“They said the storm would pass,” I whisper out loud to make it real.
It’s Sunday night, and Rhys hasn’t been around since Black Friday afternoon, when he hurt Steve, the delivery guy. He was here, then goneto work, then here again in pieces, in glimpses.
The rain started in violent lashes against the windows hours ago. I’m trying to hold it together. But I’m failing.
The building shakes as thunder splits the sky, raw and vicious. I flinch so hard from the next boom that rattles the windowpanes, that I hurl the phone across the bed.
It bounces to the floor and lands face down.
Stupid liars!
It’s just sound waves.The rational part of me whispers.
I studied graphs and charts. “It’s just air compressing. I know this. Iknowthis.”
The other part of me is screaming:We’re all gonna die!
A knock at the door jolts me upright, the sound of a fist on metal much different from the slam of air and electricity against concrete.
“Fallon?” Rhys hollers for me.
I press both hands over my mouth. I don’t want him to see me spiraling like this.
“Fallon, I know you’re in there.” His voice is steady and attempts to be soothing even if he sounds wired. “I’mback from work, and I just want to make sure you’re all right.”
“I’m fine,” I shout, the words strangled from my throat.
I’m not fine. I’m spiraling.
“Prove it.”
A challenge…
I slide off the bed on trembling legs and stop at the door. “See? I’m okay.”
“I don’t see anything. Open the door, love.”
Lowering to the floor, I sit with my back against it. Cold steel presses between my shoulder blades, grounding me to that sensation and not the fear coursing through me.
“I’m fine,” I say again softer.
After a pause, Basil’s voice floats from the kitchen window.‘Oh, let him in already. You’re NOT fine.’
I squeeze my eyes shut. “Traitor.”
A shriek of wind claws at the building like it wants to turn it upside down and shake us all out like grains of salt. The rain slams my windows like angry fists.
“I checked the weather,” I mumble. “The air pressure is high. The humidity is down, temps are dropping. It’s a classic storm buildup, sure. But look at the wind vectors. They shifted thirty degrees east. Which means?—”
“Fallon…”
“The nor’easter isnothitting us,” I yell. “It’s going to break off over the ocean.”
“Those bastards lie, love.” He jiggles the doorknob.
Something crashes in the distance. The metallic sound of a fence has me on my feet. The Chrysanthemums for the market and the late fall herbs for winter are freezing.
After shoving my feet into my gardening boots, I yank open the door.
