“So come stay with me,” he says.
Hope blossoms in my chest, the prettiest flower to ever exist. “Can I?”
“Yes. I’ve got impact windows, a new roof and a whole-house generator.”
A growl rises in my throat. “This is why I should’ve bought a new build instead of renting this shanty.”
“That’s what I said that time your bathtub knob broke.”
As soon as the words leave his mouth, I erupt into laughter. We’d been at the beach and had drunkenly stumbled into my house to eat pizza and crash. Sweaty and sandy, I went to take a shower, but when I turned the faucet, it broke in the ON position.
We triedeverything. Wrenches. Hammers. Prayers. Eventually, Asher succumbed to scooping water out of the tub andpouring it into the toilet and sink while I begged an emergency plumber topleasecome fast.
Neither of us thought to turn off the main water valve, nor could we stop laughing as water sloshed over the ancient beige and blue four-by-four tiles in my bathroom.
Thirty minutes later, the plumber arrived and fixed the whole thing, eyeing us as if we were errant children. Now, holding the phone to my ear, I’m picturing the grumpy dude’s face and cracking up all over again. “That plumber hated us.”
“Yeah, and for some reason, you still live there.”
I groan. “I know, but the rent is cheap, and my loans are almost paid off.”
“Guess I can’t blame you. You’re the responsible one, while I wasted my money on the big house and truck. But now you live in a tiny cottage from the 1960s that is definitely not hurricane-proof, while I live in a fortress, so who’s really the responsible one?”
“Still me, but I’ll be a good hurricane roommate and bring snacks.”
A couple days later, to my utter horror, Hurricane Isaiah strikes south of us as a Category 2—wind speeds up to 110 mph, storm surge around eight feet. We lose power midway through landfall, but Asher’s fancy propane generator keeps us comfortable while my snacks keep us fed.
For my benefit, Asher sets up camp in his second living room—the one with fewer windows through which I might gaze out in stark fear.
I hate hurricanes.
When a particularly loud crack against the side of the house draws tears to the surface of my eyes, he touches my shoulder. I flinch—a startle reflex—then grab his hand for comfort.
“What made you so scared of storms?” he asks.
I scoot closer to him, seeking a warm body to remind me I’m not alone. “It’s not storms. It’s specifically hurricanes.”
“Why?”
“I grew up outside of New Orleans.”
Asher puts an arm around me. “What happened?”
So... I tell him. I take a deep, shuddering breath and unravel the whole chain of events.
In a subconscious effort to heal, I’ve blocked out a lot of the events of that day. Ali remembers things I don’t, and vice versa. For example, Ali remembers when our parents decided to ride out the storm.
They always say it’ll be bad. This won’t be any different than the others.
I, however, remember the moment they realized they were wrong.
It’s too late to evacuate, Lisa. The roads are flooded.
It all happened both painfully slow and far, far too fast.
The water rose, spilling into our house through cracks in the doorways and air-conditioning vents. My parents took useless brooms and buckets to the rising tide, and directed all three kids into the attic of our small home.
At the top of the stairs, my brother, Leo, a year older than me, sniffled. I touched my face, finding it wet, too. Ali, the eldest at eighteen, engulfed us both in a hug.
