And for the first time in weeks, Savannah didn’t feel like Christmas meant choosing between loneliness and pretending.
For the first time, she felt like she had options.
Like maybe she wasn’t as alone as she thought.
Thirty Five
The hallway smelled like someone else’s cinnamon and far too many candles burning at once. Tilly shifted the coffee cup in one hand and knocked twice, loud enough to cut through the empty quiet on the other side.
Footsteps. A pause. The lock turned.
Savannah opened the door, looking polished but not rested. Her scarf was already looped, her coat zipped, her hair perfect in a way that suggested tension more than care. The apartment behind her was spotless. Not neat. Scrubbed.
Tilly lifted the coffee a little. “Morning.”
Savannah blinked like she hadn’t been expecting an actual greeting. “I still don’t know what to bring.”
“Bring yourself,” Tilly said, stepping back while she locked the door. “And prepare for my aunt to invent three new stories about you before dessert.”
Savannah tried to smirk, but it didn’t make it all the way. She followed Tilly down the hall without a word.
The elevator hummed the way old buildings did when they were tired of surviving winter. Savannah stood stiffly, gloves clamped in her hands, watching the numbers crawl upward. Tilly watched her reflection in the metal doors. Shoulders tight. Jaw set. Eyes too alert for the hour.
The silence wasn’t awkward. It was something else. Like both of them had agreed not to touch a live wire hanging between them.
When the doors opened, Tilly gestured her forward. She hesitated for half a second before stepping out. A small, deliberate movement. It looked like she was pushing herself to keep going.
The parking lot glittered with frost. No snowfall yet, but the sky seemed to be practicing. Savannah slid into the passenger seat with careful movements, fastening her belt like she wanted the click to anchor her.
Tilly started the engine. Static on the radio. Then a brassy Christmas song.
Savannah made a noise of quiet despair. “Please no.”
“Same,” Tilly said, switching to something calmer. “Better?”
She gave a tiny shrug. “Sure.”
They drove in a silence that felt almost neutral. Boston was still half asleep, lights blinking yellow over empty intersections. Savannah kept her eyes on the window, her reflection ghosted faintly in the glass. She looked softer like that. Less carved. Less armored. Tilly kept glancing at her before reminding themself to watch the road.
Halfway across the bridge, Savannah spoke without turning. “You didn’t have to invite me.”
Tilly let out a quiet breath. “Probably not.”
“But you did.”
“Seemed better than letting you spend the day alone.”
“I’ve done it before.”
“I know.”
Savannah pressed a gloved hand lightly to the glass, the smallest gesture. “It usually doesn’t feel strange until later.”
Tilly didn’t know what to do with that, so they just nodded. The conversation faded again.
Brookline came into view with its postcard houses and aggressively cheerful inflatables. Tilly’s mom’s place looked the same as always. Lights strung at confusing angles. A plastic deer was leaning against the railing, as if it had retired mid-season.
Savannah stared. “That’s festive.”
