Tommy
The week that followed was like watching a storm gather above the lake — clouds thickening, winds shifting, tension in the air so sharp it made the hairs on my arms stand on end.
Father grew more irate by the day. His calls to council members turned from smooth persuasion to sharp demands, his words clipped, his tone dangerous. I caught fragments when I lingered outside his study door;
"You promised those permits!"
"No, I don't care about the environmental surveys. Find a way around them!"
"They'll regret crossing me."
The oak desk that had once seemed a fortress now rattled under the weight of his fists. By Thursday, we were all avoiding him, scurrying silently through the halls like shadows. Even Mother grew weary of his temper, retreating upstairs with a headache whenever his voice thundered.
Meanwhile, Aunt Stephanie worked with quiet precision. Each day, she returned from town with new allies - shopkeepers who had signed petitions, small business owners pledging their support, and neighbours gathering for meetings at the church hall. She carried herself with a calm certainty that made Father's rage look almost childish.
He hated it. Every time she walked through the door, Father's face hardened. He accused her of meddling, of stirring up trouble where there needn't be any. Aunt Stephanie only smiled coolly and said, "Truth has a way of surfacing, Jonathan. It's best not to bury yourself under it."
I admired her more with each passing day. She was bold without shouting, clever without cruelty. And though she never said it aloud, I knew she had Emma's family in her mind with every step. That knowledge buoyed me, even as I watched my father unravel.
But as strong as Aunt Stephanie's efforts were, time moved against us. Boxes stacked higher in Emma's home. I saw her father once in town, arms full of supplies for Hull, his expression worn but resigned. He nodded at me politely, but there was no warmth in his eyes. He'd already chosen the road forward.
And so, despite Aunt Stephanie's fight, despite the growing resistance in town, Emma's family prepared to leave.
By Friday night, I could barely sleep. I lay awake, staring at the ceiling beams, the house silent save for the occasional groan of wood. My heart thudded like a drum, every beat echoing with one truth: tomorrow was the last night I would have with Emma.
I had already prepared a gift that I wanted to give her. Chocolate — simple, but I remembered her soft laugh when she teased me for never bringing any. And something more: a silver necklace I'd bought in town, the pendant a delicate North Star. I'd chosen it because words had failed me too often with her, but maybe this could say what I couldn't. She was my North Star. Without her, I would be lost.
Saturday came heavy, the hours dragging as though the sun itself dreaded setting. I went through the motions of the day — meals with my parents, pretending to read, slipping away when no one looked. My father hardly noticed. He was too consumed by calls, shouting into the telephone about deadlines and traitors.
When evening came, I tucked the chocolate into my pocket, wrapped the necklace box carefully, and left the house. The path to the woods lived inside me now, every step worn into memory like a prayer repeated too often to forget.
The clearing waited, bathed in the soft glow of twilight. I laid the blanket out, though I knew tonight was different. There would be no ordinary picnic, no lazy hours with sandwiches and juice. Tonight was goodbye.
I heard her before I saw her — the crunch of twigs, the careful tread of her shoes. My heart leapt and ached at once. Then she was there, stepping into the clearing, her hair catching the last streaks of sunlight, her face pale but steady.
For a long moment, we only looked at each other. Then I managed a smile, small but earnest. "I, uh… I remembered you once said I should've brought chocolate."
Her lips curved faintly as I pulled the chocolate bar from my pocket and held it out. "Tommy Whitmore, buying chocolate. Wonders never cease."
Her fingers brushed mine as she took it, the touch lingering. My throat tightened.
"I, um… I also got you this." I drew out the little box, opening it to reveal the necklace. The North Star glimmered faintly in the dim light.
Her breath caught. "Tommy…"
"I don't know how else to say it," I whispered, my chest burning. "You're my North Star, Emma. Without you… I don't know where, or even who I'd be."
Tears filled her eyes, and before I could falter, she stepped forward and wrapped her arms around me. I held her tight, burying my face in her hair, breathing her in like I could imprint her into my lungs.
When we finally pulled back, her fingers trembled as she lifted the necklace from its box. "Will you…?"
I nodded quickly, fumbling only a little as I fastened the clasp at the nape of her neck. The silver glinted against her skin, delicate and perfect. She touched the pendant, eyes shining. "I'll never take it off."
We sat on the blanket then, side by side, our hands entwined. Her head rested on my shoulder. Neither of us spoke of Hull, or the move, or the woods. The words were too heavy. Instead, we spoke of small things — of silly jokes, of memories we'd already made, of letters we would write.
"I'll write you as soon as I can," she promised as she looked at me with such intensity that my breath caught.
We kissed then, long and desperate, pouring every word we couldn't say into that moment. Her hands clung to me, mine to her, as though we could hold back the dawn itself if we tried hard enough.
When we finally parted, foreheads pressed together, I whispered, "I belong to you, Emma. No matter where you go."
Her answer came in a trembling whisper. "And I to you."
The night deepened around us, the trees standing sentinel. Tomorrow, everything would change. But in that moment — with her hand in mine, her pendant touching my chest where she leaned against it — it felt like the world could hold still, just for us.