Page 9 of Remain

“She did?” I ask, keeping my voice even, like the words haven’t shifted something vital inside me.

Mrs. Kincaid hums. “Must be home for Christmas.”

I nod once, because that’s all I trust myself to do. Anything more might give me away.

Savannah Joy.

She wasn’t just my first love. She was my first shift. She was the moment Pineview stopped being the whole world and started being a place inside a bigger one. We were teenagers when I figured that out, sitting on the hood of my truck, the town quiet around us like it was listening. She talked with her hands even then, words tumbling out faster than she could catch them, eyes bright with ideas that felt too big for the streets we grew up on.

Everyone knew Savannah like in the way sunlight is known. She volunteered before anyone asked. Something she received from her mother. She remembered birthdays. She laughed easily and fiercely, like joy was something you chose on purpose, not just because it’s in your name.

The town liked her because she saw it. The town loved her because she believed in it even while dreaming beyond it.

The first time she kissed me, it wasn’t planned. Nothing with Savannah ever was. She was sixteen, I was eighteen, standing behind the community center after a fundraiser, the air smelling like pine and hot cocoa. She stepped closer, rose up on her toes, and pressed her mouth to mine like she was testing a theory. Her lips were soft and sure, warm even in the cold, and I remember thinking then, that this was what yes felt like.

I loved her like that. Open-handed. Without rules.

Growing up, she was the one who dared me to imagine more. She made the world feel wider just by standing in it. I never wanted to cage that, not with promises, not with expectations, not even with love. I wanted to be the place she could come back to, not the reason she stayed.

If you try to keep a rose in your grasp, in your fist, it’ll lose its petals.

When she left, the town felt quieter; it had exhaled and forgotten to breathe back in. People asked about her the way they ask about the weather somewhere far away, filled with fondness, and curiosity.

Christmas was the hardest. Every year, when the lights went up and the square glowed, there was a shape beside me that no one else could see. I carried it quietly. I always have.

I stayed because someone had to. Pineview deserved caretakers, not just dreamers. I’ve learned love doesn’t always look like following. Sometimes it looks like keeping the doors unlocked, like holding the place open.

It look like making sure the lights come on, year after year, just in case.

I told myself I’d made my peace with that. Told myself that some people are meant to go and some are meant to stay, and that neither choice is wrong if it’s honest.

Still.

I glance toward the road that leads into town, my eyes catching on every passing set of headlights like I expect one of them to be hers, not even knowing what kind of vehicle she’s driving in, if she’s even driving at all. Some part of me has been waiting without admitting it.

The Christmas Kindness Drive is coming up.

I’ve been volunteering for a while now because it felt like the right place to put my hands, a way to give shape to the love I didn’t have anywhere else to put. It started as something to do, something useful, but it stayed because of her mother, Diane.

Diane believed that generosity didn’t need witnesses to matter. She thought the quiet acts counted just as much as the visible ones, and she lived that belief without ever asking for recognition.

Savannah’s mother understood things like that.

I adjust the last strand of lights and step back, taking in the square as it settles into itself. It looks ready and familiar, exactly as it’s supposed to look at this time of year.

If Savannah is really back, she’ll see it soon enough.

4

Erik

I seeher before she sees me.

She’s standing just beyond the edge of the square, half in shadow, half caught in the spill of Christmas lights like she hasn’t decided which version of herself is allowed to step forward yet. Her hands are tucked into the pockets of her coat, shoulders slightly raised to her ears against the cold she always underestimated.

Some things never change.

For a second, I wonder if my mind is filling in blanks it’s held onto too long, but then she shifts her weight, tilts her head the way she always did when she was taking everything in at once, and I know.