She barely acts like I’m there, not making eye contact, focused on the task. “There’s a few leaks, no big deal. I’ll put the tarps under the buckets and we’ll be good.”
Scoffing, I say, “No big deal? You were almost airborne with that tarp out there. And let’s not forget you almost falling on your ass, crackingyour head open, with your wet shoes.” My tone is sharper than I mean. “Did you call me and I didn’t answer or something?”
I try to make sense of her doing this on her own. Especially when I’m right next door.
“I can handle a leak or two. Didn’t want to bother you.”
Something tightens in my chest at that. Not anger, exactly—something closer to regret. Like she decided somewhere along the way that needing help from me was asking for too much.
I rub my hand over my face, still damp with rain. “Next time,” I urge, softer now, “you ask.”
She looks up at me, rain clinging to her lashes, jacket plastered to her shoulders. “Okay,” she says quietly.
I look past her then and see a few buckets spaced across the gym floor, water tapping steadily into plastic.
“You asking for help isn’t bothering me,” I insist, more to myself than to her.
I take the tarp from her hands before she can argue, fold it tighter, already turning toward the doors. “Where’s it coming in?”
She points, surprised, and I head that way, rain still thundering overhead.
It comes easily, stepping in like this. And with it comes the realization that sticks—I don’t want her carrying things alone because she’s afraid of asking me.
Bythetimewefinish getting buckets and tarps set up inside, it’s clear the storm hasn’t let up.
We push through the doors and I stop short. Water is already creeping across the road in front of the rec center, pooling where it shouldn’t be, swallowing the curb line completely. The rain turns the asphalt into a moving sheet, reflecting flashes of lightning like it’s alive.
The rec center sits low. My place—the summer house—is farther up, perched on a small rise that suddenly feels a lot more intentional than aesthetic.
Sadie pulls her hood tighter and glances toward her car. “I should probably head home while I can.” She pulls her keys out of her pocket.
I turn to her, disbelief crawling through my chest. “You’re kidding.”
“What do you mean?”
“There’s flooding. You’re not driving through that.”
She pauses. “It’s not that far.”
“That’s not the point,” I argue, sharper than I mean to.
She hesitates, clearly uncomfortable, then says, “I don’t really want to stay here.”
I scrub a hand over my face, irritation flaring—not at her, but at the fact that I even have to say this.
“You’re not staying here,” I say flatly. “And you’re not driving.”
She looks at me, rain plastering her hair to her jacket, eyes searching like she’s trying to figure out the least inconvenient option.
I sigh heavily. “For the second time tonight, let me remind you… my place is next door.” I gesture towards the house, my words sarcastic and annoyed—exactly how I meant them.
Her eyebrows lift. “Colson—”
“I’m not arguing with you about this. Driving through flooded streets isn’t safe, especially with a bunch of tourists who are doing god only knows what. Now, don’t make me carry you.” I gesture in front of me, wanting her to move, as the rain continues to fall, cool on my skin.
Thunder cracks overhead before a strike of lightning quickly follows, close enough that she flinches. Sadie exhales slowly, resignation mixing with relief. “Okay. Fine.”
I nod once and follow her as soon as she starts making the way toward the house. I’m annoyed that I had to offer. More annoyed that she was about to do her second careless thing in a matter of minutes.
