She spotted Alana near the back, tucked into a small booth. Two menus sat on the table. Her little sister’s hair was pulled into a messy bun, a straw twirling between her fingers like she needed something to do with them.
Alana looked up and broke into a smile that hit Savannah harder than she wanted it to.
“There you are,” Alana said, pushing up from her seat.
Savannah crossed the space on unsteady legs. The hug landed a little awkwardly at first, her body slow to catch up, but then she let herself lean into it. Alana’s arms were solid around her, familiar in a way that made something in her chest pull tight.
“You’re freezing,” Alana murmured into her shoulder.
“Yeah,” Savannah said. “It was windy at the river.”
They pulled apart. Alana studied her face for a second, eyes tracking the shadows under her eyes, the tension around her mouth.
“You look tired,” Alana said gently.
Savannah dropped her gaze to the patterned floor. “Long day.”
Alana didn’t argue, but the concern didn’t leave her eyes.
They slid into the booth across from each other. The table between them was small, a candle in a cloudy glass holder flickering near the salt and pepper. A server came by, rattling off the specials. Savannah nodded, ordered something she wouldbarely taste, and wrapped her fingers around the water glass like the condensation might anchor her.
“So,” Alana said when they were alone again. “Tell me everything. Boston. Work. Your fancy grown-up city life.”
Savannah tried to smile. It felt stiff at the edges. “It’s not that fancy.”
“You moved out on your own and became a big city reporter,” Alana said. “That counts as fancy in my book.”
Savannah picked at the edge of her napkin. “It’s just a lot. Long days. Weird hours. Weather. City council. Whatever needs coverage.”
Alana hummed. “You’ve always liked having a lot to do.”
Savannah let out a quiet breath, but her mind slipped somewhere else before she could answer.
Their kitchen, years ago.
The overhead light was too bright. A clock ticking too loudly on the wall.
Alana was small enough that her feet didn’t reach the floor, swinging under the chair with a plate in front of her, while Savannah stood at the stove finishing her own.
“Is Dad working late again?” Alana had asked.
Savannah hadn’t looked up. “Yeah. Eat before it gets cold.”
Homework spread across the table. Laundry was half-folded on the couch. A list in her head of everything that needed to get done before the night ended.
Back then, having a lot to do hadn’t felt like a choice.
It had felt like the only way to keep things from slipping.
The restaurant came back into focus in pieces—the hum of voices, the flicker of the candle between them.
“Yeah,” Savannah said finally. “I guess I have.”
Savannah twisted the napkin tighter. “This is different, though.”
“How?”
Savannah’s mind flicked to the way the wind had whipped her hair across her face, Tilly reaching past her for the tripod, fingers brushing her hand, the way her breath had stuttered. The silence in the truck after. The hand warmer was sitting on the console like a small, impossible truce.
