“I got it,” he says. “Go inside. It’s raining.”
I’m not made of glass.
My routines, the things that keep me sane, are crumbling. I can’t do laundry without power. I can’t clean the floors without tracking in more mud. I can’t work without the internet.
The only constant is Wellsy.
He loves the rain. He loves the mud. He loves Blue.
And Blue has developed a new habit.
Every morning, I wake up to find it. A pile of fabric on the end of my mattress.
Boone’s sweatshirt is a gray thing, worn thin at the cuffs, with a small tear near the collar. It smells exactly like him. Like pine trees and cool air and that distinct note of rosemary.
The first time I found it, I told him to put his clothes in one space instead of littered around the common space we all share.
Boone had just looked at me, then at the sweatshirt, then back at me. “Got it.”
He didn’t. The dog kept dragging the sweatshirt to me. And I stopped fighting it.
On the fourth morning, I wake up and there it is again. I reach out, my fingers brushing the soft fabric. I know I should throw it away. I know I should march out there and demand they leash the dog.
But I don’t.
I pull it to my face and inhale.
The scent knocks the breath sideways in my chest. It makes my head swim and my heart race. It’s not just a smell. It’s a memory. It’s the feeling of strong arms around me in the rain. It’s the sound of a voice telling me I’m safe.
I bury my face in the collar, breathing it in. I hate that I love it. I hate that it makes me feel safe when I should feel angry.
I’m losing my mind.
The phone on the nightstand rings, jarring me out of my spiral. I fumble for it, nearly knocking the sweatshirt onto the floor in my haste.
It’s Pearl.
“Hello?” I say, my voice hoarse.
“Saramaria!” Pearl’s voice is a burst of sequins and sunshine through the phone line. “Dot told me she saw your truck headed out of town the other day in that monsoon. I’ve been worried sick. Are you okay? Is the roof still on?”
I smile despite myself and sink back onto the pillows, clutching the phone. “The roof is fine, Pearl. We’re... we’re okay. Just a lot of mud.”
“And the boys?” she asks. “How are they holding up?”
“They’re fine,” I say. “They’re... keeping busy.”
“Mmhmm,” she says, and I can hear the skepticism in her tone. “Josie told me about the little incident at the feed store with Rhett. And the rescue mission for the dog. And the generators.”
I close my eyes. Is there no privacy in this town?
“It sounds like they’re taking good care of you,” Pearl says gently.
“They’re just doing what they have to do,” I say, my defenses rising automatically. “They want to stay on my good side so I don’t evict them.”
“Is that what you think?” Pearl asks.
“I know it,” I say.
