avoidance. More like she was absorbing something she didn’t know how to put down.
Inside the car, the heater clicked on. Savannah buckled her seatbelt and held her hands in her lap, fingers laced tightly.
Tilly pulled away from the curb.
For two blocks, neither spoke. Holiday lights flickered across the windshield. The radio murmured.
Savannah finally exhaled. “Your family is lively.”
“That’s one word for it.”
“They were very kind,” she said softly. “Overwhelming. But kind.”
“Yeah. They take getting used to.”
She watched houses drift past. “They like you a lot.”
Tilly snorted. “They like talking at me a lot. That’s different.”
“I could hear the difference,” she said. Then, after a moment, “Your mom thinks highly of you.”
Tilly shifted their grip on the wheel. “She thinks loudly of everyone.”
“That too.”
The quiet softened.
Savannah turned toward the window. “I haven’t had a Christmas like that in a long time.”
“Like the chaos?”
“Like the warmth. People just… caring. Without asking for anything.”
Tilly swallowed. “You deserved that.”
Savannah didn’t answer right away. When she did, her voice was thin. “I don’t know if I did.”
That landed harder than anything else she’d said all night.
Tilly kept their tone careful. “You handled it well.”
She let out a small laugh. “I think your aunt decided I’m emotionally stunted.”
“That’s her hobby. Diagnosing strangers.”
“She isn’t wrong.”
Tilly glanced her way. “You did fine.”
Her reflection softened in the glass. “Thank you for bringing me. Truly.”
“Of course.”
“No,” she said quietly. “You didn’t have to. And I know I wasn’t… easy.”
“You weren’t difficult.”
“You’re being generous.”
Tilly shook their head. “If I didn’t want you there, you wouldn’t have been there.”
That ended the conversation.
They drove the rest of the way in a silence that felt almost full. Like they’d reached the edge of something neither dared to name.
When they reached her building, Savannah unbuckled slowly. She held the Tupperware to her chest like it meant more than she wanted it to.
“Good night, Tilly.”
“Night, Savannah.”
She hesitated, something catching behind her eyes like a thought she didn’t trust enough to voice. Then she stepped out of the car and slipped into the lobby, the glass door swinging shut behind her.
Tilly stayed parked, hands still on the wheel. The heater hummed quietly. Holiday lights blinked across the building’s stone entrance. Through the windshield, they saw Savannah’s silhouette pause in the lobby for a single heartbeat before she moved out of sight.
Tilly’s breath fogged the air once, then again.
But they didn’t pull away.