Thirty Two
Savannah sat in the parked car outside the restaurant with her fingers still curled around the steering wheel.
Her hands hurt.
She flexed them once, slow, feeling the phantom weight of the mic kit and the way the wind had clawed at her cheeks on the riverfront.
Her hair still smelled like cold air and wet concrete.
The truck, the hand warmer, the way Tilly’s voice had stayed even while everything inside her tilted, floated up in pieces she could not push back down.
For a second, she pictured Alana younger—hovering in the doorway of her room, asking if Savannah could check her homework, or if she’d remembered to pack her lunch, or what time they needed to leave in the morning.
Savannah had always had an answer.
Alana had a husband now. A baby. A whole life that Savannah wasn’t in the center of.
Savannah stared at the restaurant window, light spilling out onto the sidewalk.
She wasn’t sure when that shift had happened. Or what she was supposed to be now that it had.
Her phone buzzed in the cup holder.
Here. Got us a table
Savannah stared at the screen for a beat, then forced herself to move. One breath in, one breath out, fingers unclenching from the wheel like they were pried off.
Inside, the restaurant was warm and too bright. A low hum of conversation bounced off brick walls and glassware. It smelled like garlic and baking bread, rich and comforting, so opposite from the river’s sharp metal tang that it almost made her dizzy.
She spotted Alana near the back, tucked into a small booth. Two menus sat on the table. Her little sister’s hair was pulled into a messy bun, a straw twirling between her fingers like she needed something to do with them.
Alana looked up and broke into a smile that hit Savannah harder than she wanted it to.
“There you are,” Alana said, pushing up from her seat.
Savannah crossed the space on unsteady legs. The hug landed a little awkwardly at first, her body slow to catch up, but then she let herself lean into it. Alana’s arms were solid around her, familiar in a way that made something in her chest pull tight.
“You’re freezing,” Alana murmured into her shoulder.
“Yeah,” Savannah said. “It was windy at the river.”
They pulled apart. Alana studied her face for a second, eyes tracking the shadows under her eyes, the tension around her mouth.
“You look tired,” Alana said gently.
Savannah dropped her gaze to the patterned floor. “Long day.”
Alana didn’t argue, but the concern didn’t leave her eyes.
They slid into the booth across from each other.
The table between them was small, a candle in a cloudy glass holder flickering near the salt and pepper.
A server came by, rattling off the specials.
Savannah nodded, ordered something she would barely taste, and wrapped her fingers around the water glass like the condensation might anchor her.
“So,” Alana said when they were alone again. “Tell me everything. Boston. Work. Your fancy grown-up city life.”
Savannah tried to smile. It felt stiff at the edges. “It’s not that fancy.”
“You moved out on your own and became a big city reporter,” Alana said. “That counts as fancy in my book.”
Savannah picked at the edge of her napkin. “It’s just a lot. Long days. Weird hours. Weather. City council. Whatever needs coverage.”
Alana hummed. “You’ve always liked having a lot to do.”
Savannah let out a quiet breath, but her mind slipped somewhere else before she could answer.
Their kitchen, years ago.
The overhead light was too bright. A clock ticking too loudly on the wall.
Alana was small enough that her feet didn’t reach the floor, swinging under the chair with a plate in front of her, while Savannah stood at the stove finishing her own.
“Is Dad working late again?” Alana had asked.
Savannah hadn’t looked up. “Yeah. Eat before it gets cold.”
Homework spread across the table. Laundry was half-folded on the couch. A list in her head of everything that needed to get done before the night ended.
Back then, having a lot to do hadn’t felt like a choice.
It had felt like the only way to keep things from slipping.
The restaurant came back into focus in pieces—the hum of voices, the flicker of the candle between them.
“Yeah,” Savannah said finally. “I guess I have.”
Savannah twisted the napkin tighter. “This is different, though.”
“How?”
Savannah’s mind flicked to the way the wind had whipped her hair across her face, Tilly reaching past her for the tripod, fingers brushing her hand, the way her breath had stuttered. The silence in the truck after. The hand warmer was sitting on the console like a small, impossible truce.
She pushed the images away.
“Just… pressure,” she said. “Everything feels like it matters. And if I mess up, it’s not just me who looks bad.”
Alana rested her elbows on the table. “Did something happen at work?”
Savannah’s head snapped up. “No.”
The word came too fast, sharp around the edges. Alana’s eyebrows lifted a fraction.
Savannah cleared her throat. “Nothing specific. It’s just been a week.”
Alana didn’t look convinced, but she let the subject slide a little.
She traded it for safer questions: how the city was treating her, whether she’d found a favorite coffee shop yet, and if she still hated mornings.
Savannah answered as best she could, offering quick, surface-level details that skimmed over the actual weight in her chest.
Their food arrived. Plates slid between them, steam curling up. Savannah’s fork felt heavier than it should have in her hand. She cut a piece, lifted it halfway, and set it back down again without meaning to.
“Sav,” Alana said quietly.
Savannah’s throat tightened at the sound of her name in that tone. Too knowing. Too gentle.
“What?” she asked.
“You’ve barely blinked since you sat down,” Alana said. “And you’re not eating.”
Savannah glanced down at her plate, surprised to see the mess she’d made. She set the fork down. “Sorry. I’m just tired.”
Alana watched her for a long moment. The candle flame flickered between them.
“Did you have a fight with someone?” Alana asked.
Savannah’s chest jolted.
Her fingers curled under the table, nails pressing into her palm. She could still feel the split second of warmth when her hand had brushed Tilly’s. The way they had both jerked back like they’d been burned.
“No,” she said, but the word came out thinner than she meant it to.
Alana’s gaze sharpened. “You’re sure?”
Savannah forced herself to meet her eyes. “I didn’t have a fight.”
Not out loud.
Alana studied her face like she was reading a story there. She didn’t push, not yet. Instead, she took a small bite of her food and chewed quietly, giving Savannah a moment to breathe.
“How’s the newsroom?” Alana asked after a beat. “Do you like the people you work with?”
Savannah let out a slow breath, shoulders inching down. “They’re good. It’s… intense. Everyone’s always moving. There’s this constant buzz, like if you stop for a second, you’ll miss something huge.”
“That sounds like your kind of chaos,” Alana said lightly.
“Sometimes,” Savannah admitted.
“Anyone there you’ve gotten really close to?”
The question landed with more force than Alana seemed to intend.
Savannah’s fingers tightened around her glass. The condensation was slick against her skin. A flash of the truck cab, heater humming, Tilly’s profile outlined against the gray windshield, faint clouds of breath on the glass, rose so clearly it made her stomach twist.
She swallowed. “I mean, I have people I work with a lot.”
“That’s not what I asked.”
Savannah’s gaze flicked up. Alana’s eyes were steady, soft, and sharp at the same time.
“Is there someone at work you care about?” Alana asked. “More than the others.”
Savannah went still.
The restaurant noise blurred into a low hum, like a sound underwater. For a second, all she could hear was the echo of the back door of the truck slamming shut and the tiny stutter in Tilly’s breath when their hands had met on cold metal.
Her lips parted, then closed again. The truth rose, hot and immediate, pressing against the back of her teeth.
If she let it out, even a fraction, everything else would follow.
The hotel room. The way she had woken up.
The panic. The way she had shut down because letting herself want that felt too big, too risky.
She looked down at her plate and scraped her fork through the sauce instead.
“It’s a newsroom,” she said, forcing her voice steady. “You kind of have to care about everyone, or nothing works.”
The answer was vague enough to be safe and precise enough to hurt.
Alana leaned back a little. “Okay,” she said. She didn’t sound convinced, but she didn’t press the question again. Instead, she let the silence breathe for a few seconds before shifting into another lane. “I’m proud of you, you know.”
Savannah blinked. “For what?”
“For doing this,” Alana said. “For being here. For chasing the thing you used to talk about on the couch at home when we watched the news, and you complained about how boring the anchors were.”
Heat climbed up Savannah’s neck. She looked at the candle because it was easier than looking at her sister.
“You moved away,” Alana continued. “You started over in a new city. You got the job you wanted. You keep going even when you sound like you’re running on fumes.”
Savannah’s eyes burned. She blinked hard.
“I don’t feel very impressive right now,” she said quietly.
“That’s not how it works,” Alana said. She reached across the table, sliding her hand over Savannah’s, where it rested near the glass. Her fingers were warm, calloused from craft projects and too many hours with scissors and glue. “You don’t stop being impressive just because it’s hard.”
Savannah stared at their joined hands. Her throat felt too narrow. She didn’t pull away.
“I feel like I’m messing everything up,” she said, the words slipping out smaller than she intended.
Alana’s grip tightened. “You’re not.”
Savannah’s eyes finally lifted. “You don’t know that.”
“I know you,” Alana said. “You care too much to let things completely fall apart without trying to fix them first. Whatever this is… you’re trying.”
Savannah’s chest ached. She drew in a slow breath and let it out through her nose.
Alana traced the rim of her glass with one finger. “You know,” she said, not looking up, “you don’t have to tell me what’s wrong. Not if you’re not ready.”
Savannah’s heartbeat ticked faster.
“But something is hurting you,” Alana said. “That part is obvious. Even through a phone call.”
Savannah’s eyes stung. She focused on the melting ice cube in her water, the way it bumped softly against the side of the glass.
“I don’t want you worrying,” she said, voice low.
“Well, I am,” Alana said. “Worrying, I mean.”
Savannah’s laugh cracked on the way out. She pressed her lips together until it steadied.
“I’m supposed to be the one taking care of you,” she said.
“You still are,” Alana said. “You always will. But you don’t have to pretend nothing is wrong just to make it easier on me.”
“I’ve got a husband and a baby with mashed banana in his hair most days,” Alana said softly. “But the second you said you had a long day, he told me to go. He didn’t even blink. Said he’d handle bedtime.”
Sav’s chest clenched. “You didn’t have to drive all the way out here.”
“I wanted to,” Alana said. “And he wanted me to. He knows you’re important.”
Sav blinked a few times, fast. Her eyes burned.
“I don’t want to be a problem,” she murmured.
“You’re not,” Alana said immediately. “You’re my sister. That’s the whole point.”
Sav stared at their joined hands. It felt like pressure and relief tangled together.
Alana squeezed her hand once. “I hope whoever’s involved is worth how heavy it feels.”
Sav’s gaze dropped. Her pulse jumped. The night in the hotel hit her like a delayed blow: the warmth of Tilly’s body pressed against hers, the soft sound they’d made when she’d kissed them, the way morning light had turned everything terrifying.
She couldn’t say any of that. Not yet. Maybe not ever.
She nodded instead.
The conversation drifted somewhere lighter. Sav asked about the baby — nine months, crawling everywhere, apparently obsessed with electrical outlets. Alana showed a picture of him covered in oatmeal and looking proud of it. Sav managed a real laugh.
They talked about home. About the neighbor who still shovels everyone’s walkway. About how Sav’s mom had redecorated the living room again. About the cat who’d adopted Alana’s porch and decided he ran the place.
Sav felt parts of herself unclench just listening.
When they finally stepped outside, the sky had gone navy-blue, streetlights casting soft halos on the sidewalk. Sav’s breath came out in a faint cloud.
Alana hugged her again, longer, tighter.
“Text me when you get home,” she said. “And I’m calling you tomorrow. Don’t pretend you’re too busy.”
Savannah let out a quiet, tired laugh. “I won’t.”
“Love you,” Alana said.
“Love you too.”
Sav watched her sister walk to her car. When Alana looked back once and waved, Sav lifted her hand in return.
Then she sank into the driver’s seat, closing the door on the cold. The hush inside the car wrapped around her like a blanket she didn’t ask for. Her phone lit up with a new notification, the station group chat about tomorrow’s assignments.
Not Tilly.
A hollow ache spread quietly across her ribs.
She started the engine, the dashboard lights blinking awake. Her hands rested on the wheel, steadier now, but still unsure.
She pulled out onto the road, city lights flickering past her windows, carrying the weight of the day with her, not lighter, not solved, but cared for in a way that didn’t feel quite as impossible as it had that morning.