The appetizers arrive, and we dig in while the storm outside gets wilder. Rain lashes against the windows, spurred on by strong winds that make the building creak.
I’m mid-bite when both our phones ping at the same time—as do all the other phones in the restaurant.
I pull my phone out of my pocket, and my stomach drops.
Emergency Alert
National Weather Service: Tornado Warning in this area until 9.30 p.m. CDT. Take shelter now in a basement or an interior room on the lowest floor of a sturdy building. If you are outdoors, in a mobile home, or in a vehicle, move to the closest substantial shelter and protect yourself from flying debris. Check Media.
My blood turns to ice.
Rhys. My son is at home with my mom, with a fucking tornado bearing down on them, and I’m not there.
I look up at Faye.
“We have to go,” I say, already standing, throwing cash on the table.
Her face is pale, her eyes wide. “Ryder, we can’t go.”
“What do you mean we can’t go?”
People around me stand too, as the restaurant staff direct everyone to the back, away from the windows.
Faye gets up. “It’s not safe. The warning says to stay inside.”
“But Rhys?—”
She comes to my side and grabs my arms. “Putting your life at risk won’t help him. He’s already without a parent; he can’t lose you, too.”
She’s making sense, of course she is, but every instinct in me wants to jump into my truck and go make sure my son is okay.
“Call your mom,” Faye suggests. “I’m sure they are alright.”
I’m already pulling up my mother’s contact when another text comes in.
Mom
We’re fine. Remy and Becky are with us. We are in the basement for precaution, but the storm is hitting the northeast shore harder than here. Are you okay?
I inhale the first intake of air that doesn’t burn my lungs. Rhys is fine. They’re fine. Remy and Rebecca are with them. They are safe.
I follow the rest of the restaurant patrons to the storage room as I text back that I’m okay and safe.
Faye and I sit in a corner next to other scared strangers. She grabs my hand and squeezes. “Rhys will be okay.”
I nod, but as the wind howls and claws at the walls, all I can think about is my boy in that old house with a tornado coming, and that I’m not there to protect him.
26
FAYE
The drive back from Osage Beach is silent. Not uncomfortable, just… heavy. Ryder taps his thumb on the steering wheel, jaw tense like it’s been for the past hour since the tornado alert blinked on our phones. While we were sheltered inside the restaurant, the building creaked, and the wind screamed outside. We heard crashes—metal on metal, distant but violent.
The storm raged for thirty, maybe forty minutes before the gale lost its voice and the world went still again. The restaurant came through untouched, with just debris scattered across the patio and its sign maimed. The neon lobster that was glowing when we arrived swung, darkened, from one bolt when we left. We must’ve been far enough from the funnel of the tornado for it not to do any actual damage in the area. I hope the same is true for Blue Crescent Harbor.
I want to talk to Ryder, but I don’t think that’s what he needs now. He needs to see Rhys, know that his son is okay, even if Mae already confirmed by phone that they’re fine. Ryder wouldn’t appreciate me telling him that all is well. I have no idea what it must feel like to know your son is in danger and not be able to get to him.
So I keep quiet.
