A Bird on a Windowsill

A Bird on a Windowsill

-a love story-

L A U R A   M I L L E R

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locals or persons, living or dead, is coincidental.
Copyright © 2016 by Laura Miller.
LauraMillerBooks.com
A Bird on a Windowsill
All rights reserved. Except as permitted under the U.S. Copyright Act of 1976, no part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed or transmitted in any form or by any means or stored in a database or retrieval system.
Cover design by Laura Miller.
Cover photo, title page photo (girl) © Nadya Korobkova /Shutterstock.com.
Cover photo, second title page photo,
The End
page photo (watercolor) © pilipa/Fotolia.com.
Quote pages photo, chapter headings photo (birds)
© beaubelle/Fotolia.com.
Dedication page photo, contents page photo, quote pages photo, chapter headings photo, acknowledgments page photo (feather) © molokot/Fotolia.com.
Author photo © Neville Miller.

To the One who rides upon the wings of the wind,
For second chances.

People say birds are a bad omen. But I’m not so sure because while the only bird I ever knew tore my world in two, I loved every single moment of it.

TABLE OF CONTENTS
Prologue One:
Salem
Prologue Two:
Savannah
Chapter One:
Salem
Chapter Two:
Salem
Chapter Three:
Savannah
Chapter Four:
Salem
Chapter Five:
Salem
Chapter Six:
Salem
Chapter Seven:
Salem
Chapter Eight:
Salem
Chapter Nine:
Salem
Chapter Ten:
Savannah
Chapter Eleven:
Salem
Chapter Twelve:
Salem
Chapter Thirteen:
Salem
Chapter Fourteen:
Salem
Chapter Fifteen:
Salem
Chapter Sixteen:
Salem
Chapter Seventeen:
Salem
Chapter Eighteen:
Salem
Chapter Nineteen:
Savannah
Chapter Twenty: Savannah
Chapter Twenty-One:
Savannah
Chapter Twenty-Two:
Savannah
Chapter Twenty-Three:
Savannah
Chapter Twenty-Four:
Savannah
Chapter Twenty-Five:
Savannah
Chapter Twenty-Six:
Salem
Chapter Twenty-Seven:
Savannah
Chapter Twenty-Eight: Savannah
Chapter Twenty-Nine:
Savannah
Chapter Thirty:
Savannah
Chapter Thirty-One:
Savannah
Chapter Thirty-Two:
Savannah
Chapter Thirty-Three:
Savannah
Chapter Thirty-Four:
Savannah
Chapter Thirty-Five:
Savannah
Chapter Thirty-Six:
Salem
Chapter Thirty-Seven:
Savannah
Chapter Thirty-Eight:
Savannah
Chapter Thirty-Nine:
Savannah
Chapter Forty:
Savannah
Chapter Forty-One:
Savannah
Chapter Forty-Two:
Savannah
Chapter Forty-Three:
Savannah
Chapter Forty-Four:
Savannah
Chapter Forty-Five:
Savannah
Chapter Forty-Six:
Savannah
Chapter Forty-Seven:
Savannah
Epilogue One:
Savannah
Epilogue Two:
Salem
Acknowledgments
About the Author
Also by Laura Miller

Never regret something that once made you smile.
~Unknown

Prologue One

Salem 

“W
ho do you choose, Vannah?”

My tone is even, an attempt to hide the uncertainty in my voice.

Her gaze immediately casts down to the floor. I watch as she squeezes her eyes shut, bites her bottom lip—a nervous habit of hers—and then slowly raises her head.

My heart beats out a rhythm in my chest. If I had to, I’d put it to some wild, sped-up version of
My Generation
. There’s a lump in my throat. I try like hell to swallow it down, but it doesn’t go anywhere. I’m terrified of what she’s about to say, and yet, against all odds, I’m hopeful.

She looks up. Her eyes open. A green sea floods the little room in which we’re standing. I close my eyes and try not to drown in her essence. In my mind, she’s five years old. Her hair is short. She calls my name. She takes my hand. She’s six, seven, eight, nine, ten, eleven years old. Her hair is long. She makes me laugh. She’s beautiful. She’s perfect.
Twelve, thirteen, fourteen, fifteen, sixteen. Seventeen.
I think I love you. I think I always have.
Eighteen, nineteen, twenty, twenty-one, twenty-two.
I miss you. I love you. I always will.
Twenty-three
. Choose me.

I open my eyes and look up just as her lips part. Her eyes are dark, holding in her secret. I try to read them, but I can’t.

I take a breath.

And then there are words—soft words, delicately dripping from her full, red lips. I hear them, but to me, they’re just the sound of a bird taking off from a windowsill.

P
eople say birds are a bad omen. But I’m not so sure because while the only bird I ever knew tore my world in two, I loved every single moment of it.

My name is Salem Ebenezer—or Eben, if you’re Savannah. Short e. Short e. And most of all, short for Ebenezer. And this is the story about me and Savannah Catesby. Savannah Elise Catesby, that is. Though, to me, she was always just
Vannah
.

I met Vannah when we were very young—just five years old. She had short, blond hair and soft green eyes. Though, as we grew older, her hair got longer and her eyes, darker and more mysterious.

I loved Vannah. I loved her for her unruly laugh and the way she made me feel. To her, I wasn’t the smallest and scrawniest boy in the first grade. To her, I was...me.

And I loved her because she would always pick me first for her kickball team. And I loved her for those times I forgot my lunch, and she shared hers with me. But most of all, I loved Vannah because she had this innate ability to make everyone around her feel loved.

But somewhere in the midst of junior high—in the midst of zits and a squeaky voice and an awkward way of getting around, both physically and in conversation, I changed—we changed. That was about the time I realized that I loved Vannah not only for the way she made me feel and the occasional ham and cheese sandwich, but also for our long talks under the stairs after school and the way her mouth moved when she laughed. And I fell in love with the way she ate peanut butter cups—from the inside out—and how she always knew when something was wrong...or new...or different.

And without me even realizing it, the hours turned into days, and the days, to years, and before either of us knew, I think, we were fifteen and in high school. And that was the first time, I think, that I noticed Vannah’s long, tan legs....and the precarious way my name rolled off her tongue...and how she made just pulling her hair back or signing her name in those long, drawn-out curves, somehow sexy.

And it was then that I realized I loved her for those things, too.

But still, for whatever reason—I can’t tell you—I never told her that. I never told Vannah that I loved our long talks or her long legs. Not right away anyway. In fact, it wasn’t until she had moved away and had come back for a summer, the year we both turned eighteen, that I finally got up the courage.

It was the summer of the Polaroid, and God must have taken pity on my oblivious self because he smiled down on me, and he gave me those three little words—and a second chance to tell her how I feel.

July 6, 2001
. That was the day that I finally realized that I not only loved Vannah for everything she was, but I, plain and simple, loved Vannah.

And I told her that. I told her that—that same day I realized it. On a soft night in the middle of Hogan’s slab, I told Savannah Catesby that I loved her. And I only remember the date because she said it back.

I’m twenty-three now. It’s July 12, 2007. I’m still in love with that little girl with the unruly laugh and the long, wild hair and the dark stare and the tireless heart. And I know she still loves me.

But now, she’s standing at the door, her dark green eyes slicing open the distance between her gaze and mine. And I’m just staring back at her. And three thoughts are all that are on my mind:

I love this girl.

I love this girl.

I love this girl.

She takes a breath. I hold mine. And with that, a silent thought slips into my cadence.

I love this girl.

I love this girl.

I love this girl.

Choose me.

Choose me.