“Just singing and dancing in the rain…” I sang weakly, my teeth chattering, trying to keep my brain occupied.
But Alaska came anyway.
The cold rain and the endless walk awoke memories of forcedmidnight marches through black forests, the counselors berating us for being worthless while we stumbled half-dead from lack of sleep and cold.
By the time I got to the shack, tears mingled with the rain on my face. I dumped the bags on the wooden table and lit the lantern with shaking hands. No sign of Ronan or Miller.
Because of course not, dumbass. In this storm?
But Miller said we’d meet, and he kept his promises too. I blew on my fingers, determined to wait it out. But PTSD racked my body with cold as much as the storm. I couldn’t let them see me like this, sodden and shivering and on the verge of breaking down.
They’re your friends. They’ll want to help.
Even if I believed that, the rain wasn’t letting up. No one in theirright mindwould make that trek in weather like this.
With fear curling my stomach, I pushed myself out of the shelter of the shack and back into the storm.
The return trip felt like it took ten times as long with memories of Alaska whipping at me over every step. The Uber I’d called while huddled against a utility building came mercifully quick, the female driver’s eyes widening with concern as I climbed in, drenching the back seat.
“Honey, what happened?”
I shook my head, my jaw stiff with cold. “Sorry about the water.”
“Don’t be sorry. What do you need, baby? What can I do?”
I hunched tighter, willing the tears back with everything I had.
“Take me home.”
***
My phone chimed a text just as I stepped inside the guesthouse, dripping water all over the floor. With trembling fingers, I pulled it from my pocket. Miller.
Where are you?
My house.
You dropped the food and then left?
I said I would, I typed.
Why’d you leave?
In case you haven’t noticed, it’s a fucking hurricane out there.
The shack is fine, Miller wrote.Not even a leak. Come back. Or we can come to you?
The urge to go to Miller and Ronan—people I’d lay down my life for—nearly sent me back out. But my reflection in the mirror over the fireplace was a horror show. A drowned rat stared back, haggard, with dark circles around red-rimmed eyes that were lit with fear. I couldn’t go back out into the storm of memories. Not again. And if my friends saw me, they’d want to know why I looked like this. I’d ruin their Christmas with my fucked-up past that trailed me wherever I went, reminding me that a normal life was always out of reach.
I’m not feeling up to it, I texted.
Bullshit. Get back here. Or give me your address.
I imagined them lugging all that shit I’d bought through the rain. For me.
Another text came in.You went through all that trouble with the food. Come back.
Another.We didn’t want to spoil it, but since you’re being an asshole, we got you a space heater. You’ll be warm. I promise.
