LoveLines (22 page)

“Yes,” I replied. “And they’re total
ly stupid and unsafe.”

“What are they?”

“Excuses to get plastered and do dumb shit,” I replied. “People throw them during the storm. And then they get drunk and go stand outside like a bunch of imbeciles.”

“What?”

“That’s what they do. It’s pretty common that at least one person dies.”

Reece shook his head. “College students?”

“Oh, you’d be surprised. Last time it was a 65-year-old man.”

We jumped
as a tree cracked and slammed onto the road. It made a monstrous noise, and for a split second I thought it was going to crash into my house. I was fairly confident we’d be okay—my house is four-sided brick—but the roof was an altogether different story. It was the one weak point, like Smaug’s missing scale.

“Bailey?
”

I grabbed the chips and my beer. “Come on.”

The power flickered on and off. The wind screamed—high-pitched and angry. The noise outside grew louder, whipping about in a frenzy and finally knocking the power out for good. I grabbed the flashlight on my nightstand. We’d need it later.

There’s really no slow build up to a hurricane. Once it makes landfall, everything moves fast.
I know that makes no sense since the actual storm reduces significant speed when it hits land, but trust me: you don’t feel that way when the water comes. One minute there’s stillness while the storm is out to sea. In the next minute there’s destruction as soon as her toe hits the sandy shore. I knew the water would move fast. There was no way my house (or anyone’s, for that matter) could avoid flooding.

Another crash outside. Screeching and buzzing—like metal tearing down a chalkboard.
For a second I thought we were in the midst of a tornado instead.

“Up,” I ordered, and Reece and I climbed into bed.

“They really go outside in this?” he asked.

“No. Right before.
”

“Are they crazy?
”

“Yes.
”

“
Are we gonna die?”

“Reece, why on earth would you ask me that?
”

He just looked at me.

“We’ll be fine,” I assured him. “I mean, we’ll have a hell of a lot of work to do starting tomorrow, but everything will be fine.”

“Bailey!” Reece cried, pointing to my bedroom door.

It was already starting—the water creeping under the door and rolling along my hardwoods.

“Fucking sandbags,” I mumbled.
“What are they good for?”

“Bailey, how high will it go?” Reece asked.
“I can’t remember.”

He
spent two weeks absorbing every little detail about this storm, learning more about hurricanes than even I knew. But I’d ridden out Category 2’s several times in my life. And the experience was far different from book knowledge. I knew he was alarmed, watching the water slink in, but I understood elevation and storm surge. I’d witnessed the surge many times. That was why I had Reece help me put all my most precious pieces of furniture two feet off the ground. I was almost positive the water wouldn’t reach that high.

“Eat your chips,
hon,” I said absently.

“How far?” he insisted.

“Reece, I don’t know,” I admitted, watching the water rush under the door. No more creeping. More like pouring in. “Fuck,” I whispered.

“‘Fuck’? Why ‘fuck?’
What the fuck does that mean?”

“Reece
, calm down. I promise it’s fine. I said ‘fuck’ because I’m worried about my hardwoods buckling.”

He stared at me in disbelief. “Your hardwoods? What if we get stuck on your roof?!”

“That’s not gonna happen. The storm isn’t strong enough.” But I kept my eyes glued to the water, pouring pouring rushing pouring higher higher. A foot high. That’s okay. The eye is coming. That’s the peak. Doesn’t get any worse than that. We’ll see the water recede after.

More water, and Reece
tossed the bowl of chips off the bed and grabbed me forcefully, pulling me close against his chest. I was alarmed at his rapid heartbeat, but then I reminded myself that Reece had never ridden out a hurricane in a house that was collecting more and more water by the minute. One and a half feet. Fucking one-story house. Fucking beach. Why the fuck did I live by the beach? I placed my hand over his heart, willing it to slow, trying to convey without words that I’d never let anything happen to him. He was frightened. I was angry. He thought about catastrophe. I thought about cost.

Silence. Dead, dark silence. It settled in an instant. Eerie. Still.
We were all boarded up. I couldn’t see the sun shine, but I knew she was shining. And I knew not to trust her. I could relay some good news, though. Maybe ease the tension. But Reece beat me to it.

“Look, honey,”
he said, pointing to the water. It was no longer rising. “Worst of it is over.”

I peered over the side of the bed.

“Really?” I asked, playing dumb. And just like that, we switched roles. I let him do all the encouraging and comforting because he’s a man, and men need to feel like men from time to time.

“Yep. Just keep watching the water. You’ll see it go down some.”

I nodded.

“We’re in the eye,” he explained, and I smiled against his chest. “Don’t let it fool you. We’ve still got the other side of the storm to deal with, but we’re
gonna be okay.”

“I trust you,” I said.

He held me tighter as the wind picked up again, whistling at first. Then it turned into a mournful cry. And then it graduated to a howling scream. I listened for his rapid heartbeat, but it was slow and steady instead, beating out confidence, not fear. We stared at the water, watching it hover at one and a half feet before it went down a fraction—barely noticeable. But we saw.

“Thank God,” I whispered.

Elevation. Storm surge. Wind speed. You can know all these things in your head, but when you’re watching the water rise higher and higher in your house, knowledge doesn’t matter. I won’t pretend that I wasn’t frightened that the water might keep on climbing. I won’t pretend I didn’t think about an escape plan—scrambling to the roof if necessary. How we would stay safe exposed to the wind that beat about the trees like they were flower stems.

The water receded another inch or so before it stayed level. There was nothing for us to do but go to sleep. My bed was safe, dry, and warm, and at the mo
ment, it was all that mattered.

***

I looked out onto my back yard, standing in two feet of water, tears streaming. Reece walked up behind me and wrapped his arms around my waist.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered.

I wiped my face. “I sh-shouldn’t be c-crying. I kn-knew to expect it.”

“Why shouldn’t you cry
? This is your oasis,” Reece replied.

It was my oasis. Now it was just a junk heap of cracked pave
rs, shredded plants, and splintered wood. My pergola split in two—the one I built with Dad. My outdoor furniture was spared because we’d moved it into the garage before the storm. The stuff we couldn’t move? Annihilated.

“P-people d—” I took a deep breath and tried again. “People died. I
sh-shouldn’t cry over my p-plants.”

Reece turned me gently to face him. “Hey, they’re not just plants, Bailey. They’re a part of you. They represent your hard work, your nurturing spirit. They represent all the time
you spent planning and creating something beautiful. Don’t discount them. Don’t trivialize them. Yes, people died. Yes, people lost their houses. Yes, this town has been destroyed, but what happened to you matters, too.”

I nodded.

“Everyone’s pain is different,” Reece went on. “I don’t like when people compare. I don’t like when people marginalize their feelings because they think they’re not allowed to have them. Someone will always have a tougher go than you. Does that mean you’re not allowed to feel hurt? To be sad?”

He kissed my forehead and walked to the shed. Or what was left of it.

“What are you doing?” I croaked.

“Seeing what’s salvageable
,” he replied.

“Everything’s destroyed,” I argued
.

He fished around in the debris and held up a shovel. The handle was missing, but it could still work.

“Not everything.”

There wasn’t much we could do until the water receded
. We picked through what we could and set everything up on tables to dry out. Wilmington stood still for a week. No school. No work. In several parts of the city, people navigated schooners and canoes down the streets. All was quiet. The traffic lights didn’t work, but no one drove anywhere. Storm debris floated down the roads like driftwood: plastic bags, food containers, dirty diapers. A dead cat. I cried all over again when I saw the cat. Reece and I discovered it on a walk to Ace Hardware. We took a chance it was open only to learn that no one was home.

The phone companies were quick to put us all back in touch, and I called my parents to see how they fared. House still standing. Minimal flooding. Ever
yone fine.

“Please come over,” Dad pleaded. “I want us all together.”

“Dad, we can’t even drive,” I said into the phone.

“I’ll come get you,” he offered. He had a small paddle boat.

“No, we’ll be fine. I promise we’ll be over as soon as the water recedes,” I replied.

“
Do you need anything?” he asked.

I shook my head. “We’re okay.”

“All right, Puddin’ Pop,” Dad replied. “Be safe.”

I smiled and told him I loved him before hanging up.

My dad was always like this right after a major storm. He wanted his family right by his side. I already knew to pack a bag for myself and Reece once we were able to visit my parents’ place. We wouldn’t be returning home the same day. Or the day after. Dad would make us stay. Dad would make us all hang out and play board games and watch TV together and anything else he could think of that required us to be in the same room at the same time. Nicki wouldn’t argue. Neither would Mom. And that’s because secretly we wanted to be together. Secretly, we were all fine with it.

***

Bailey navigated the roads carefully as she drove herself and Reece to her parents’ house. She explained that they were no Norman Rockwell picture-perfect unit, but they were family nonetheless, and she was offering to share. He grew hopeful that this phase in their relationship would lead to something bigger. Something like the two of them living together. They practically did now, but he still had his own place. And he didn’t like it. He liked Bailey’s, with her galvanized tin milk jugs and perennial gardens. Hers was the home he never had.

“Just ignore my sister,” Bailey said
as she pulled into the driveway.

“Now why would I do that?” Reece asked.

“Because she’s annoying,” Bailey replied. “Oh, and speaking of my sister, you wanna be my date to her wedding next June?”

“Sure, but who am I
gonna hang out with? Won’t you be busy all day doing wedding stuff?”

Bailey pushed through the front door, and Reece followed.

“No,” she lied.

“No?”

She watched her sister round the corner.

“Yes,” she whispered
reluctantly. “And it’ll be awful. Just never mind.”

Reece opened his mouth to speak, but Nicki cut him off.

“Soooo, this is the famous Reece Powell,” she said, extending her hand.

Reece shook it. “I’m famous, huh?”

“I don’t know what that means,” Bailey muttered.

“It means my sister talks about you whenever she possibly can,” Nicki replied brightly.

It was a flat-out lie. Bailey never offered any details about her relationship with Reece.

Reece blushed from the compliment. “She does?”

Bailey shrugged. What the hell was going on? And in an instant, her guard flew up.

Nicki led them into the kitchen where Bailey introduced Reece to her mother first, followed by her father.

“We’re so happy to finally meet you,” Mrs. Mitchell said pleasantly. “It’s about time we know this gentleman Bailey talks about.”

There it
was again! Another straight-up lie. Bailey glanced at her father who gave her a wink. Oh, okay. Just play along. Evidently they
were
the Norman Rockwell picture-perfect family. And this was all for Reece’s benefit why?

She found out later that night
.

“Reece, come here,” Bailey’s mom ordered. She sported a huge smile and outstretched arms.

Reece walked over to Mrs. Mitchell and let her wrap him in a hug.

“We’re so happy to meet you!” she said.
“And no ‘Mrs. Mitchell,’ mister. It’s ‘Georgie,’ okay?”

Reece grinned. “Okay.” He had no idea why Bailey said all that stuff about her “messed up” family. These people were amazing—the kind of family you see highlighted in Hallmark Channel movies around Christmastime.