But I’m damn well going to find out.
Because Ruin’s right. Living up here for the rest of my life pretending the best thing that happened to me was just a storm fluke?
That’s not living.
That’s hiding.
I’ve done enough hiding.
Time to go down the mountain.
SEVENTEEN
IVY
Saint Pierce looks exactly the same.
Brick buildings, flickering crosswalks, the coffee shop on the corner that knows my order and spells my name right forty percent of the time. The streets are wet from melted snow, reflecting the leftover Christmas lights like the city is trying to hold onto the holiday a little longer.
I’m the one who’s different.
I walk to work with my Creative Director badge clipped to my blazer and a hollow ache under my ribs that no promotion has managed to fill.
I throw myself into the job.
I build decks. I lead brainstorms. I say things like “quarterly projections” and “brand synergy” and don’t even flinch. Our Chimney Gorge campaign is still lighting up the analytics dashboard. Margo practically waltzes through the office with pride. Clients want more “authentic seasonal storytelling,”which is fancy for “make people cry and then click the donate button.”
On paper, this is everything I wanted.
In reality, I keep smelling woodsmoke that isn’t there.
I hear bells in car commercials and my throat closes. Every time my inbox pings with a new social alert, I expect to see a tag from Chimney Gorge, a photo of the sleigh, a grumpy man in flannel lurking at the edge of the frame.
Sometimes he’s there.
Someone posts a picture of Donner in a wreath. Another of the seniors holding cocoa. Once, there’s a blurry shot of Rhett in the background, head tipped, smiling at something off-camera.
I scroll past fast.
If I pause, it feels like pressing on a bruise.
I tell myself I’m adjusting. That it’s normal to miss a place you put so much heart into. That what I feel is nostalgia, not heartbreak.
It’s a lie, but I say it anyway.
Melanie calls when she can between feedings and naps and Everett being “way too cute for his own good, it should be illegal.” She sends pictures—Everett in a tiny knit hat, Everett sleeping on Lucas’s chest, Everett staring at the camera with big solemn eyes like he’s already judging us.
I cry every other time I open one. Happy tears, mostly. But there’s a thread of longing woven through, something likeI want that. I want someone who stays.
I don’t say it out loud.
Not even to her.
Not yet.
A few daysbefore New Year’s, the city decides to have one last hurrah.
Saint Pierce calls it the Winter Lights Finale—one more evening where they turn everything on at once. Trees wrapped in white, snowflake projections on building walls, a live band in the plaza, food trucks, couples holding hands in puffy coats.
