Page 33 of Praying for Rain

“And here you are.”

Wes looks around and raises one dark, unimpressed eyebrow. “Yeah. Here I am.”

“You know, I’m kinda glad your house burned down.” I smile, clutching the weights even tighter.

The corner of his grumpy mouth curls upward as those liquid green eyes drop to my chest. “Whatcha got there?”

I look down. “Oh! I made metal detectors!” I hold up the large gray discs to show him my ingenious invention. I can’t quite feel my face, thanks to all the painkillers, but if I could, I’m sure it would be sore as hell from this stupid grin.

A deep laugh rumbles in Wes’s chest. I feel it vibrate through my body, causing every hair to stand at attention. The air is charged—and not just from the thunder and lightning.

Tell me I did good.

Tell me you’re proud of me.

Tell me you’ll keep me forever and ever.

Wes opens his mouth, but none of those things come out. Instead, he takes two steps toward me, reaches out, plucks the magnets from my hands like they weigh nothing, and says, “I’m kind of glad my house burned down, too.”

My smile widens into a maniacal grin. I rear back to tackle-hug him when an explosion so loud it sounds like an atom bomb causes us both to duck and cover. The lightning strike rattles what’s left of the glass out of the front doors and reverberates through the metal awning above us like a tuning fork. My ears are ringing so badly; I barely register that Wes is shouting at me. I blink at him and try to shake off my daze.

“That was the fucking roof! Come on!”

Wes spins me around and shoves the magnets into our already-overstuffed backpack. Then, he throws on his helmet and straddles the bike. The second my arms wrap around his middle, he stomps on the kick-start and plunges us face-first into the storm. I point toward a gap in the woods across the street where the trail starts. Then—clinging to Wes with my free hand—I struggle to yank the hood of my sweatshirt out from under the backpack and onto my head as we fly through what feels like a never-ending waterfall. The rain is pounding on us so hard I wonder if it’s hailing.

Once we get into the woods, the rain doesn’t hurt as much, but it’s just as heavy, flooding the trail with thick brown mud.

“Wipe my visor!” Wes shouts back to me, unable to let go of the throttle or the clutch.

I use my left hand like a windshield wiper, but the second I stop, Wes shouts at me to keep doing it.

“Just take it off!” I shout back, but Wes shakes his head in response.

Another bolt of lightning explodes about a hundred yards in front of us. I shriek as sparks fly from the pine tree it struck, followed by cracks and snaps as it crashes to earth.

Skidding sideways, Wes suddenly stops and pulls the helmet off his head. “I can’t see shit!”

“Me either,” I yell, holding on to him with both hands and pressing my forehead against his back. My hoodie is soaked through, but at least it’s keeping the rain out of my eyes.

More crashes pop and echo all around us as dead branches fall from great heights.

Wes mutters something I can’t quite hear before taking off again. I hold on tight, keeping my head down as he accelerates. The force of the rain intensifies, telling me that we’re not in the woods anymore, so I look up.

And immediately want to vomit.

Wes is barreling across an open field toward the last place I want to be right now.

The one place he knows is empty.

A yellow farmhouse with white trim.

Wes

I drive right up onto that little shit’s patio and use my helmet to break out the glass in his back door. I hope Rain wasn’t lying about his family being out of town. The only thing country folk love more than God is their goddamn guns. This could get ugly.

I reach inside and unlock the deadbolt, grateful that it’s the old-school kind that doesn’t require a key. Turning around, I find Rain standing on the porch with her hood over her head, staring at the house like it’s gonna eat her alive. I grab her by the elbow and yank her inside as another bolt of lightning drops into the woods like a bomb.

Once the door’s shut—or what’s left of it—I push the wet hair out of my face and stomp across the kitchen. I can’t fucking believe this shit. There’s a concrete fallout shelter less than a mile away, but I’m standing in a wooden tinderbox in the middle of a lightning storm.

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