He said it was just for a little while. He said it was for the sake of the gossip.
Maybe he realized he made a mistake, and this is him letting me down easy.
My breath hitches with a sob, and I let out a sad, frustrated noise, slapping my book down on the coffee table so I can reach for a tissue. Grey tried to tell me this would happen. He tried to resist, but I pushed and shoved and made promises I didn't know I couldn't keep. I know without question that he wouldn't hurt me on purpose. And I think he knew he'd probably hurt me on accident.
Guess he was right about that too.
Scout looks up when I blow my nose, and I pick her up, nuzzling into her neck.
"This sucks," I mutter into her fur.
A peal of thunder nearly shoots me out of my seat, the lights flickering, then dying. It's dark, quiet other than the driving rain and whistling wind, and another strange, clicking sound…are the windowpanes rattling? Quiet fear slips over me as I watch, listen.
Another flash of light, a crack of thunder, and the house shivers and shakes so violently, I yelp, clutching Scout to me. The sound of a snap so sharp and loud that for a terrifying moment, it drowns out the storm. Then the vicious splintering of wood, splitting my ears. Something slams into the house hard enough that the furniture jumps, knocking books and vases off shelves and onto the floor. Scout scratches at me to get away, the storm louder now, the wind--I can feel the wind. I'm on my feet, and then I'm running toward the hall searching for the sound, skidding to a halt in front of the guest room's open door.
Through the busted windows, tree branches jut into the room, bringing with them the rain and wind and splintered wood and glass. I freeze in my panic, staring at the damage. What do I do? It's huge, with too many branches, too much of it in the house. Is the roof safe? Is the wall safe? Water spills off the tree, rides the rushing wind, and I decide that's what I have to deal with first.
I take off for the back door, stuffing my feet in my rain boots before running out to the shed for tarps, buckets, twine, rope. Then I'm back inside, clothes soaked and half blind from the rain, sprinting into the room, threading the twine through the tarp grommets. If I tie it to the curtain rod, will it hold? Should I do this outside? No, too dangerous. I drag the short ladder I used to hang the curtains up to the window and climb up, the wind tearing the tarp from my hands. I chase it down, climb back up,hands trembling as I try to tie it to the base of the curtain rod, second guessing myself for too long--another creak and snap, a boom outside, the branch in the house shifting with it. Some of the remaining glass bursts from the frame, flying toward me too suddenly--all I can do is turn my head and raise my hands. I barely feel the slivers of glass fly by, but I know I'm cut, and a bunch of times.
"Molly!"
My head whips to the sound of my name over the storm. Grey is tall and solid and terrified and running to me, and then his arms are around me, and then my feet are off the ground. I only notice when they're on the ground again and his hands cup my face, searching me with wild, terrified eyes. He takes my hands and arms, finding the cuts. I see the panic in his eyes when they meet mine.
"I'm okay! I'm okay--I don't know how to--"
When I look to the window, so does he, then snaps into action. I watch it click together in his brain. He shouts directions, and together we fashion a makeshift window covering around the branches.
"It's all we can do tonight,"he eventually shouts, dragging me out of the room and shutting the door. We're panting and soaked. "Get Scout. You can't stay here."
I nod, too overwhelmed to say anything other than, "Help me find her."
Together, we get her out from under my bed and into her carrier, grab her litter box and food, and rush out the door and into his truck before I have time to think.
The quiet when the doors are shut shocks me. The only sound is the rush of rain and our heavy breaths before the truck starts. Wide eyed, my lips part when I see the massive branch leaning on the house and the tree that fell just next to it, its roots pulledup, taking a chunk of earth with it so dense, it's an eight-foot wall of dirt and tangled roots.
For a second neither of us speaks--I'm staring at the tree and he's busy backing out, navigating in the blinding rain, around fallen trees and branches and debris.
"Are you okay?" he asks, slowing down to roll over a branch he couldn't avoid, his eyes on the road. His voice is rough, tight.
"I'm okay. Th-thank you. Thank you for coming."
"I'm sorry I wasn't there. I'm sorry I didn't deal with that tree--"
"No, you told me it needed to be done and I dragged my feet calling the tree guy, it's my fault--"
"It's not your fault. None of this is your fault."
He says it like a man tortured, and I know he's not talking about the house. I swallow hard, look down, find my arms cut up and bleeding.
"Oh," I breathe, holding them out over Scout's crate so I can see them. They don't hurt but I know they're going to, and I think they're all superficial. My palms are nicked up, a few slices on my fingers that I know are going to suck.
Grey sucks in a breath when he sees them, but by the time I look, his eyes are fixed on the road, his fists tight around the wheel and jaw locked. The rise and fall of his chest is somehow both deep and fast.
I cup his arm. "I'm okay," I say again, gently, watch the knot of his throat bob. He chances a quick glance at me, then flips the console up and pulls me across the bench and into him. I'm not even sure how he does it, and without touching my arms or hands, just a gigantic hand around my waist and a tug, and my cheek is pressed against his hot, wet chest, and I'm breathing for the first time in almost a full week.
Tears jam my throat, but they don't have time to drown me--we're pulling into his drive and running through the rain oncemore, barreling through the side door and into the kitchen. We pause here to take off our shoes, and I set down Scout's crate and open the door, reaching in to pet her and soothe her. Grey is already gone, disappearing into the dark house. The sound of the rain rushing outside comforting and soft, disconnected completely from the chaos it's responsible for, now that I'm safe inside. I'm able to coax Scout out, and she tentatively looks around. So do I.
The kitchen is quaint and old and cozy, the features old enough to be original, like the cabinets and floors, the trim and the wooden butcher block countertops. I wander deeper into the dark house, to the edge of the living room. I can't see it all, but what I find is practical. Masculine. Comfortable. But there are little signs, little hints, little places where his grandmother still lives.
