I pull out my phone and unlock it, quickly realizing that I do need to get back to my sisters and that calling my grandma isn’t the worst idea in the whole world. In fact, at this point, I think we need all the help we can get.
Maybe I should get the coven out of Texas up here to help, too. Doesn’t hurt that I wouldn’t mind seeing my best friend.
Caleb puts his finger on my lip and tugs it out of my mouth.
“Don’t bite on those. I’ve got a soft spot for them,” he says.
That makes me laugh and I click my text messages, only for the last message to still be:
Hazel: Did you bone him, Ivy?
“Wow, they got straight to the point, didn’t they?” Caleb says, sounding infinitely amused by this. “Glad to know they’re rooting for us.”
“Oh my God,” I mutter, feeling my face go completely hot and red.
“I’m not gonna tell them anything,” I say. “That’s none of their business.”
“Oh, it’s definitely none of their business,” Caleb says. “It’d be real weird if you’re going back and reporting everything to them, but I’m glad they’re invested. It’s nice to know your sisters want to be my sisters.”
He could not be any smugger, and I gape at him for a long moment.
This is the second time this morning he’s brought up us getting married.
“You know, some people think playing hard to get is a good thing,” I tell him.
“Oh, it’s not,” Caleb says. “I’m never going to play hard to get with you. I’m not going to make it any harder on myself than it has to be. I’ve told you what I want, and here I am wanting it.”
By the time he’s finished that little speech, we’re at the end of the boardwalk and Silverlight Shore stretches in front of us, all cobblestone streets and picturesque Victorian architecture.
“Oh no,” I say.
Gunner, at my feet, whines.
Awnings are torn off. Shutters flung into the middle of the road. It’s mostly not flooded anymore, but there’s a line of debris and seaweed at about knee to hip height along the shops closest to the boardwalk.
People in work clothes and neon-colored vests work together, pulling debris and ruined items into the back of trucks to be disposed of or recycled.
“I’m going to call my grandma,” I say. “Let’s get to Sugar & Salt, then we’ll come back and help.”
“You got it,” Caleb says, all trace of humor gone from his face.
He also pulls out his phone, but I’m not paying attention to who or what he’s calling as I push the contact button for my grandmother and hold my breath, really hoping that I’m not disappointing her by asking for help.
The phone rings.
And rings.
And rings.
We pass by more and more shops that are in different states of disrepair and ruin. Nothing seems completely bad, but I know from experience that the flooding on the outside sometimes is nowhere near as bad as the damage that can be on the inside.
My shop’s not quite as low level as these, but that doesn’t mean Sugar & Salt hasn’t seen some serious damage.
As the phone rings and I wait for my grandmother to pick up, I go through my mental Rolodex of where all of my ingredients and equipment are stored. I don’t have many things that are stored at a low level, but if flooding was bad enough that means there could be serious mold reparation needed. Sheetrock taken out. Supplies ruined. Food ruined.
I might have to shut down my online store until I can get everything back up and running.
That’s why we have insurance, but who knows.
