"Of course, dear. You two enjoy your... reunion," Margie says with a meaningful wink that makes me want to disappear into the floor.
The moment they bustle away toward the produce section, Savannah turns on her heel and heads for the exit without a word. I follow, grabbing a few random items from the shelves just to avoid looking like we fled entirely, and catch up with her outside.
She's standing on the sidewalk, breathing hard in the cold mountain air. Her vanilla bourbon scent is sharp with distress.
"Savannah..."
"Don't," she says sharply, not looking at me. "Just... don't."
But she's clearly upset, her professional composure completely shattered.
"Let's go," she says abruptly.
"Where?" I ask, confused by the sudden shift.
"I don't care. Anywhere that isn't here." Her voice is brittle with emotion she's trying to suppress. "Show me the rest of your precious town tour."
The drive to Murphy's Diner passes in tense silence, both of us lost in our own thoughts. Savannah stares out the passenger window, her reflection in the glass showing the strain she's trying to hide. At the diner, we order coffee and sandwiches, but the conversation is stilted, forced, both of us dancing around the elephant in the room.
When I suggest the overlook after we've finished eating, she agrees with a sharp nod that suggests she's looking for somewhere private to have whatever conversation has been building since the grocery store.
The drive up Miller's Overlook takes twenty minutes on winding mountain roads that have gotten more treacherous as the afternoon has worn on. Fresh snow has started to fall, creating a white curtain that makes the world beyond our headlights disappear into gray nothing.
Savannah sits rigidly in the passenger seat, her hands folded in her lap so tightly her knuckles are white. Her vanilla bourbon scent has gone sharp and defensive, carrying undertones of old pain and fresh frustration that make my chest tight with guilt.
"We used to come up here a lot," I say, trying to break the suffocating silence.
Her laugh is bitter, humorless. "Yeah. We did."
The words carry weight I don't want to examine, implications about shared history and broken promises that hang between us like smoke.
I park in the small gravel lot, and we climb out into air that's thin enough to make your lungs work and cold enough to make your cheeks sting immediately. The silence up here is profound, broken only by the whisper of wind through pine branches and the soft patter of snowflakes hitting the frozen ground.
"Jesus," Savannah breathes, walking to the wooden railing that separates the overlook from a thousand-foot drop into the valley below.
Pine Hollow spreads out beneath us like a picture postcard, but the view is partially obscured by the falling snow. The town nestles between rolling hills and towering peaks that disappear into gray clouds, looking small and fragile against the vast wilderness.
"Still worth the drive?" I ask, joining her at the railing, though I'm watching her face instead of the scenery.
"More than worth it." She's quiet for a long moment, staring down at the valley with an expression I can't read. Her breath creates small clouds in the frigid air, and snowflakes catch in her auburn hair like tiny diamonds. "You brought me here the night you told me you loved me."
The memory hits like a punch to the gut, bringing back everything I've been trying not to think about. "Savannah..."
Her voice is steady, but her vanilla bourbon scent is sharp with old pain. “You told me that we were too young, too complicated. That you needed space to figure out what you wanted."
She turns to face me, and the late afternoon light filtering through the snow clouds turns her skin pale and ethereal. Her brown eyes are bright with unshed tears and eight years of accumulated hurt.
"Is the universe fucking with me today?" she asks, her voice cracking slightly on the words.
"What's up?" I ask, though I'm starting to understand where this is going.
"You took my heart out and ripped it and then fucking stamped all over it," Savannah says, her voice gaining strength as the words pour out. "We're acting like it didn't happen. That you never broke my heart."
The words hit me like physical blows, each one carrying the weight of guilt I've been carrying for eight years. "I did and I'm sorry."
"I'm not sure you really are, Logan," she replies, shaking her head. Snowflakes are catching in her hair, melting against her flushed cheeks. "Otherwise the first day you saw me, you would have been begging for forgiveness. You would have acknowledged what you did instead of pretending we're just old friends catching up."
"Let me make it up to you," I plead, stepping closer despite the warning in her eyes. “You’re right. I’ve been a shit.”
