by Hazel James
“Yes, Mother.”
He laughs, throwing an arm around my shoulders. “That’s my boy. What did you focus on this time?”
“The dirt and grass.” Every time I wake up from the nightmare, I try to write about one specific part of it. Clay said the goal is to break it up into small pieces that aren’t as traumatic. The last nightmare, I wrote about the view from the helicopter. The time before that, it was the taste of the coffee I drank before our scramble. I’ve been having this nightmare for almost two years, and I’ve never repeated a journal entry.
“You really thinking of seeing Patch’s family this year?” he asks, changing the subject.
“I haven’t talked to Kelsey since right after…” I trail off, but Clay remains silent. I take a deep breath and rub my hands over my face. “Since right after I tried to kill myself. I figured the anniversary of the accident would be a good time to check on them and see how they’re doing.”
“And what made you think that?”
I shrug. “I have no idea.”
“You think you’re ready?”
“No. Maybe.”
“What are your goals for that visit?” I swear to Christ. Clay and his fucking goals.
I press the heels of my hands into my eyes. “To not completely lose it when I see Abigail. To have Kelsey accept my apology. To try to get some fucking closure from this goddamn nightmare.”
“Sounds like you’re on the right track.” He claps me on the back. “You’re making progress, DH, whether you see it or not.”
If progress feels like a hole in your chest so big you’ll never breathe right again, then yeah, progress is my motherfucking bitch.
The only good part about today is the weather. Mother Nature is going to put on a hell of a show this afternoon, and our last two clients canceled their appointments. That means Eric and I can hit the road a few hours earlier than we planned. I’m still on edge after my session at Battles, and chasing always puts me in a good mood.
Like I said, adrenaline is a great therapist.
I tighten the oil cap and close the hood on my last job of the day—Ms. Young’s 2008 Yukon. The last time I was inside this SUV was six years ago in high school. I fucked her daughter three ways from Sunday during halftime at our championship game. Then I fucked her again because we won. The funny part? I scored more times than our team did. They only got one field goal in, and the other team never reached the end zone.
I take Ms. Young’s keys to the register so Eric can ring her up and jog upstairs to shower and change. Twenty minutes later, we’re piling into Eric’s black Silverado extended cab. It’s no Dominator, but it’ll do. I set my camera bag on the floorboard, snap the laptop into the dash mount, and plug the cord into the charger.
“Where to, boss?” I ask as I pull up the GR3 radar. Eric studies the monitor and the latest forecast.
“There’s a tornado-warned supercell south of Clinton, moving northeast. Let’s drive toward El Reno and see if we get anything good. That should put us south-southeast of it by the time we get there. I don’t feel like punching through the core today.” He cranks the ignition and steers the truck in the direction of I-35 North. With the day I’ve had, I wouldn’t mind a good core punch. But… his truck, his route. I can’t say I blame him for wanting to keep the hail damage to a minimum. That shit gets expensive after a while, even if we do our own repair work. As soon as we break free from the line of trees running beside the auto shop, Eric and I crane our necks to check out the cumulonimbus clouds stacking up out west.
“Holy shit, that’s beautiful,” he marvels. Eric and I have been fascinated by storms for years. I started going on chases with him and Uncle Kurt a few weeks after I moved in with them. I think it was Aunt Helen’s version of male bonding. She’d pack chocolate chip cookies, brownies, and a few Thermoses full of milk, and we’d be gone all afternoon. On August nineteenth—my fourteenth birthday—they got me a real camera. I’ve been hooked ever since.
“Look at the anvil,” I remark as we reach the north side of El Reno. No matter how many times I’ve witnessed nature in action, it’s always astounding to see the performance with your own eyes. The first time I ever saw a supercell produce a tornado, I cried. I think it was our fourth or fifth chase, and we’d followed the storm for about fifty miles. The clouds stretched clear up to heaven, then the bottom dropped and a perfect funnel cloud unleashed its fury on the world below. I snapped about a hundred photos that day, the whole time feeling like I was taking a self-portrait.
Like that tornado, I was a product of instability; a life of hot and cold converging in a battle that, given the right conditions, could create something truly awesome. Thanks to Uncle Kurt and Aunt Helen, I finally had the right conditions. I was working on the awesome.
Eric positions the truck at a rural four-way intersection, putting us in an optimum position to track the storm while giving us an escape route if it makes an unexpected turn toward us. “We got rapid rotation,” he advises, pointing out the windshield. The rain’s not bad, so we get out of the truck for a better view. My heartbeat picks up the second I see the full scope of the sky. “Look at that wall cloud!”
“Fuck, I needed this today,” I say, the memories of hurling my guts into the toilet fading. I connect my 18-millimeter lens to my camera body and frame the supercell in my viewfinder for a series of wide angle shots.
“It’s gonna drop any minute!” he shouts from the other side of the road, as I switch to my 24-70 millimeter. I join Eric and capture the churning sky as a white rope begins its descent from the wall cloud. “Wow, look at how tight that is!”
“That’s what he said,” I laugh. Tornado sirens sound in the distance, but Eric and I stay put. The storm’s still tracking on a northeast path, so we’re safe. “We got debris! Tornado on the ground!” I click my shutter every five or six seconds, documenting the destruction in the field across the street. The white rope quickly thickens into a dark gray cone.
“Shit, it’s going for the barn!” Eric hollers. Livestock run through the open field, their moos and bellows silenced by the roaring funnel. It reminds me of a tornado we were chasing last summer in eastern Oklahoma that hit a pig farm. I wasn’t lying when I told Paige I’ve seen pigs fly. About twenty seconds later, the vortex blasts through the barn, hurling shingles and strips of splintered wood into the air before barreling toward another farm about a half mile down the road.
We race back to the truck to follow the storm as it carves a path toward Kingfisher. The radar confirms the signature hook echo just northwest of El Reno. “Still tracking northeast?” Eric asks, flipping his wipers one notch faster.
“Yup, at about thirty-five miles an hour. Take this next right, and we’ll get on 81 North.” Eric races past cars that have pulled over on the side of the road. Through the quick flicks of the windshield wipers, we can see that the tornado has tripled in size since it first dropped from the sky. Power flashes dot the horizon just ahead, marking the point of impact and acting as a beacon for the truck.
“I hope they’re taking precautions,” Eric says as we approach Kingfisher. For as awesome as it is to chase storms, there’s a very real element of danger. Many of the tornadoes we’ve followed over the years have brought death to the people in its path. He exits the highway and maneuvers the truck to a clearing to give us a prime view of the funnel. We get out of the truck and spend the next several minutes watching the destruction with equal amounts of awe and disbelief before the storm dissipates.
I remove the camera strap from around my neck and exchange a fist bump with Eric on the way back to the truck.
“Victory beer?” he asks, slamming the door closed.
“Victory beer,” I confirm.
“UNCLE D! UNCLE D!” AUSTIN runs out the front door of Hawthorne Elementary and launches himself at me, filling my arms with fifty pounds of pure awesome. “I thought school was never gonna be over,” he says into my neck, his sandy brown hair tickling my nose.
“I thought work
was never gonna be over,” I reply with a grin. “Let’s hit the road, dude. We got pins to knock over.” Thursdays are my favorite day of the week. It’s Austin-Uncle D Day, and we pack as much fun into three hours as possible. I always let Austin choose our activity. This week, it’s bowling at Tornado Alley.
The drive is quick, and by the time we arrive, I’ve been fully briefed on the latest first-grade scandal: Josh Martin kissed Alexa Bromer by the monkey bars.
“It was on the lips, Uncle D. Isn’t that so gross?” Austin asks, as we cross the parking lot.
“Super gross. I bet he has cooties now.”
“Daddy has cooties too. I saw him kissing Mommy this morning.” He makes a gagging noise for effect. “I’m never kissing a girl.”
“You just haven’t met the right girl yet, buddy.” I pay for a few games, fries, some drinks, and our rental shoes, then usher Austin to our lane. We change shoes, and I add our names to the monitor above our heads.
“Have you met the right girl, Uncle D?”
“I’ve met lots of girls.”
His green eyes grow wider by the second. “That means you’re infected too.” I cough to cover up my laugh. Christ, this kid is funny.
“Yeah, I’m infected,” I admit, still smiling. “But when we have this discussion in seven more years, I promise you won’t think girls are gross anymore.”
Austin gives me a “you’re full of it” look, waddles toward the lane with his ball, and takes aim.
“Your son is adorable,” a breathy voice purrs behind me. I turn and see a voluptuous waitress delivering our fries and drinks. She leans over and slowly sets the tray on the table, giving me an eyeful of her cleavage. My dick throbs in appreciation and offers to thank her personally. I glance at Austin, who’s taking his second turn, and I discretely adjust myself.
“Nephew,” I correct, turning my attention back to the waitress. She makes an obvious peek at my cock and her lips turn upward in a sexy smile.
“Good to know. I’ll be right back with your napkins.” She winks and sashays back to the snack bar, her long dark braid swinging back and forth with each step.
“I got eight, Uncle D!” Austin exclaims, jumping all the way back to the table. I lay a handful of fries on his plate and stand to retrieve my ball, double checking that my shirt is covering the bulge in my pants.
“You’re going down, little man,” I declare, slipping my fingers into the holes on my ball. I swing my arm back, shuffle three steps, and release the ball. It curves to the right and dips into the gutter just before it reaches the pins, much to Austin’s delight. My second turn gives me a total of five, which means he’s still in the lead by three. Austin howls with laughter as I walk back to the table.
The waitress returns at the same time and sets a small stack of napkins next to the basket of fries. She scribbles on the top one and tucks it in my front pocket, then whispers, “Call me,” before walking away. I will my dick to behave, because despite the opportunity that just presented itself, it’s still Austin-Uncle D Day. I toss some fries on my own plate, wishing I had some chipotle salsa instead of this lame-ass ketchup, and turn my attention back to the other half of my man-date—who just shoved about six fries in his mouth.
“I beh fhe hah bih coo-ees.” Austin hold his hands about twelve inches apart.
I laugh. “Yeah, she definitely has big cooties.”
“Put your backpack away and wash your hands!” Maggie shouts as soon as we open the front door. The mouthwatering scent of lasagna beckons me, so I ditch Austin at the bathroom and continue down the hall to the kitchen. The kid’s seven. Surely he doesn’t need help washing his hands, right?
“Magnolia Rhoads, will you marry me?” I ask, leaning down to plant a kiss on her cheek.
“Please, DH, you’re about ten years and one-point-five kids too late,” she giggles, wiping her hands on the apron slung low under her bulging belly.
I grip my heart. “You’re still the only woman who’s ever turned me down.”
“And I still can’t get rid of you.” Maggie smiles and swats my hand away from a basket of breadsticks, then slices a cucumber into a bowl of salad. “How was your afternoon?”
“I got my ass handed to me in bowling, but I made up for it in the arcade.” I pop a crouton in my mouth. “I got to thinking on the way home—Austin’s so good he could probably bet against y’all’s friends. He’d make bank. Think of it as easy money for his college fund.”
“I am not having my son turn into a hustler at Tornado Alley,” she warns, pointing the tip of the knife at me.
“Just a suggestion.” I chuckle as Austin enters the kitchen and climbs up on the barstool at the island, snatching a crouton from me mid-toss.
“Mom, Uncle D has cooties.”
“You can’t just walk in here, steal my food, and rat me out, dude.” I try to look stern, but his green eyes and crooked front tooth get me every time. I’m such a damn pushover.
“What do you mean he has cooties?” Maggie prods.
“He kisses girls.” He repeats the same gagging noise from earlier in the afternoon.
“You were kissing girls while you were out with Austin?” She takes a step toward me, knife still in hand. Very sharp knife, I might add.
“There was no kissing, I swear!” I jump backward and stand behind Austin. Yes, I’m fully aware that I’m using my seven-year-old nephew as cover, thank you. “We were talking about boys who kiss girls and how they have cooties. For the record, Eric has cooties and it’s all your fault,” I say pointedly.
“So help me, DH, if I get wind that you’re pulling some Romeo stuff while you’re out with Austin, I won’t hesitate to castra—”
“Hey! It’s the oven timer!” I interrupt, leaving my spot behind Austin. “Why don’t I get that for my favorite pseudo-sister-in-law?” I offer my most charming grin. Maggie rolls her eyes while I silence the alarm and open the oven door.
I grab the pot holders and take the first one out. “Two lasagnas?”
“One for you and Eric, and one for the rest of us,” Maggie clarifies.
“You’re taking this ‘eating for two’ thing to heart, aren’t you?” Maggie is practically a sister to me, so she’s an open target for pestering and ridicule. I consider it my personal mission to poke at her when I can.
“Keep making comments like that to the pregnant lady with the knife,” she quips, her right brow nearly at her hairline.
I set the second dish on the cooling rack and turn the oven off. “You can’t kill me, Mags. I hear they don’t give epidurals in jail, and orange isn’t your color.”
“She’s not going to jail, DH. She has an alibi. I was with her the whole time,” Allison jokes, entering the kitchen. She kisses Maggie on the cheek, puts a cheesecake in the refrigerator, then plops down on a barstool next to Austin.
“Like I said, the other lasagna is for the rest of us.” Maggie gestures at Ali with the knife. I need to get that thing away from her, for everyone’s health and well-being. I’d rather not put my PJ training to work tonight. Ali grabs a breadstick from the basket and bites into it with a moan, but Maggie doesn’t bat an eye.
“Hey, that’s no fair! How come she gets to have one, but I can’t?” I pout.
“Because she just got off a twelve-hour shift,” Maggie says sweetly. Before I can protest, Paige comes in, sits next to Ali, and helps herself to a breadstick. “And she—” Maggie nods at Paige, “just got done with a seven-hour road trip.”
“Road trip?” I repeat, glancing at Paige. Her blond hair is piled in a mess of curls at the top of her head, accented by a pair of aviator sunglasses. The letters “ULM” strain against her tits, making me wish I knew what they meant. Utterly luscious mammaries? Unbelievable lactation machines? Ultimate lady melons?
“I just got back from visiting Chad. Thanks again for looking at my car before I left.” Her glossy pink lips form a perfect O as she takes another bite. All these letters make me wish I could spin the wheel, s
olve the puzzle, and claim her as my prize. Christ, I need to get laid.
“That’s why you needed your car fixed?” I lean back against the granite countertop and fold my arms across my chest.
“Well, I needed it fixed anyway, but yeah, I didn’t want to make a fourteen-hour round trip with Ruby making funny noises.”
If I’d have known she was going to see Chad, I could have faked needing to order a part. Or told her it was going to take a couple of days to get it fixed. Anything to keep her from wasting a couple of days of her life with a douche who doesn’t know a damn thing about her spark plugs. I know that fucker was the one who worked on her car last; her expression said as much when I mentioned what the problem was. Thinking about him sends a rush of irritation through me. How in the hell is he okay with living seven hours away from a woman like Paige? Does he not know what he’s missing out on?
“Damn, it smells good in here,” Eric calls, bringing me out of my thoughts. He crosses the kitchen and rubs his wet hair on Maggie’s shoulder before wrapping an arm around her and kissing the side of her head. She shrieks, but leans in to his embrace anyway.
“Come on, everything’s ready.” Maggie makes a sweeping motion toward the food scattered on the counters. Even though my stomach is threatening to eat itself out of hunger, I wait until the women and child have gotten their plates before I get mine. I made that mistake once when I was fifteen, and I swear I can still feel Aunt Helen flicking my ear.
Paige sits across from me at the farmhouse dining table and listens to Ali and Maggie chat about their parents’ upcoming international adoption while Eric, Austin, and I discuss highlights from the Thunder’s latest basketball game. Until a flash of light from across the table catches my eye.
Coming from a ring.
On Paige’s ring finger.
On her left hand.
“The fuck?” I ask, pointing to the diamond. Paige blushes, realizing everyone is staring at her, and takes a gulp from her wine glass.
“Yeah, I sort of got engaged while I was back home,” she admits quietly.
