The Best of Us

by Sarah Pekkanen

  The rain pelted down and up and sideways, and her wet hair slapped into her eyes. She pushed it out of her face just in time to see a branch fly by, far too close to her head.

  The hurricane wasn’t over, she suddenly remembered. Every elementary school student learned about the structure of storms, and she was no exception. But she’d completely forgotten that every hurricane had a brief window of calm called an eye.

  Get back to the house, she told herself. She staggered a few feet forward, but the wind was gaining strength as fast as Allie was losing it. It kept pushing her over, like a playground bully. The house was about twenty yards ahead and a bit to her right, Allie thought as she dropped to her knees. But what if she was wrong? She couldn’t see that far in front of her. She reached around the base of a tree and locked her fingers together.

  “Help!” she yelled, even though she knew no one could hear her over Betty’s howling. Already, she could feel the strength in her arms ebbing away. Another branch smacked down a half dozen yards away, and she began to cry.

  She’d been so consumed by her possible ALS diagnosis that she’d never considered the fact that there were so many other ways to die. Hurricanes routinely killed people in Jamaica. Maybe she’d become another statistic, the foolish tourist who’d forgotten about the eye of the storm and had ventured outside at the worst possible moment.

  She bowed her head and cried harder, feeling the bark of the tree scratch her arms and cheek as the wind clawed at her. When her hands finally lost their grip, Betty would lift her up and throw her into something—another tree, one of the huge concrete pots by the pool, the house itself. She’d break bones, probably hit her head. She’d lose consciousness, and then it would truly be all over; she’d be a rag doll in a washing machine.

  She lifted her head and gathered all the strength she had left, funneling it into a yell that seemed to emerge from her core: “Ryan!”

  He couldn’t possibly hear her, but calling his name released something inside of Allie that had been tightly clenched. The anger she’d felt toward her husband was ripping away, revealing the abyss of terror that had always lain just beneath.

  Maybe she hadn’t ever been angry at Ryan after all; maybe he was just a safe target for the fury she felt at everything else: her jerk of a birth father and his crappy genes, her birth mother and the thoughtless way she’d unleashed the news like a bomb into Allie’s life, ALS itself. The unfairness of it all.

  Her fingers were almost completely numb. The wind was pulling at them, trying to wrench them loose. She couldn’t last much longer.

  “Allie!”

  Somehow she heard his yell—or maybe she’d just sensed it, the way her mother, Louise, always said she’d sensed Allie’s cry the moment Allie was born.

  She tried to call out to Ryan again as he stood in the doorway, holding a lantern that seemed like the only spot of light in the world, but her voice was gone. Then the light disappeared.

  Ryan probably hadn’t been able to see her, or if he had, by some miracle, then he’d gone to get help. But Allie couldn’t help feeling as if he’d deserted her. She deserved it, though. She’d deserted him first.

  Hold on, she ordered herself, clenching her teeth and steeling her body. Enduring this was harder than making it through the wall she’d hit during the twenty-third mile of the marathon she’d run last year, harder than the pain of childbirth, harder than anything she’d ever known. Her muscles screamed and her skin felt raw. She prayed for Ryan to . . . to what? Not to come out here; he’d be risking his own life!

  Earlier on this trip, she’d wanted him to become a different kind of man. But now, amid her terror, she saw not her own life but Ryan’s flash before her eyes, and she realized how wrong she’d been. She saw her husband reaching for her hand and slow-dancing with her, to no music, in their hotel room on their wedding night; then Ryan was feeding her ice chips with his fingertips and strength with his eyes while she panted through labor. She saw him as a father, straining his back as he carried their sleeping children out of the minivan and up two flights of stairs because he didn’t want to wake them; she saw him making up silly jingles to get their daughters to put on their shoes when they were defiant two-year-olds.

  She needed Ryan to be safe, to stay around to raise their girls. No one could do as good a job.

  She lifted her head to whisper a prayer and saw the light again. Ryan had attached the lantern to his belt and was down on his belly, inching toward her, hooking his fingers around the ridges of the stones on the patio to gain traction. He looked like a rock climber who was moving horizontally instead of vertically as he felt around for the next crack between the rocks.

  Somehow, he’d known where to find her. Renewed strength flooded into her arms.

  She lost sight of him for a few agonizing minutes, then he reappeared just yards away, rounding the edge of the pool.

  “Here!” she screamed. “I’m here!”

  Thank God for those huge concrete pots—he was bracing his feet against them, then using them to push off, like a swimmer doing a flip turn. His feet were bare, and she could see blood on them, but he kept relentlessly inching forward in a small circle of light.

  She could see all the tendons in his arm stand out as he battled the wind. He must be exhausted; Allie knew she was, and she was only kneeling in place and had the tree for support.

  “I’m sorry!” Allie cried when he finally reached her and collapsed on top of her, wrapping his arms around both her and the tree. He was violently shaking. “I’m so, so sorry.”

  Either he didn’t hear her or he couldn’t spare the effort it would take to answer. Their tree was bending now, yielding to the wind, and Allie was terrified it would snap.

  Ryan was signaling for her to lie flat on the ground, and then he pointed in the direction of the house—or at least what Allie assumed was the direction of the house. She squinted and realized he was fumbling with something tied around his belt, next to the lantern. He’d gotten all the stretchy resistance bands from the gym and had linked them together to form a makeshift rope, she realized. He must have attached one end to the house so they’d be able to find it in the darkness.

  Ryan’s lips moved, but his words were lost in the wind.

  Was he telling her to start for the house? It wasn’t far away, but they’d have to take a circuitous route around the pool, which doubled the length.

  Allie began to crawl, but Ryan stopped her by putting a hand on her shoulder. He wrapped his legs around the tree to anchor himself, then pulled off his T-shirt and twisted it around Allie’s left arm and his right one, tying the ends into a knot. The fleeting thought crossed Allie’s mind that it was good Ryan had been a Boy Scout. He took off his watch and fastened it around the knot, securing it even tighter. Linking their fates together.

  “Now,” he shouted, his mouth close to her ear.

  Away from the protection the copse of trees had provided, the wind hit her from every angle. Small twigs and clusters of leaves slammed into her face and arms, and the rain felt like tiny knives jabbing her exposed skin.

  She could feel Ryan’s bulk beside her as she crawled and pulled and fought her way forward. Sometimes he almost dragged her along, and the shirt was cutting off the circulation in her arm, but she knew without him, Betty would’ve overpowered her. They finally reached the first potted plant by the pool, and took refuge against it for a moment, breathing hard.

  “Almost there!” Ryan shouted above the wind.

  It was a lie—they weren’t even halfway there. Allie moved another inch forward, then screamed as a thick branch cracked down onto the patio a few feet in front of them.

  A gust scooped a big wave out of the pool, and it crashed down over Allie and Ryan. She was so startled she lost her grip and started to roll over, but Ryan counterbalanced and tugged her back. She felt nausea rise in her throat. They might not make it. Her stupidity could cause both of their deaths, leave their girls orphans. She bowed her head and tried
to force her legs and arms to move forward, to keep fighting. But she had nothing left.

  Then something jerked them forward a few inches. Allie squinted and saw a light coming from the doorway again. Gio was there now, yanking on the other end of the resistance bands, adding his strength to theirs. As Allie watched, Tina and Gary and Savannah and Dwight and Pauline joined in the tug-of-war against Betty.

  Allie and Ryan scrabbled along over the remaining distance to the house. One big pull from her friends dragged Allie along the stone patio and skinned her knees, and the shirt was biting deeply into her arm, but she didn’t even register the pain.

  And then they were at the doorway, and hands were pulling them inside, and the guys were throwing their weight against the door as they fought to close it. Papers had been flying around the room, but they fluttered to the floor like confetti when the door cut off the storm.

  “Oh, my God, Allie!” Tina cried. She enveloped Allie and Ryan in an embrace. “What were you doing? Why did you go out there?”

  Allie was panting so hard she could hardly speak. She reached to release the shirt around her arm, but Tina was already working on the tight, wet knot. “I just . . . I thought the storm was over.”

  “Ryan went to look for you,” Tina said. “You were taking so long in the bathroom and I thought you were just feeling sick from the tequila, but he went anyway . . .”

  Ryan was bent over, hands on his knees, sucking in air. Allie put her hand on his back and saw blood drip onto his shirt. It was coming from her arm, she realized—the shirt had rubbed off the top layer of skin.

  “We need to get some Neosporin and gauze on that,” Tina said. “And on Ryan’s feet, too.”

  “Good thing you found your watch,” Gio said, handing it back to Ryan. “It came in handy.”

  “I had to find it,” Ryan said. He shrugged. “It was a present from Allie.”

  Allie felt her knees buckle.

  “Whoa, girl, let’s get you somewhere you can sit down,” Savannah said, catching her by her uninjured arm.

  “We should go back to the game room,” Gio said. He gestured to Ryan. “Come on, buddy. Lean on me. Dwight, give Allie a hand.”

  “No!” Allie said. Dwight had been walking toward her, but he stopped when she spoke, and confusion flitted over his features. Allie lowered her eyes, feeling her cheeks burn from the wind and her shame. “I mean, I can walk.”

  “I think this calls for more shots of tequila,” Savannah said. Her words were light, but her voice shook. She gave a little laugh and enveloped Allie in a hug. “You know, you’ve really livened up this vacation, girlfriend.”

  Allie rested her head against Savannah’s shoulder. “I may need some help walking after all. My legs are like Jell-O.”

  “I’ve got you,” Ryan said. He shrugged off Gio’s arm and moved to Allie’s side. Outside, Betty was shrieking and smashing things, her rage reaching a fevered pitch. Allie shuddered and leaned into Ryan.

  He hadn’t gone after the watch to prove anything. He’d done it out of love, she thought. She’d been so wrong.

  “How did you know where to find me?” she asked. He looked down at her. Those eyes, she thought. I’ve always adored those eyes.

  “I’m not sure.” He shrugged. “I just knew.”

  Chapter Nineteen

  * * *

  Change

  THEY’D BEEN STUCK IN the same room for four hours—well, other than that bit of excitement when they’d hauled in Ryan and Allie like half-drowned kittens, Savannah thought. But somehow, it had turned into one of the best nights of the trip. It was safe and cozy here, with two lanterns casting a soft glow and the squashy sectional couch providing enough seating for all eight of them. Pauline had found a stack of extra blankets in a closet, and everyone was snuggled under one. The tequila had made its rounds more than a few times, which probably accounted for why everyone was feeling more relaxed about the storm, and the candy was almost gone.

  It was Savannah’s turn to ask a question. “Favorite movie,” she said. Everyone scribbled on scraps of paper, then folded them and put them in front of Savannah, who mixed them up in her hands.

  She picked one and opened it. “Anchorman: Ron Burgundy,” she said. “That’s got to be Ryan’s or Gio’s.”

  “Mine,” they said in unison. They leaned toward each other and high-fived as everyone laughed.

  Savannah unfolded another square of paper. “Titanic. Hmm . . . well, it’s a given it’s one of the women. No guys would pick it; they’re too threatened by the hotness that is Leo DiCaprio. Tina!”

  “Nope.” Tina shook her head.

  “Allie?” Savannah asked.

  “Not me,” Allie said.

  “It’s my favorite,” Pauline said.

  “Oh, that’s interesting,” Savannah said. “I would’ve guessed you’d pick something artsy. Maybe a black-and-white film. Why Titanic?”

  Pauline shrugged. “I guess I’m a sucker for a good love story.”

  Savannah squinted at the level of tequila in the glass bottle, wondering exactly how much Pauline had consumed. The woman sitting across from her wearing a sweat suit with her blond hair tangled around her shoulders barely resembled the prim hostess who’d welcomed them all to Jamaica almost a week ago. True, her sweat suit was obviously a designer brand that was never meant to be sullied by perspiration, but the woman inside of it was different. She truly seemed not to care what anyone thought of her, which made Savannah realize how very much she must’ve cared before.

  Savannah unfolded another answer. “When Harry Met Sally.”

  She crumpled up the paper in her hand.

  “Aren’t you going to guess?” Tina asked.

  “It’s Gary’s,” she said.

  “Kind of a chick flick, isn’t it?” Gio teased, but Gary didn’t answer.

  “Okay, who’s next?” Allie said. “Pick another one, Van.”

  But Savannah just tilted her head back on the couch and closed her eyes. “Someone else take a turn,” she said. She heard nothing for a moment, then Tina said, “Okay, I’m up. Favorite guilty pleasure!”

  There were a few laughs, and Gio cracked a joke, but the noise the others made seemed low and muted to her because Savannah was deep in the grip of a memory.

  She’d been filing a ragged fingernail when he called to invite her to a movie. “Which one?” she’d asked, cradling the phone between her shoulder and ear while she shaped the nail into a perfect oval.

  “When Harry Met Sally,” he’d said. “It’s a matinee at three o’clock.”

  “How can that even be in a theater?” she’d asked. “It’s so old!”

  “They’re having this—this revival,” he’d said. Later she’d think back and remember the hesitation in his voice as he answered, but at the time, she’d assumed he was distracted.

  “Sure,” she’d said. She’d always liked that movie. But he’d driven to the winery instead, and as the sun had begun to set, he’d reached for her hand.

  “Savannah,” Gary had said. “Will you marry me?”

  She’d looked at him for a long moment, then she’d smiled.

  “Ask me again,” she’d said. “After you get down on one knee.”

  He’d done it, and she’d cried out, “Yes!” and had flung her arms around his neck, and then everyone around them had broken out in applause. Gary had slid the ring onto her finger, and as she sat there gaping at it, the winery’s owner had come by with a bottle of their best vintage. Then they’d driven home, and Gary had surprised her again, with two plane tickets for a long weekend in Montreal . . . She’d moved in with him the next week.

  “Savannah?”

  Tina’s voice brought her back to the present. “You need to write down your favorite guilty pleasure.”

  Savannah looked at the blank piece of paper in front of her. She was furious with Gary for ambushing her with that memory.

  These past few days had taught her what her new life would look like, if she and
Gary stayed separated: sex with hot younger men, nights out dancing with her girlfriends, a renewed appreciation for adventure . . . It didn’t sound so bad, after all. Jamaica had shown her that she didn’t need Gary and his shameless attempt to manipulate her.

  She scribbled Sex on the beach in Jamaica, then handed her paper to Tina.

  There was another loud crash from outside, and Savannah reflexively glanced up. Gary was in her line of view, and he was staring at her. The expression in his eyes made her catch her breath. He looked so sad.

  Her fury drained away as she stared back at him.

  She wondered what he’d been about to say to her when the lights had gone out. Then her thoughts of just a moment earlier came rushing back to her: If she and Gary stayed separated . . . If. At what point had her certainty turned into such a tiny word so filled with possibility?

  “Wait!” Savannah cried. She reached over and snatched the papers out of Tina’s hand and began frantically unfolding them, searching for the awful message she’d intended for Gary, the one that would make him stand up and walk away from her, perhaps forever.

  She crumpled it in her hand, then shoved it into her pocket. The silence in the room made her realize everyone was staring at her.

  “Well, you kind of killed that round, Van,” Ryan said.

  “Sorry,” she said. “I changed my mind.”

  Chapter Twenty

  * * *

  Friday

  THEY’D MADE IT THROUGH Hurricane Betty, Pauline thought as she opened her eyes and took in the stillness. Everyone had divided up the flashlights and lanterns and had gone to bed around one a.m., carrying bottled water for teeth brushing, since the purity of the tap water was iffy. There wasn’t any power—there probably wouldn’t be for weeks on the island—and it had been far too dark to venture outside. They’d take stock of their surroundings later.

  Dwight had been reading the Steve Jobs biography when Pauline succumbed to exhaustion and rolled over. But now, as she glanced at her iPhone, she realized she’d slept for only a little more than an hour.