Springwell Creeks #3
Springwell Creeks, named for the twin creeks that flowed along its borders into Lake Marigold, was once a bustling logging town.
Now tourism was its main source of income.
It was a small town, but the living was cheap and…
something had just pulled her to the town.
Maybe it was the thick forest of pines that cradled the town it its embrace.
Maybe it was the jagged spine of Copperpine Ridge looming behind it, everlasting and ancient, completely unmoved by her small, human mistakes.
When Safi first arrived in Springwell almost a year ago, she’d needed a clean break. A fresh start. Again. What had it been this time?
Ah, that woman at the art retreat in Seattle.
The one with big hands, long fingers and hips that rolled as if she’d spent her entire life dancing.
For a month, Safi let the woman devour her between whittling cocks from driftwood for her exhibition.
It was all sexy and fun—until the woman asked where Safi was headed next and if she wanted company.
On the final night, Safi arranged her sculptures in a perfect little exhibition, then set the whole thing ablaze.
And while the onlookers discussed whether it was to symbolize the cleansing of her past, Safi knew it wasn’t anything so dramatic.
It was a sendoff. A celebration of every wild, beautiful, totally impermanent thing she’d ever said yes to.
“Nothing lasts.” She’d shrugged to the woman, watching the flames lick around a particularly impressive specimen. “Doesn’t mean it wasn’t fun while it lasted.”
She left the same night, hopped on a random bus and ended up, well…
she lifted her gaze as the small side street fed into Main.
It was lined with shopfronts and tidy houses, and evergreen garlands were draped between lampposts.
Wreaths hung on every other door. Strings of golden fairy lights looped in and out of the garlands, throwing halos onto the snowbanks.
Even the small trees diving the two lanes in the road were jeweled with fairy lights.
“Happy holidays, Safi!” Milly from the diner called. She flipped the ‘Open’ sign to ‘Closed’ with a small wave and a friendly smile.
“Happy Holidays,” Safi answered as a gust of mountain wind tugged her long black hair.
A shriek came from where a gaggle of children chased each other with arms full of snowballs. One nearly bumped into her, but he spun out of her way last second. “Sorry Safi!”
Safi smiled, gathered a perfectly round snowball in her hand and tossed it after them, hitting him square in the back. The kids squealed with delighted laughter.
“Careful,” Gerard called from the doorway of this barber shop, silver beard catching the last of the sunlight. The town’s resident silver fox, all tattooed forearms and lazy confidence. “There’ll be repercussions when you least expect it.”
Safi grinned, brushing snow off her mittens. “Careful, Gerard. Keep tempting me and I might start thinking you’re serious.”
He leaned against the doorway, mouth twitching. “One of these days, I’ll hold you to that.”
She laughed, tossing another snowball that landed by his feet as she strolled on.
“I’ll be waiting, old man.” She didn’t need to see him to know he was watching her go.
She let him. Because all he would see was the confident fat woman who always had a smart or funny comeback, who collected more tea than any one person could ever drink, and who ran a bookstore with her own hand-drawn lake maps pinned above the counter, and little jars of “protection salt” by the register.
That was the picture everyone in Springwell was beginning to paint: Safi, all warmth and wit, as rooted here as the lamp posts and winter garlands.
They saw comfort and permanence, the new local.
Someone who belonged. Not the woman whose heart was racing, whose skin felt too tight, who could already feel the walls closing in as familiarity became expectation and expectation became something dangerously similar to home.
She hated that Springwell had gotten under her skin, that the rhythms of the place had softened her. It was supposed to be a temporary hiding place. Yet here she was, bringing food to potlucks and slowly learning everyone’s names.
By the time she reached her building, snowflakes had begun to fall.
They sparkled like tiny diamonds in the streetlights and dusted her hair and coat with a fine silver powder.
The sage green shop stood ahead, lights warm in the windows and a faded wreath on the door, her apartment waiting quietly upstairs.
She exhaled. Away from Marielle’s bright apartment and the intimacy of someone wanting to make her hot chocolate, she finally felt like she could breathe again.
One of her neighbors was baking, and the smell of caramelized sugar pulled at something warm inside her.
A memory from decades ago. From another life.
“I’m never happier than when you’re here with me.”
Safi stopped, shook her head, and willed the voice silent. More snow began to fall in big flakes that floated through the darkening sky. She hated the cold and the snow. But at least her house had excellent heating. And a fireplace.
Unlike Harper and Nai.
The thought hit sharp and bittersweet before she could stop herself. And with it came the memories.
It was Christmas Eve, after dinner, and she and Nai had slipped out into the garden.
They’d flopped down in the snow and carved out crooked angels, giggling like children until the cold bit through their coats.
They had been teens, but it hadn’t felt like that.
She remembered Nai’s laugh, the way she’d scattered snow in Safi’s hair, then kissed her frozen lips.
All Safi could hear was their breaths and the snow creaking beneath her hood.
They’d stood and brushed snow from their coats, Safi shivering despite her best efforts to look tough. She’d pressed herself against Nai’s side, burrowing in for warmth, and Nai had tugged her even closer.
Safi had looked up then, cheeks tingling from cold and laughter. Nai’s red bangs and black hair had framed her beautiful face, and her eyes had gone soft in the fairy-lit dark. Nai smiled, her breath hanging between them. “You know…this is the first Christmas I actually want to remember.”
Safi had let her gaze linger, taking in Nai’s dark eyes lined in black, the freckles and old acne scars Nai tried to hide.
Safi knew that Nai struggled with self love; there were parts of herself—internal and external—that she didn’t love yet.
She’d confessed, once or twice, how strange it felt living in skin that never quite matched her reflection.
All the ways her body had felt like an unfinished promise, a future just out of reach.
Standing in the snow underneath the endless night sky filled with stars, Safi had hoped that one day Nai would have everything she dreamed of.
Even if—to Safi—she was already perfect.
The most beautiful girl she’d ever seen.
More than anything, Safi had wished Nai knew she’d never be alone again. Not for Christmas, not for anything.
“You won’t ever have to spend another one alone,” Safi whispered, squeezing Nai a little tighter. “Not if I have anything to do with it.”
Nai turned to face her, hands coming up to cup Safi’s cheeks, eyes shining. “I hope you know you’re the best thing I could ever wish for.”
In that moment, under the stars, with snow in her hair and Nai’s words pressed to her lips, Safi had believed her.
A car door slammed down the street, and the memory scattered like breath in the winter air. Safi blinked as the present rushed in. Snow fell heavier, and the world felt colder and emptier without Nai by her side. She hated it. Hated that Nai still found ways to infiltrate her life, her thoughts.
“Fuck you, Khachaturian,” she muttered, and walked to her front door.
She’d painted it an Oxford blue, inspired by a time-traveling phone box.
She let herself in and closed the door behind her, shutting out the snow, the neighbors, and the too-small town that kept pulling her closer whether she wanted it or not.
Safi kicked off her boots, shrugged out of her coat, and flicked on the light before walking into the kitchen.
Tangled plants framed the dusky blue cabinets and the cluttered counters.
Her sketch book had been left open and a half-finished mug of tea sat by the sink.
This kind of organized chaos worked for her.
She always meant to tidy up, but that intention was overridden by her belief that spaces should look lived in.
Besides, she didn’t invite people over. Not even Marielle, despite them making Safi a very tempting offer.
“Why don’t you let me upstairs, Safi? I want to see what it’s like to make you come in your own bed. Bet you taste even better at home.”
She sighed and leaned her elbows on the small kitchen counter, staring at nothing while the fridge hummed softly.
This Marielle thing was becoming a problem.
Though not for any of the reasons she kept telling herself: that Marielle was getting attached, or that their kisses were starting to linger in ways that made her chest tighten.
It wasn’t even the toothbrush. It was the small, aching tug beneath it all.
Not a longing for Marielle, exactly, but for the part of herself she could never hand over.
For the simple peace of belonging somewhere without always waiting for the ground to shift beneath her feet.
Her gaze flicked to the hallway closet. Inside—always ready—was the bag.
Packed and waiting. Clothes, cash, essentials.
A promise that she could leave at a moment’s notice if necessary.
If someone asked too much. If the town started to feel too small.
If she started to feel something she couldn’t afford.