Page 12 of Remain
“All right,” she booms. “The Christmas Kindness Drive volunteers, listen up.”
The room stills.
“We’ll be pairing you off ,” she instructs, voice crisp and practiced. “Each pair is responsible for one full cart. You’ll beassigned an age range and a family list. Please stick to it. The budgets are fixed for those of you shopping with monetary donations, and if you’re collecting toys, they must be new and unused. No exceptions.”
She pauses, eyes sweeping the room like she’s daring someone to test her. No one does. No one ever could.
“One cart per pair,” she repeats. “Thoughtful, age-appropriate, and complete. This isn’t about quantity, it’s about making sure every kid in Pineview wakes up Christmas morning with a visit from Santa.”
She scans her list, lips moving silently as she reads names. My pulse ticks louder with every second.
“Erik Beaumont.”
My breath catches.
I don’t look at him yet. I don’t trust myself to.
“You’ll be with?—”
I already know.
“—Savannah Joy.”
The room reacts as one. It’s not a gasp. It’s not applause. It’s a collective shift. Someone near the back mutters, “About time.”
A flush warms my neck as I close my eyes for half a second, letting the moment take hold before I can stop it.
“Perfect,” Mrs. Kincaid says, unfazed. “You two know each other, so this should be easy.”
Easy.
The word lands wrong.
When I open my eyes, Erik is already looking at me. He usually was the first to make eye contact.
His hair is darker than I remember, threaded now with the faintest hint of copper where the light hits it. His eyes, the same clear blue that once followed me everywhere, hold steady on mine, calm in a way that makes my pulse stutterinstead of slow. His hands rest loosely at his sides, big and capable, knuckles scarred lightly in places that tell quiet stories.
He has true builder’s hands.
Lena and I found this out the way all emotionally responsible adults do: with wine, curiosity, and absolutely no shame.
One minute we were trading childhood trauma like party tricks, the next Lena was already on her phone, eyes lighting up. Then she was Googling before I could stop her.
We ended up on his company site, shoulder to shoulder on my couch, scrolling in silence. Gorgeously crafted homes with clean lines, warm wood and light pouring through windows like it had been invited. Houses that looked like they were built for slow mornings and late nights.
“Well,” Lena finally said, breaking the quiet. “That man did not peak in high school. Maybe he will build you a home like this one day.”
The town knows that part of him too. What most don’t know and what I do, is that Erik carries a camera everywhere. He sees things most people miss. When we were younger, he used to photograph abandoned houses, empty roads and sunsets no one else stayed long enough to notice.
He always knew how to hold moments.
He crosses the room with the easy confidence of someone who has never had to prove he belongs. Boots scuff softly against the linoleum, shrugging out of his coat and slinging it over his shoulder like it’s an afterthought.
It isn’t.
The movement pulls my attention immediately and I watch as his sweater stretches over his chest, his forearms bare now, solid and veined, dusted with dark hair that catches the light when he moves. His hands look stronger than I remember, bigger somehow, like they’ve spent years grippingtools, steering wheels and real responsibility. When his fingers curl briefly around the back of a chair, I notice the veins there too, the quiet strength in the way he holds himself.
No ring.