Promise me you’ll call if you need anything
I will. I promise.
Jocelyn
Of all the ways to die, heartbreak is the only one you can live through.
—My Therapist
After promising Asher I’ll tell him if I need him, I set down my phone and sink onto my couch. This is the smart thing. I can’t continue to rely on him for everything. I can brave this—my greatest fear—by myself. I’m strong. This hurricane is predicted to be mild, and I prepared for it. Water. Food. Easy peasy.
First, survive the hurricane. Second, repair the fissure between me and Asher. What that repair involves is still a bit foggy. Is it releasing him to go fall in love with someone else? Is it leaping onto him with both arms and legs and never letting go?
Who could say?
Not me, and definitely not while 90 percent of my headspace is wondering if I’ll be dead in the next twenty-four hours. Storm tracking while I distract myself with my latest novel, I make it through most of the evening without losing my cool. Regular updates to Ali help me relax, though she’s vocally irritated at my decision to remain in mydeath trap of a houseinstead of shacking up with the boy who owns a brand-new Cat-5-proof home.
The news is obnoxious. The idiot anchors keep cutting to onsite reporters out in the thick of it, standing in abandoned streets while sheets of sideways rain pelt them. Even a few hours ago, the wind was strong enough to knock them off their feet.
Morons, the lot of them.
After nine, I give up on the novel and call Ali, but it doesn’t fully ease my nerves. We chat about everything except the weather while I try desperately to forget the potential destruction heading my way. Why did I do this to myself? Am I secretly a masochist? That’s the only logical explanation, right?
The jitters have me nauseated, and the thought of food makes me gag. Someone has taken a hand mixer to my insides and scrambled everything out of place. My heart is in my throat. My stomach in my feet. The horrendous assault of the wind outside makes me cringe, and I do the toddler thing where I press my palms over my ears to make it stop.
I am the world’s biggest dumbass.
The storm worsens close to midnight, so I take to my bed with earplugs. Block it out and it doesn’t exist, right? Trying to sleep during a hurricane in a wood-framed house with no shutters is perhaps the hardest—and stupidest—thing I’ve ever done. Each gust of hundred-plus mile per hour wind slams against my home like a freight train, rattling thevulnerable single-pane windows. Debris peppers the siding every so often, making me flinch despite the earplugs.
Category 2 sounds so weak. Two out of five? This hurricane would get a D in math class. But around 1:00 a.m., I finally admit to myself I should have stayed with Asher. My house rocks with each wind gust, and the minced ends of my overstimulated nerves recoil at every thump. Lying in my bed in the wee hours of the morning, staring at my ceiling, I own up to my mistakes. I shouldn’t have listened when they said it wouldn’t hit us. That’s exactly what my parents did.
It’s what the majority of people do. Ignore the warnings. Play with fire.
Hours pass while I suppress the rising panic.
I’ll be fine. This is fine.
A bang crashes above the roar of the storm, and my ceiling fan stills. The dim night-light from the bathroom disappears. The cool air from the vent in the floor stops.
Power’s out.
Night has barely given way to an approaching stormy sunrise, so the sudden darkness envelops me. I sit up in bed. The covers pool around my waist. Fingers and toes cold, face hot, I swing out of bed. My phone at my bedside table lights up when I grab it.
A series of emergency alerts glow over my screen.
National Weather Service: A HURRICANE WARNING is in effect for this area for dangerous and damaging winds. Urgently complete efforts to protect life and property. Have food, water, cash, fuel, and medications for 3+ days.
National Weather Service: A STORM SURGE WARNING is in effect for this area for the danger of life-threatening flooding. Urgently complete efforts to protect life and property. Follow evacuation orders if given for this area to avoid drowning or being cut off from emergency services.
EMERGENCY ALERT: Your county has issued a mandatory evacuation for flood zones A, B, C. Emergency services have been suspended. Please leave the area immediately.
What the hell? What happened in the few hours I’ve been trying to sleep? And why didn’t my phone make a sound?
With a single bar of signal, I open the local news website. The storm has grown and slowed. Now upgraded to a Category 5, Franklin’s turned his course dramatically. The bastard is close and heading straight for me. The storm surge has already started.
Fuck. I scurry from my bed.
Another loud crack rocks my house while I scramble to put on clothes and sturdy shoes. Above me, the ceiling creaks. My gaze lifts right as the plaster splinters apart and the giant oak from my front yard rips through my bedroom.
