The sky outside is lighter than when we drove in. The dark gray has given way to a strange yellow hue. Everything is so calm after the storm. The street is littered with fallen tree branches. Patches of road are flooded, water pooling in low spots and streaming toward the drains. A dumpster has been flipped on its side, but everywhere we pass, barns and other buildings are still standing.
As we turn onto the county road that leads to Hollow Creek, the scenario is the same: the fences are torn in places, lots of branches, but overall, everything seems okay.
Then the farmhouse comes into view. Warm lights glow in the windows. The porch is intact. The barn behind it looks untouched.
Ryder exhales loudly as if he’s been holding his breath since we left the restaurant.
He kills the engine and turns to me. “I hate that I can’t invite you in, but we’re not telling Rhys we’re dating, and I have no way to explain why you’re with me.”
“I understand,” I blurt. “Go hug your son. Also for me.”
“I’m sorry,” he says. “This is a terrible first date.”
I raise an eyebrow. “Are you kidding? Dinner and a natural disaster? You’re setting an impossible standard for second dates.”
He laughs, strained. But at least I got a smile out of him. “I’ll send Rebecca out to give you a lift home if that’s okay with you.”
“Of course.”
“I’m sorry I didn’t drive you first, but I have to see Rhys.”
“Ryder.” I reach over and squeeze his hand. “I get it. Don’t worry about me. Getting home ten minutes later doesn’t change anything for me. Go to your son.”
We hug across the seats before he gives me a quick peck on the lips, his thumb lingering on my cheek for a moment.
“Thank you for understanding,” he says.
Then he’s out of the truck and jogging toward the house.
I watch him disappear inside, then settle back to wait.
It’s only a few minutes before Rebecca steps out, her younger brother trailing close behind, both of them scanning the sky like they still don’t trust the storm to be over. She comes straight to the truck and pulls the door open. We don’t bother with words. She leans in, I meet her halfway, and we fold into a tight hug. Sharing an unspoken gratitude that everyone is safe and everything still standing.
“How is everyone?” I ask.
“We’re fine. No damage here,” she says. “But the storm hit harder where the cottages are. Remy is coming to see if any immediate repairs are needed.”
“Heya.” The younger brother flashes me a smile and a single wave. “I’m grabbing the tarp and toolbox, no way to know what we’ll find when we get there.”
My stomach drops. “Was anyone staying at the cottages?” They don’t have basements. I wouldn’t have known where to hide if I’d been home when the tornado hit.
“No. It’s Sunday, the weekenders and seasonal renters had left already with the bad weather.” Rebecca gives me a reassuring smile. “Come on, let’s get you home.”
Remy tosses the tools into the bed of the truck, then climbs behind the wheel without another word. Rebecca slides into the back, and I take the passenger seat, my pulse ticking faster as we pull onto the main road. The number of tree branches on the ground increases the closer we get to the cottage. Up here, a few smaller trees have been uprooted. More debris and bramble clutter the roads. Lawn furniture and trash bins are scattered down the street.
Remy has to slalom around it. “Things don’t look good,” he mutters.
When we get to my cottage, it becomes clear this is where the tornado hit.
Parts of the roof are jagged and uneven, shingles torn away in patches. Strips of siding hang loose or are missing, exposing raw sheathing beneath. Two windows are blown out, glass scattered across the floor and lawn. The curtains flop in ribbons between frames bent inward from the force.
We get out of the car and go check the interior.
Inside, the damage isn’t as bad as it seemed from the outside. Papers and lightweight furnishings are scattered everywhere, but most things are intact except for a minor ceiling leak in the kitchen.
Remy tries a light switch, but the power is out.
I check my belongings. My laptop is fine. My clothes, my books. “It’s not awful,” I say.
