by McCall Hoyle
“Finn?”
“Yeah?”
I want to ask him what he was thinking back in ninth grade when he didn’t show up for the dance, moved away, and didn’t call. But I don’t want to make a big deal out of something that was obviously not a big deal to him.
“Ummm . . .” If I had a free foot, I’d kick myself in hopes of restarting my voice.
“I’m all ears here.” He rests his head on the wall close to mine as though he’s got all day, and I guess he does.
I say in a small voice, “I just—I’ve always wondered why you never got in touch or explained about standing me up. I mean, now I know about your dad . . . but still . . .”
“Standing you up?” The air between us shifts when he lifts his head away from the wall.
Surely I wasn’t so unimportant that he can’t even remember we were supposed to meet at the dance. I try to slide my hand out of his, but he squeezes a little tighter. “Yeah. You know. We were going to meet at the ninth-grade homecoming dance. I mean, it was our first high school dance. I was pretty excited . . .” I hate the way my voice keeps trailing off, betraying me with its weakness.
“All the teachers knew about my dad. I thought one of them would have said something to everyone.”
My posture’s so stiff, I’m brittle—a puff of air and I might disintegrate. I don’t answer.
“They didn’t tell you, did they? About my dad?” he asks, like he recognizes the hurt in my voice despite my best attempt to hide it. “It happened so fast—him being selected for the trial. But I should’ve told you in person. I’m so sorry, Sophie. I—” He swallows. “That’s why you’ve been so distant with me, isn’t it? Because I didn’t show up for the dance?” He sounds relieved, like he just remembered where he left his phone or keys.
My chest untightens a notch, and it hits me. I’ve been so worried about my hurt feelings, I’ve barely considered how awful it must have been to leave so suddenly under such horrible circumstances. My broken heart abruptly seems a little immature and a little overly dramatic.
When he pulls me to his side, my frayed nerves untangle a bit. “I was stupid—” I lean into the warmth of his side.
“You could never be stupid, Bookworm.” He rests the side of his face on the top of my head.
I can’t be certain in the pitch dark if he’s smiling, but something in his voice makes it sound like he is.
If we survive this storm together, I think I may be able to find a way to give him a second chance.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
A beam in the darkness: let it grow.
ALFRED, LORD TENNYSON
We sit for what seems like a lifetime in the dark without saying a word. Finn’s arm never leaves my shoulders. Despite the blackness, I occasionally feel his gaze on my face.
“Can we lie down?” he asks. “My back’s killing me.”
“Yeah.” I try to sound cool, but I’m not sure how that’s going to work. Are we going to lie face-to-face? I lick my gums and teeth in a lame attempt to freshen my breath.
“Here,” he says, patting the flannel blanket on the floor as he squishes against the back wall of the closet. I lie parallel to his body like a two-by-four. When I shiver, he pulls me back against his chest, and it doesn’t feel weird or awkward. It feels safe.
It’s suddenly hard to believe I thought I needed to protect myself from this—from Finn. Hard to believe I thought closing my heart, keeping it safe, was more important than the warm embrace of a boy I care about—really care about.
Yesenia would be so happy. She loves being right. The swishy feeling in my stomach kind of affirms that Tennyson quotation she’s always repeating. Plus, she’d finally get to add a few checks to the bucket list she’s been keeping for me all these years.
When something crashes in the distance, I flinch and remind myself I have to survive this storm if I hope to check anything off Yesenia’s silly list.
“I wish we had music or a book or something,” I say over the racket of my pulse and racing heart.
“We could talk.” His breath brushes the edge of my ear and sends tickly shivers along my throat and neck.
“About what?” I ask.
“Anything.”
“How much longer do you think this will last?”
“Anything but the weather. Okay?”
“Okay.” I browse my mental file cabinet but come up blank, suddenly realizing how small my world is. My life is pretty much school, school, school, the barn, and worrying about Mere and Mom and . . . school. “Um, I love to read.”
“Everybody knows that. Tell me something I don’t know. Greatest fear?”
Everything. I can’t tell him there are too many choices to pick just one.
He squeezes my hip. “Come on, give me something here. What’s your greatest fear?”
I remain frozen in place, not wanting to sever the line from his arm to his hand to my hip but not wanting to answer his question either. No. It’s more than that. I don’t know how to answer his question. “I don’t know.”
“Yes, you do.” He jostles my hip again.
“What are you afraid of?” I whisper.
“I’m afraid of spiders and snakes and opossums.”
“Opossums? No, you’re not.” I nudge him in the stomach with my elbow. There’s no way a guy who surfs in hurricane waters can be afraid of a furry, pointy-nosed critter. He must be kidding.
“Wait. Wait.” The wind howls while he thinks. “Got it—climate change.”
“Really? You’re afraid of climate change?”
“Yep. It’s serious. If we don’t do something to reverse the arctic ice melt, we’ll be under water—Outer Banks, bye-bye.”
“Hmm.”
“What?”
“I just thought you’d be afraid of something . . . scarier.”
“What’s scarier than melting polar icecaps and rising sea levels?”
“For me—losing something I love.” My words drape over us like a heavy quilt.
“Losing things we love is a part of life, Sophie. We can’t avoid it.”
“Yes, but . . .” I tell myself to stop, abort, shut up.
“But what?”
“It’s not just my sister I lost in the accident. I mean . . . You know what I mean. I lost my dad too.”
“Oh, Soph. I’m sorry. I didn’t know he died—”
“He didn’t.” I force air through tight lips. “It was worse than that.”
“Worse?”
I blink back the tears in my eyes. “Yes.” I take a deep breath and swallow before continuing. “He didn’t die. He . . . he walked out on us.” I’ve never said this out loud to anyone. Of course, Yesenia knows, but she respects my silence. We haven’t talked about it since the week after Dad left, when she asked about his absence. I said he needed space, but Yesenia’s smart. She didn’t miss the increasing number of beer cans on the coffee table or the way Dad’s complexion turned from golden brown to sickly yellow.
Finn squeezes me even tighter, resting his chin on top of my head. We lie in silence for several long minutes.
“It’s bad to lose someone you love because of an accident or sickness. It’s worse when the person makes a conscious decision to walk away and not look back.” Pinching my eyes closed, I will myself not to cry.
“When did it happen?”
“It was a few months after the accident. He couldn’t handle Mere’s disability, the mounting medical bills, or his own guilt. He was the one driving. He started drinking and taking too many pills to deal with the pain and just never stopped.”
“Would it have been better if he died?”
“No. Yes. I don’t know.” I bite the inside of my cheek. “It’s why . . . I just can’t . . . It just seems like I always lose people. I can’t lose anyone else.”
“I don’t know—you’re pretty tough.” He rubs his fisted knuckles playfully in my hair, the same way Dad did when I was a kid.
I don’t laugh. “No, Finn. I’m seriou
s. I’m not like you.”
The closet is quiet. For once, he doesn’t have anything to say. He lets the stillness settle around us. After what seems like forever, he finally speaks. “Then I guess you better get some cats or something.”
“That’s a pretty good idea, actually.” I laugh, trying to sound unconcerned and trying not to think about how much I miss Jim’s little whiskered face.
“You might change your mind,” he mumbles a minute later, unable to disguise the exhaustion in his voice. We’ve been going like this for too long.
“Doubtful,” I whisper, lying perfectly still, and then listening to his rhythmic breathing. I don’t begrudge him the sleep. We’re both drained. If we’re going to think clearly, we both need rest.
But I can’t sleep. I lie awake rehashing our conversation. I can say I won’t open my heart to that kind of risk ever again. But the truth is I think I already have. Finn seems to have weakened my defenses and snuck inside when I wasn’t looking.
CHAPTER TWENTY
Like glimpses of forgot ten dreams.
ALFRED, LORD TENNYSON
When I open my eyes, I feel like I’ve aged seventy years. My bones hurt. My muscles ache. My shoulder throbs, reminding me I should probably take some more Tylenol. But when I hear Finn’s soft breathing beside me, I smile despite the discomfort.
I lift my head a couple of inches off the floor. Nothing tilts or spins. I must be improving. Cocking my ear to the door, I listen for the storm. But the house is silent. The world is silent. Sitting up, I reach around in the dark for the doorknob on the inside of the closet. The room outside the door is slightly less black than the closet around us.
Part of me wants to rest, but an image of that poor horse invades my thoughts. He probably didn’t make it in his condition. My heartstrings stretch until they threaten to snap when I think about the wild horse out there alone. If he managed to survive but didn’t get far, he’ll need fresh water.
I hate to wake Finn, but I have to check on that horse. We also need a plan. We need a phone and probably medical attention for both of us.
“Finn, wake up.” I wiggle his shoulder, ready to do something—anything. I have to let Mom know I’m okay. I’m sure she and Mere are fine. They left with time to spare. But I need to know they’re okay, and despite my text, Mom must be going crazy by now. “I think the storm has passed.”
“Umm hmm,” he answers, but makes no effort to move.
“We have to get out of here and get help.” I clap my hands in the general vicinity of his face when he still doesn’t budge. The sharp noise brings him to attention, accomplishing what my voice couldn’t.
He sits up, banging his head on the wall and grunting. “Huh? What? Oh. Right. The storm.” Standing, he grips his lower leg and shakes it like it fell asleep or something.
“I think it’s passed. It’s quiet out there.” Rubbing my sore back, I push myself to standing. “And we need to go look for that horse.”
Finn hobbles around behind me, oddly quiet. We move toward the living room like wounded warriors. His shoulder pops when he stretches. Soft light filters in through the boarded-up windows, shining on the gray embers in the fireplace. As I hold my breath, we approach the front door together. Without speaking, we step across the threshold and onto the deck.
Wind blows the hair off my face, but it’s more like a really brisk breeze than a gale-force wind. Tree limbs crisscross the driveway like pickup sticks. The railing at the front of the church that supported my weight yesterday leans forward precariously. One strong gust will send it tumbling down the sand. Shards of stained glass reach up from the bottom of a large round window, pointing at the disgruntled clouds churning northward.
Standing tall and straight, the church steeple remains in stark contrast to all the destruction surrounding us. The trees around the buildings have been leveled like one of Aunt Mae’s pastures in the wake of her Bush Hog. Blown in from who knows where, an overturned lawn chair lies on its side. Broken glass, torn shingles, and a tattered flag litter the parking lot beside the church.
“Let’s see if we have a better view from the church,” Finn says without looking at me.
“Do you think it’s safe?” I drag my feet, wondering if we’re pushing our luck up here.
“It looks solid. Just don’t get too close to the edge.”
“Don’t worry, I won’t,” I say, stepping over a stick blocking our path. Soon we’re standing on the church deck, scanning the horizon, the dunes, the shoreline. There’s nothing, no one—no emergency personnel cruising the road below, no Coast Guard helicopter patrolling the beach. We’re on our own. That’s something only coastal natives and hurricane survivors fully understand. Just because you survive the high winds and actual storm doesn’t mean you’re safe. Very often lives are lost after a storm because of flooding or injury or plain old stupidity.
We can’t let our guard down. We need to be careful. But I can’t stop thinking about the injured horse.
Finn seems to read my mind. “He’s fine, Sophie. Those horses are like dinosaurs. They’ll survive everything short of a nuclear event or a great asteroid.”
“But he was alone and injured.” I squint down at the dunes, but it’s useless. Without the advantage of standing on the railing, I can make out only a thin sliver of sand at the ridge of the dune line.
“He didn’t have to go far. Just beyond the storm surge.” Finn’s voice is optimistic, but his sentences are oddly short and to the point.
I chew on my lip, wondering if I’ve done something to offend Finn. Or said something to annoy him. Or maybe he just woke up on the wrong side of the closet; the boy hasn’t cracked a joke since he woke up. It doesn’t matter. We don’t have time to stand around chatting anyway.
“He’ll be hungry.” My stomach growls in sympathy.
“You’re hungry,” Finn says, obviously trying to distract me from my concern and change the subject. “Under the right conditions, animals can go without food for days—maybe weeks.”
I’m not going to be dissuaded so easily. “These aren’t the right conditions. And he can’t go days or weeks without water. Please—let’s just look around.”
He runs a hand through his hair. The please seems to crack his resolve. “Okay. But we need to eat and clean your shoulder before we go traipsing down to the beach. And if we can’t find him quickly, he’s on his own. He’ll be fine.”
Back in the kitchen, we scrounge around in the cabinets for something to eat. I find a box of unopened crackers and a jar of peanut butter. He finds a bottle of apple juice in the fridge and a gallon of milk. Finn was smart to leave the refrigerator door closed last night. The juice isn’t cold, but it’s not warm either. We agree it’s fine to drink. We can’t drink the milk, but I have an idea for the container.
Sitting at the small round table, we share a knife but don’t talk. We should be giddy with excitement. We survived. It may take a few hours or most of the day, but we’ll find help. Someone will be out looking for survivors now that the storm has passed.
Standing, I brush cracker crumbs from my lap, pour the milk down the drain, then head toward the bathroom with the empty jug.
“What’re you doing?” he asks.
“Going to get water from the toilet tank in case we find the horse.”
His forehead wrinkles with doubt.
“It’s not ideal, but it’ll work,” I say, stopping to down the Advil he left on the table with the last of my juice.
I know one gallon of water isn’t going to do much for a horse that size, but a little bit of something is better than a whole lot of nothing. On the way back from the bathroom, I grab Mere’s compass from the mantel. There’s no way I’m losing it again.
Finn sits at the kitchen table, gripping his head in his hands. He doesn’t speak when I set the water and compass near him on the table or when I start digging around in the kitchen drawers.
Lifting his head, he tracks me with his eyes. “What are you loo
king for?”
“This.” I turn around after pulling pen and paper from the drawer beside the phone.
“Are we taking notes or something?”
“No. We’re leaving notes.” I turn back to the counter and lean down to start writing. Dear Homeowner . . .
Finn moves up behind me. “We didn’t leave a note at the other place.”
“We didn’t have time—” I stop when he reaches into the drawer at my hip and starts rummaging around.
“What the—” He pulls out a small cardboard box with a picture of a radio on the front. “This would have come in handy yesterday.”
“It probably needs batteries,” I say without looking up from my thank-you note to the person whose house we invaded.
“No. Look. It’s genius.” He taps the box. “Uses rechargeable lithium-ion battery, hand crank, or solar power.” He drops the unopened box into a plastic grocery bag. “We’re taking this with us.”
Capping the pen, I cross my arms. “We can’t take anything. The storm’s passed. It was different when we didn’t know if we’d survive.”
“Sophie, we still don’t know if we’ll survive. We take the radio.”
His terseness throws me off. “Okay. Whatever.” I uncap the pen and write a P.S.—hope you don’t mind we borrowed the weather radio as well.
Finn drops a handful of granola bars in the plastic bag, then shoves each arm through one of the handles, like he’s wearing a makeshift backpack. He and I both reach for the milk jug on the table and bump hands.
“I can carry something.” I pull the water from his grasp. He doesn’t even argue. Now I know something is wrong. “Finn, are you okay?”
“Sure.” His lips curve into what would be a genuine smile on anyone else. But without a sparkle in his eyes to match, he’s not fooling me. When he smiles, his eyes always light up—always.
“You’re never this serious—or this quiet.”
“I’m good. I think this storm just knocked the wind out of me or something.” He pauses before nudging my good shoulder with his free hand. “Pun intended. Get it? Knocked the wind out of me?”
