“So why is she texting you?”
“Hell if I know,” I mutter, already texting my brothers. Before either of them answers, my mom calls. With only ten minutes before we’re in range of the next storm, I don’t want to get back in the car to two dozen missed calls, so I begrudgingly answer.
“I already texted Eric and Sam to see if one of them canstop by to replace the batteries,” I say by way of greeting. “And I’m probably going to lose service soon, so I can’t talk long.”
“Hi, Sloane,” my mother replies, sweet as a poisoned berry. “So nice to hear your voice.”
“What happened to the reminder I set on your phone to replace the batteries every six months?” I learned a long time ago that trying to soothe her imagined slights only leads to more trouble.
“It was very annoying. I got rid of it.”
I tighten my grip on my phone so I don’t throw it out the window. “Littering is bad,” I mutter under my breath, which gets me a strange look from Wes and an irritated “Speak up, Sloane!” from my mom.
“I’m in Nebraska. I’ll send you a link to a YouTube video that walks you through it.” Again. “The mini screwdriver is in the top drawer in the kitchen next to the stove unless you moved it after the last time.”
“I can see I’m bothering you. I’ll just have to call a locksmith.”
I pinch the bridge of my nose, fighting for calm. “A locksmith is going to charge you several hundred dollars. This will take less than five minutes. I promise you can handle it.”
“I’ll invite Henry over for dinner. He’ll take care of it.”
Henry is the owner of the local hardware store and has been in love with my mother for the last decade. Naturally, since he’s a nice man with a steady job and a solid head on his shoulders, Mom wants nothing to do with him. Except when she needs something she can’t guilt me into doing. I don’t know how he hasn’t caught on yet.
“Mom, seriously, you don’t need anyone else to do this for you. It’s easy.” I glance down at the iPad in my lap, refresh the radar, and say firmly, “Look, I’ve got to go. Eric or Sam will stop by if they can. Use your key until then.”
She sniffs a goodbye and hangs up. I let my head fall back into the seat, silently count to ten, and hope my voice is approaching normal when I say, “Storm looks like it’s falling apart.”
Wes doesn’t say anything right away, and when I glance over, his eyes dart from me to the road and back again. “You could try ignoring her,” he says. “Works great with my dad.”
“Is he also completely helpless?”
“Something like that.” There’s a beat of silence, heavy with an understanding that passes between us. Wes lifts his hand off the steering wheel like he’s going to reach for me, only to replace it a couple of seconds later. “Matt texted again while you were talking to your mom. It’s definitely collapsing.”
I wonder if he’s talking about the storm or me.
Our afternoon endsin disappointment and another long drive to get us in position for the storms the following day. Frustrated and jittery, my thoughts are a tangle of Wes, the cover contest, and the steadily ticking clock on time away from my responsibilities.
The nightly shower report doesn’t help. I have to do some light gymnastics to get under the spray in this hotel, which means it hits Wes at roughly nipple level. Bare-chested and wet Wes is not an image I need in my head when I’m about tocrawl in bed, his hat not-so-innocently sitting on the nightstand.
I’m asleep for maybe twenty minutes before I jolt awake, the whole building vibrating. It doesn’t last long, but in my half-asleep delirium I grab my phone to check if there was just an earthquake in freaking Nebraska.
Instead there’s a text from Wes.I think we just found out why this was the only place in town with rooms and it’s not the oompa-loompa-sized shower.
Grimacing, I glance toward the shade-covered window. Weareawfully close to the road, but it’s one in the morning. I slip out of bed to peek around the shade, and sure enough, there’s a semitruck in the distance. As I watch, another approaches. The vibration of its engine isn’t quite earthquake level—thanks half-asleep brain for that one—but it’s more than a little noticeable.
Who decided to build a hotel fifty feet from the highway?
I send the text and throw myself back onto the bed with a huff. They can’t possibly drive by all night. This is probably just the last couple of drivers finishing up their routes.
That we’re nowhere near any kind of logistics hub is a fact I choose to ignore. At least until I’m woken up again forty minutes later. And again twenty minutes after that. And again an hour later.
I finally give up and put on an audiobook, hoping that maybe I’ll fall asleep with voices to distract me. It doesn’t work. Just after dawn, I text Wes to see if he’s awake.
Not sure I ever slept.
Me neither. Want to get out of here and find breakfast?
Fuck yes.
