Total pages in book: 39
Estimated words: 37164 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 186(@200wpm)___ 149(@250wpm)___ 124(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 37164 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 186(@200wpm)___ 149(@250wpm)___ 124(@300wpm)
Most people only see the lights, the decorations, the effort, the way the square tries so damn hard this time of year. They don’t see what happens after. They don’t experience the quiet that settles once everyone goes home. When Pineview can finally breathe.
Savannah left first. Of course she did.
She’s always been good at exits that are clean, quick, and almost polite. If she leaves gently enough, nothing will chase her.
I don’t take it personally.
That’s a lie.
I’ve known Savannah Joy before she learned how to leave and before she learned how to turn distance into ambition and ambition into armor. She used to sit on her mom’s front porch talking about everything and nothing at the same time, like she could hold the world in place just by naming it.
Her mother was like that too.
She was the kind of woman who made you feel seen without spectacle. She remembered names and asked questions she actually waited to hear the answers to. When Savannah talked, her mom listened like it mattered. When anyone spoke to her, she listened like it mattered.
Loving Savannah back then meant loving motion. It meant loving possibility and loving the parts of her that were never meant to stay contained, even when they scared the hell out of me. I knew, deep down, that one day those parts would take her somewhere I couldn’t follow.
Women have come and gone over the years. Some from Pineview. Some passing through. They have been warm, comforting and all lovely, teaching me lessons on how to be a better man even though it was never their responsibility. None of them were ever wrong. They just were never her.
They wanted certainty and a version of me that stayed neatly where it was. I could have given them that. For one of them, I thought about it long and hard. I stayed, after all. I built a life here.
Leaving has crossed my mind more times than I’ll admit.
I’ve imagined other cities with taller buildings and different skylines to take in. New women to explore and to devour. Places where no one knows who I was at eighteen or what I lost at twenty. I’ve imagined starting over somewhere anonymous, a brand new man filled with possibilities. I watched my brothers do it, every single one of them. Chasing more.
Then I imagine Savannah coming back and not finding me.
So, I stay.
Seeing her tonight did something to me I wasn’t prepared for.
Her eyes still give her away. I’d recognize those eyes anywhere. Now, they are deeper, darker and more aware.
I noticed everything.
The way she tensed when I stood too close and then relaxed a heartbeat later, like her body remembered before her mind could stop it. The way her breath hitched when I brushed past her in the aisle. The way her mouth parted when she was thinking, the way she pressed her lips together when she was bracing herself.
I noticed everything.
If this were different, if the timing weren’t what it is, if grief weren’t standing between us like a third presence, I know exactly what I’d do.
I’d step into her space slowly, give her time to feel it before it happened. I’d lift her chin just enough to make her look at me, really look at me and I’d kiss her like she hasn’t been kissed in years.
I’d remind her that wanting doesn’t mean losing control.
I’d take my time. Days, if she let me. I’d take her somewhere quiet, to one of the cabins I built with my own hands, away from this town, away from expectations, and let her remember what it feels like to be wanted without conditions. I’d have my way with her for days on end until we both needed to come up for air.
Instead, I keep my hands to myself. I keep my voice even. I let her leave without asking where she’s going or how long she’s staying.
Savannah didn’t come back for me. It’s clear.
She came back for her mother, for paperwork and for true endings.
I understand endings. I’ve built enough houses to know that what makes something last isn’t how it starts but it’s what’s left standing after the dust settles.
I don’t know if Savannah will stay. I don’t know if she’ll leave after Christmas, head back to New York and never look back.
8
Savannah
My childhood home settles differently at night. It’s not quieter. It’s heavier. It feels like it is aware of what is about to come and it is holding its breath along with me.
I lock the front door out of habit, even though there’s no one coming, then lean my forehead against the wood for a moment longer than necessary. My coat stays on. I don’t bother turning on all the lights. The glow from the kitchen is enough to keep the dark from feeling too final.