“Yeah,” I murmured, entranced by the way his gaze danced over my face. “Thanks for your help today, Rhett.”
My pulse thumped violently at the base of my throat. I wanted to ask him if he knew we’d met before. I wanted to ask if I’d ever see him again. But the words refused to come out, because deep down, I was too scared to hear the answer.
His face fell as I stepped away and unlocked my door.
As I jostled the knob open, Rhett’s words were so low that I almost missed them: “See you later, Georgie.”
I hurried inside as a wave of nausea hit me like a truck full of bricks. Easton immediately began whining and shoving his face into my palm, and I slipped down to the floor, welcoming the distraction. The lights flickered again. Easton flopped into my lap and trembled.
Later, as I lit another candle for the living room, I couldn’t shake the truth seeping into the edges of my mind.
When I woke up, it would be the day of the Summer’s End Festival.
Either Bluebell Cove would be sodden and flooded, or I would be right, and a decades-long town tradition would be preserved.
No pressure.
Chapter Thirty-One
When I woke up Sunday morning, my neck cricked into an unfortunate position, Easton hogged most of the blanket, and one of my legs dangled off the couch. I rolled to the floor in a heap, slowly rising to my knees with a groan. For a single, blissful second, I had no idea why I chose to sleep in the living room.
Then my eyes caught on the burnt out candles on my coffee table, and my chest immediately tightened.
I planned on staying up most of the night—the idea of waking up to a tree branch flying through the window being less than favorable for me. I glanced at the floor, then across the room, and let out a sigh of relief. The house seemed fine, but there was no telling what kind of state Main Street was in.
Easton yawned and stretched, blinking at me through the dark.
I sucked in a sharp breath and stood, approaching my curtain as if I was a treasure hunter and the fabric might be booby trapped. Then, in a swift motion, I ripped them asideand slid the window open. Through the slats of the shutters, I expected to hear ceaseless rain pounding into veritable lakes formed on the pavement.
Instead, only the sound of a breeze rustling through leaves, birds chirping, and—faintly—a wind chime’s melody. My pulse raced as I hurried to unlatch the shutters and swing them wide.
Something between a laugh and a squeal tore from my mouth.
The morning light, golden and warm and brilliant, streaked through a fluffy cloud and shone on my skin. I stretched my arms outside and relished the cool gust that erupted goosebumps all over my body. Nothing was quite like the fresh, salty air after a storm.
My fingers trembled slightly as I scavenged for my phone in a pile of pillows and searched for the weather. I couldn’t let myself get too hopeful before I confirmed—
No rain on the horizon. The giddy, nonsensical sound I made couldn’t be helped.
Easton watched with latent interest as I flew through the house: I locked the window back up, made a couple eggs on the stove—it turned out the internet was good for something—and scarfed them down. His curiosity peeked as I bounded up the stairs, and he quickly trailed behind after flopping from the couch.
He blinked at me from my bed as I wrenched my closet open and began tossing clothes to the floor. In all the commotion prepping Bluebell Cove for the storm, I’d forgotten about clean clothes for the festival.
My hands found my favorite jeans at the bottom of a pile, the material a tiny bit stiff and smelling like the ocean, and my face flushed. I wore them when Rhett and I kissed on the beach. Part of me never wanted to wash this pair, knowing it might be one of the only tangible memories of him I’d be able to keep.
Tugging those on, I exchanged my hoodie for a large, chunky sweater I’d thrifted and rolled the extra-long sleeves to my wrists. It was olive green, and one of the softest things I owned—aside from those pink fuzzy sweats. I wrestled my hair into a high ponytail and decided not to bother with anything else.
After Easton’s walk, I hurried toward Main Street.
Closer to the shore than my house, the storm could’ve incurred twice as much damage. I swallowed the nervous lump in my throat, flashes of downed trees across Bluebell Lane and drowned plants in Marigold’s playing through my mind. Pausing at the corner, I squeezed my eyes shut for a second and sucked in a sharp breath before rounding it.
What I saw could’ve knocked me clean off my feet.
Main Street was in full swing. Shopkeepers hurried from door to door, prying boards off windows and hauling away branches and debris together. Tears threatened as I took it all in. These were the people I’d once been too afraid to ask for help.Thiswas Bluebell Cove.
I wiped my eyes with my sleeve and hurried across the road, where Mrs. Henderson shuffled down the street with a garbage bag and furrowed eyebrows, wielding a grabber tool like a sword.
“Georgie!” She greeted me, especially bright that morning.
