Page 4 of Remain

I pretend to not hear her.

The cashier finally looks at us expectantly. I tap my card, gather my bags, and follow Lena out into the cold. Snow dusts the sidewalk, melting as soon as it lands, like the city refuses to let anything settle.

Outside, Lena pauses. “You know,” she says carefully, “running away only works if you don’t keep looking over your shoulder.”

“I didn’t run,” I object.

She gives me a look. “Okay. You relocatedveryaggressively.”

I laugh, surprised by the sting behind my eyes. “I’ll be back before you know it.”

She pulls me into a quick hug, the kind that’s casual but rooted. “Text me when you land. And Savannah?”

“Yeah?”

“Whatever you’re carrying? You don’t have to bring it back with you.”

I nod, even though we both know that’s not how it works.

2

Savannah

The plane landsat Ashford Local Airport with a jolt that rattles my teeth and my resolve.

Ashford always does this to me. The airport welcomes you in with efficiency and motion like the land locked city it is. The airport is all glass and forward momentum: long corridors, rolling suitcases, clipped announcements echoing overhead. Everything here is designed to move you along, to keep you from lingering.

I pull my carry-on from the overhead bin and follow the current toward baggage claim, already bracing myself for what comes next.

Pineview doesn’t have an airport. It never needed one.

Ashford was the closest thing we had growing up and it was also the place we’d drive to on weekends when Pineview felt too small, quiet, and aware of us. We’d pile into thedesignated driver’s parents’ car, windows down, music too loud on a stereo that couldn’t handle the bass and we were convinced we were escaping something even if we couldn’t name it yet.

This was my first taste of a bigger world wth brick buildings past two stories, coffee shops open past six o’clock and streets that didn’t care who my mother was or how long my family had lived anywhere.

Ashford made me hungry. New York made me reckless enough to take the bite.

I fumble for my phone and send off a quick text to Lena before I can overthink it.

Landed in Ashford. About to time-travel emotionally. Pray for me.

Proud of you. If you cry in the rental car, that still counts as personal growth.

ALSO. Please send me everything. I am living vicariously through you.

Cows standing too close to the road. Horses that look judgmental. At least one cute dog tied up outside a general store. A mayor who absolutely runs the town Facebook page.

And obviously, if there is a suspiciously handsome high school sweetheart who somehow aged into a full-grown man with emotional depth and forearms, I need documentation. I’m not saying he’s 100% packing, but I am saying small towns statistically produce that kind of man and I would like proof.

Please advise. Please comply. Thank you in advance.

I huff out a laugh and try to will the heat out of my cheeks as I approach the rental car counter. The woman hands me the keys without looking up.

Thank. God.

I’m approximately fifty shades of red.

The car smells faintly of a pine-scented air freshener that’s long past its prime, swinging lazily from the rearview mirror, with something sharper underneath it. Disinfectant, maybe, or the lingering residue of other people’s lives passing briefly through. I load my suitcase into the trunk and slide into the driver’s seat, sitting there longer than necessary with my palms pressed flat against the steering wheel, grounding myself like this is part of the rental agreement.