by Kristi Cook
“I’ll get the cats,” Ryder says, rising with his injured hand cradled against his chest. “You round up Beau and Sadie.”
I shake my head in frustration. “How are you going to get the cats? Look at you—you’re a mess.”
He opens the bathroom door with his good hand. “Don’t worry. Just go.”
I grab the Neosporin, peroxide, and gauze and dash out, stashing the supplies in the storage room before going back for the dogs. It doesn’t take too long to coax Beau out—he’s good that way—and Sadie’s happy to follows us into the hall.
When I reach the storm shelter, Ryder’s already there, two lanterns lighting the space. All three cats are tucked safely in the crate, meowing their displeasure. I follow the dogs in and latch the door behind myself, adrenaline surging through my veins.
“Here we go again,” Ryder says. “Hope it’s quick this time.”
But fifteen minutes later, the sirens are still going. We’ve passed the time hunched over in strained silence, but there’s no sign of imminent danger—no freight-train roar this time. I sit up straight, allowing my tensed muscles to relax a bit.
“Looks like we’re going to be here awhile,” I say. “Might as well settle in and get comfortable.”
Ryder scoots over, glancing around the small space. “Damn. I took out one of the sleeping bags and left it in your parents’ room.”
“Just open up this one,” I suggest, reaching for the zipper. “It’s not like we’re going to get much sleep anyway. What about your hand?”
“I think it’s okay. You didn’t happen to bring the gauze, did you?”
I produce it, holding it up. “Right here. Let’s see what I can do.”
I bandage it as best I can, considering the circumstances. “Okay, there you go,” I say once I’m done.
“Thanks.” He cradles it against his chest. “The sun’ll be up in a couple hours. At least we’ll be able to see what’s going on then. I sure hope the tarp holds.”
“I hope so too. If we’re staying here, I guess you can let the cats out of the crate.” I rise to my knees, reaching behind the case of water for the little disposable litter box I’d had the foresight to buy. I rip off the liner covering the litter and hand it to Ryder. “Here, put this in the crate and leave the door open. They’ll figure it out.”
Soon, kitties are scampering across our laps, happily making their way over to join Beau and Sadie in the dog beds. Spock stops long enough to rub his chin against my knee. I stroke his soft fur, glad we’re all safe and sound. I don’t even want to think about all the animals—livestock, pets, strays—left out to battle the elements. The very idea makes my heart hurt.
“You okay?” Ryder asks me.
“Yeah, why?”
“I dunno.” He shrugs. “You just looked . . . sad or something.”
I’m shocked at how well he can read me. “I was just thinking about anyone—anything—stuck out there in this. You know, dogs, cats, horses. Cows,” I add, sighing heavily.
“We’ve got cows!” Ryder quips, quoting that old movie about tornadoes—you know, the one with Bill Paxton.
I admit, it makes me smile.
“Sorry, I couldn’t help myself,” Ryder says. “But yeah, it is sad. I just . . . well, let’s try not to think about it, okay?”
I yawn loudly, so far beyond exhaustion now that there’s not even a word for it. “I really need to close my eyes for a little bit.”
“You go on. I can’t sleep anyway. I’ll wake you up if things start getting bad.”
“Thanks,” I say, snuggling down on the open sleeping bag. My eyes close the moment my head touches the pillow.
I have no idea how long I doze, but when I open my eyes again, the sirens have quieted. Ryder’s lying beside me, our shoulders touching.
“You awake?” he asks.
“Yeah,” I mumble sleepily. “Is it morning yet?”
“Not quite. Soon.”
I nod, and we both fall silent. Inexplicably, I find myself scooting closer to him, fitting myself against his side, seeking his warmth.
He puts an arm around me, drawing me closer.
I let out a contented sigh. There’s something so familiar—and yet so foreign—about his closeness. I think about those shared cribs, the communal Pack ’n Plays our mothers insisted on. Maybe that explains it—old memories, too far out of reach to be easily accessed, but there all the same.
That’s why this feels so . . . right. It must be.
I feel Ryder’s fingers in my hair, combing through it absently. His heart is thumping noisily against my ear, his chest rising and falling with each breath.
“Jem?”
I swallow hard before answering. “Yeah?”
“I’ve been thinking about what you said—you know, about the eighth-grade dance. I’ve been racking my brain, trying to figure out what you were talking about. And”—he swallows hard—“there’s something I need to tell you.”
Why is he bringing this up now? “You don’t have to, Ryder,” I say, my heart accelerating. “You were right. It was a long time ago.”
“I know, but, well . . . just hear me out, okay?”
I nod, mentally bracing myself. I’m not sure I want to hear this—to open those old wounds again.
“I said some things that night, things I’m not proud of. And . . . it occurred to me that someone might have told you, and—”
“I heard you, Ryder,” I say, cutting him off. “I was there, hiding in those trees by the rock. I heard everything.”
He lets out his breath in a low whistle. “Shit. I am so sorry, Jemma. I didn’t think. . . . I mean, not that it makes any difference, but I didn’t know. I figured you’d had second thoughts or something and decided you didn’t want to go with me.”
“I wish,” I mumble.
“The thing is, Jem, those things I said? I didn’t mean them. I was there waiting for you, when Mason and Ben showed up and started teasing me. I didn’t know what to do. I wanted to get rid of them, and then they started saying stuff. You know, about you.”
“Yeah, I heard.” Even now, all these years later, the memory makes me cringe.
“And I knew that if they knew the truth—if they knew how much I really liked you, it’d be even worse. I swear, in some crazy, convoluted way, I thought I was protecting you or something.”
“I still can’t believe Laura Grace made you ask me,” I say. “Was Mama in on it too?”
He shakes his head. “No. Don’t you get it? I made that up. My mom had nothing to do with it—she didn’t even know. The truth is, I wanted to go with you. Something had changed between us, remember? At the beach over Christmas break?”
“I remember.” I’d been hyperaware of him on that trip—self-conscious and nervous and giddy and excited all at once. I’d caught him staring at me when he thought I wasn’t looking, and I’d stolen some secret glances myself.
“That was when I realized you were the prettiest girl in Magnolia Branch,” he says. “Hell, maybe in all of Mississippi. Anyway, I was excited about the dance. I even snuck into town that afternoon and bought you a corsage. I had it in my pocket when I went to the rock to meet you.”
I barely hear him, because I’m still stuck on the “prettiest girl” part of his speech.
“As soon as I lost the guys, I went back outside to look for you, but you weren’t there. So I went inside and . . . well, Morgan and Lucy said you never showed, and I just thought . . .” He shakes his head. “I dunno what I thought. I was only thirteen, and I was ashamed about what I’d said to the guys and scared you didn’t like me the way I liked you. So I guess I convinced myself that you had ditched me. That way, instead of feeling guilty, I could just write it off. And yeah, I realize how totally fucked up that sounds.”
I let out my breath in a rush. “All these years, and you never told me?”
“It’s just that . . . one day went by, then another. After a while, it just seemed easier to let you hate me, you know?�
��
“God, Ryder. All this time . . .” I shake my head, my cheeks burning now. “Do you have any idea how upset I was? How humiliated?”
“I’m sorry,” he says, sounding miserable. “I was a jerk and a coward and . . . I don’t know what else. Just . . . please say that you’ll forgive me.”
I lie there quietly, trying to make sense of it all—to understand the workings of a thirteen-year-old boy’s mind. But my thoughts keep going back to something he’d said earlier. “You really thought I was the prettiest girl in Magnolia Branch?”
“I still do, Jemma,” he says, his voice quiet.
ACT II
Scene 8
Ryder Marsden could not possibly have said what I think he just said. Nope. Not in a million years. But then he rises up on one elbow, gazing down at me, and . . .
My breath leaves my lungs in a whoosh as his head angles down toward mine, his breath warm on my cheek. I swear my heart stops beating for a second—seizing up in my chest before resuming its noisy rhythm. He’s going to kiss me, I realize. Ryder is actually going to kiss me, and—
“You’ve got something . . .” He pauses, brushing his fingers across my cheek. “There. I got it.”
Disappointment washes over me. He wasn’t going to kiss me. He was just noticing a smudge of dirt on my face or something. I feel like a total idiot. My cheeks flare with heat as I scramble to a seated position and reach for a bottle of water.
“Thanks,” I mumble, unscrewing the cap. I drink for a long time, mostly to avoid meeting Ryder’s eyes. Problem is, I already have to pee. This is not going to help the situation.
“Think the sun’s up yet?” I ask.
“Maybe. You wanna go see?” He reaches for his own bottle of water.
“Yeah, might as well. There’s no chance I’m going back to sleep now.”
“Let’s go, then.”
When we finally emerge from the storm shelter, the sun has just begun to rise, the sky a deep, gunmetal gray. The rain has dwindled down to a drizzle, the wind a low, manageable-sounding whine. I’m happy to see that the tarp has mostly held, just one corner flapping in the breeze. With both feet and one hand still wrapped in gauze bandages, Ryder goes straight to fixing it.
The dogs make a beeline for the front mudroom, whining all the way. I know just how they feel. “Only on leash,” I tell them. Who knows what we’re going to find out there, what dangers lurk just outside the door. I slip into a yellow rain slicker and pull on knee-high rain boots. Ryder joins me, putting on his own rain boots and waterproof jacket.
“Here, can you take Beau?” I ask, handing him the leash. I’ve got Sadie, who’s straining at the bit, scratching the door. I lead the way, taking Sadie straight to the patch of grass beside the porch. Ryder follows suit, heading out just past me.
“Oh, shit!” he calls out.
I hurry to catch up to him, and then I see it—a downed tree lying across Ryder’s Durango, the metal beneath it crumpled like an accordion. The windshield is cracked, the rearview mirror dangling.
“Uh-oh,” I mutter, peering around the Durango to learn the fate of my Fiat. I flinch at the sight that greets me—several enormous limbs and leafy branches have pretty much buried my car. But it doesn’t look as bad as the Durango. At least, the actual damage looks pretty minor. I think the height of the Durango protected my little car, taking the weight of most of the tree.
Still, this isn’t good. In fact, everything toward the west looks bad. The tops of trees are ripped off in a path straight down toward the creek. And the roof of the barn should be visible off in the distance, but instead there’s just a big, gaping hole where it should be.
Crap.
“The barn,” I say, lifting up my hood to cover my head as the rain picks up again.
Ryder nods. “I know. Let’s finish up with the dogs and then we’ll go check it out.”
Beau and Sadie are quick with their business, eager to get out of the rain and back inside where it’s dry.
“I’m sorry about your car,” I say as we head past it a few minutes later. I know how much he loves it. It was a sixteenth birthday present from his parents. They’d secretly bought it a couple days before the big day and hid it here, driving it over to Magnolia Landing early in the morning on his birthday and leaving it in the driveway for him to find when he went outside to go to school. Anyway, it doesn’t look like he’ll be driving it any time soon.
Ryder doesn’t respond. He’s too busy looking around at the damage that surrounds us. It’s much worse than I expected. In addition to the smashed sleeping porch and the broken living room window, part of the roof is missing over on the far side of the house, the top of the chimney blown clean away.
There’s debris everywhere, blocking our path at every turn. Limbs, branches, roof shingles . . . what looks like sheet metal. I have no idea where that came from. Pieces of what used to be our fence are scattered about in splintered bits.
It takes us forever to pick our way over and around it all as we head down the path toward the barn. We walk in silence, our heads bent against the battering rain. What should be a five-minute stroll takes us close to a half hour. I keep my eyes glued to the ground, on the lookout for more water moccasins driven up from the creek. The last thing we need is—
“Uh, Jemma?”
“Huh?” I glance up, blinking hard. I look around, disoriented. “What the . . . ?”
Because it’s gone, the barn. Gone. The spot where it stood is now a pile of unidentifiable rubble. My eyes burn, my vision blurring as tears well in my eyes.
My shooting range. Daddy’s workshop and all those beautiful pieces of furniture. They’re gone, just like that.
“Damn,” Ryder says.
I just stand there and gape, forcing back the tears.
“You can see the path the tornado took, right through there.” Ryder waves an arm in a wide arc, indicating the trail of destruction.
It’s immediately obvious that Magnolia Landing lies directly in the path. Ryder’s thinking the same thing. I can see it in his eyes.
The wind picks up, blowing my hood off my head. I shove it back in place as I reach for my camera, remembering then that I’m supposed to be filming. Doing my best to shield the lens from the rain with my hand, I quickly pan across the scene of destruction, again feeling that same disconnect as before. Hastily, I shut down the camera and stuff it in my pocket.
Ryder just stands there, his hands on his hips as he gazes off in the distance.
“It might be okay,” I say haltingly. “Magnolia Landing, I mean. The house is half a mile away—tornadoes don’t usually stay on the ground for long.”
He nods but remains silent. I know he’s imagining his home leveled like the barn—a pile of white stones and tumbled columns.
“Don’t think about it.” I take a step toward him and lay a hand on his arm. “Not till we know for sure.”
A gust of wind nearly knocks me off my feet. “We should get back inside,” I say, glancing up at the sky. Dark clouds obscure the horizon. I figure we’re probably in what’s left of the center right now, but it won’t last long. There’s still a lot of storm to go. We can’t get careless, not now.
We head back at a plodding pace. When we reach our destroyed cars, I pull out my camera, suddenly needing the buffer of the lens to face it all—the cars, the roof, the smashed sleeping porch.
But that’s not what I’m thinking about, not really. Instead, I’m thinking about the fact that my sister is having brain surgery any minute now, and there’s not a damn thing I can do about it.
“C’mon, Jem,” Ryder calls out from the safety of the front porch. “You’re getting drenched out there.”
Feeling utterly helpless, I follow him inside.
ACT II
Scene 9
After a quick breakfast of dry cereal and Pop-Tarts, we pull out our cell phones and check futilely for a signal. I’m not sure why we bother. There are no bars now—not a single one. Ryder figure
s the storm—maybe the tornado—took out the cell tower. Which means there’s no telling when it’ll be working again. So we’re still cut off from the rest of the world.
The morning drags on endlessly. I play nursemaid, removing the bandages on Ryder’s feet and hand. His feet don’t look too bad, but the cut on his hand is scaring me. Truth is, it probably needed stitches last night, but it’s too late now. I don’t even want to think about what this means for next weekend’s football game—if there’s a game next weekend.
Right now I feel like we’re in the middle of the Apocalypse. I keep waiting for zombies to appear or something. One thing’s for sure—if they do, Delilah and I are ready.
In the meantime, Ryder and I play two games of Scrabble. I win both, but I’m not sure that he didn’t throw the second one. By lunchtime, we’re both a little stir-crazy. The worst of it has clearly passed, but it’s still pouring, with occasional gusts of wind strong enough to rattle the windows. Ryder manages to retape the tarp over the window while I scrub the floor clean of all traces of blood.
With nothing else to do after lunch, we decide to take a nap. This time, when Ryder and I climb into my parents’ enormous bed, we put as much space between us as possible. We curl up on opposite sides, awkward now. So much has changed between us in the last twenty-four hours. I’m not even sure what to think about him anymore.
I want to figure it out, but I’m tired. So tired. It doesn’t take me long to drift off. When I do, I dream about Ryder.
I’m walking down a narrow aisle, dragging what feels like heavy weights behind me. It’s a dress, I realize—a wedding dress—so heavy that I can barely walk, barely breathe. I desperately want to stop, to sink to the ground in a puddle of white tulle, but someone’s pushing me, coaxing me on.
I look up to find Ryder there at the end of the aisle, waiting for me with a scowl on his face. He’s wearing a tuxedo—a white dinner jacket with a wilted red rose in his lapel. As I approach he shakes his head, shooting a warning glare in my direction.
Behind me, I hear applause. I turn to find Captain Jeremiah D. Marsden and Corporal Lewiston G. Cafferty there watching, clapping. Both wear their gray Civil War uniforms, tattered and torn, flat forage caps perched on their heads.
