2
Whitney
November hurricanes are rare, but they do sometimes happen. In fact, Hurricane Whitney hit Houston on the very weekend I was born. Mom was at the hospital when it lost power, and then they evacuated us. Mom was huffing and measuring the time between contractions while driving out of town.
She gave birth to me in the back of our family Tahoe on the side of the road. Dad caught me—he said he’d never been more terrified.
Mom said she should’ve known I’d have a tempestuous personality. Maybe she did. She named me Whitney after the hurricane, after all. So while the rest of my family has always been all sunshine and rainbows and happiness, I’ve always gravitated toward storm clouds, lightning, and gale-force winds.
Even so, my mom and stepdad were shocked when I told them I was getting a handgun. They were even more surprised when I told them I wanted a rifle. And when I started winning competitions—sharp-shooting, shotguns, and handguns—no one really understood it. At least when I ride and shoot from horseback, they get that. Sort of.
But no one understood when I said I was graduating with a Political Science degree—specializing in peace and conflict. I have no idea what I’m going to do with it, and they really don’t get that. The Archer-Brooks family’s nothing if not practical.
“I guess you can always come back here and help me with the horses,” Steve had said.
“You could go to law school with that,” Mom said. “It’s a good foundation for legal classes.”
“Or you could help us run the retreat,” Aunt Helen said. “All your attack training might help the visitors sleep easier.”
I’m sick of people patronizing me.
Even though I know they’re not the problem. They all fit in beautifully with one another. They all belong. I’m the odd one. I’m the square in a family full of circles.
I’m all sharp edges and snarling irritation amidst a sea of “I’m sorries,” and “oh, let me help yous.”
I’m the pea under the royal mattress.
I make everyone uncomfortable. But riding in the car with Leonid? I feel like he might actually get me. “Thanks for the ride,” I say.
“And the brand-new truck,” Izzy hisses.
I suppress my smile. She’s so much like our mom without even realizing it. “Yeah, that too. A new truck will be awesome, you know, for the not-breaking down thing. But also, that awesome toolbox in the back’s going to be perfect for all my guns.”
“Good grief,” Izzy says. “I’m so happy to know that the box I had custom made for saddles is going to be filled instead with weapons.”
Yep. Exactly no one gets me.
When my old yellow truck backfires, again, Izzy grumbles.
“I know it’s not the most comfortable way to ride back to Salt Lake,” I say.
“But you wouldn’t have fit in the back of the Mercedes,” Leonid says.
“And neither would all of my stuff,” Izzy says.
“Which we could have sent back with my people,” Leonid says. “Along with the boxes and boxes of things you’re worried you won’t be able to buy in Russia, like peanut butter and Nutella.”
“It’s a miracle your people got this old bucket to run at all,” I say, “especially with all the errands Izzy kept sending them on.”
“I like having people to do things for me,” Izzy says. “So sue me.”
“Diplomatic immunity,” Leonid says.
Izzy smiles.
“As for the truck, we Russians are pretty good at getting old, crappy cars to run,” Leonid says. “Russia’s doing much better now, but for years, almost all our cars were crappy. We either had to keep them running or walk.” He’s a good sport about things, though I suppose laughing at yourself is sort of an age-old comedy schtick.
“I still can’t believe you found a guy like this attractive, Izzy,” I say. But really, I’m covering up my jealousy. After she spent two years dating the world’s biggest loser, I haven’t found myself jealous of Izzy much at all.
