Page 114 of Love Me Tomorrow

35

Savannah

South of the New Orleans metro area, the roads are nothing but winding two-lane highways. During the day, it’s a ten-and-two-hands-on-the-wheel sort of drive. Eyes on the road, foot always ready to pump the brakes for when the sharp turns come along—or for when a gator decides to stalk its way across in search of prey. At night, there’s nothing but a car’s high beams illuminating the Spanish moss hanging from Cypress trees and the flashes of reflective traffic signs instructing drivers to slow the hell down.

When it’s raining, like it is now, the world feels like it’s closing in.

Or maybe it’s thatmyworld feels like it’s caving in.

Rain pelts my windshield, giving my window wipers a run for their money.

“C’mon,” I mutter, sitting forward in my seat as I squint to see through the torrential downpour, “give me a friggin’ break already!”

When it rains, it pours. Literally.

I spent the entire day with my family, huddled together in the home I grew up in. Nothing is perfect—and I doubt it will be for a long time to come—but for the first time in months, I felt the fissured cracks begin to heal, just enough to give me hope. As promised, Mom gave us her side of the story, and then gave Amelie her biological father’s email address. He lives in Miami. Never married. Never had any other kids. “We’ve kept in touch just enough so I could tell him about you,” Mom told my sister, “but he wasn’t prepared to step into your life when you were young and we—we were, admittedly, selfish in wanting to keep you to ourselves.”

Amelie didn’t say she would reach out, but she didn’t discard the idea either.

For once, I’m choosing to step back and move to my own neighboring island.

An island that needs Owen more than it does the sandy beaches or the towering palm trees or the taste of salt on the breeze. I’d claim an island in the Arctic if it meant we could be together.

The tires slice through the rising water on the road, and I give up all attempt to follow traffic laws and drift between the two lanes. One wrong move and I’ll end up stuck in the two-feet deep ditch that sections off the back-road highway from the tangled wetlands of the bayou.

My car makes a chugging noise, the wheels spinning fast when I just manage to avoid hydroplaning off the side of the road.

“Come on, come on,come on.” I smack the dashboard. Almost there. Maybe another two minutes. Three at the most. I may have missed Owen’s call and heart-wrenching voicemail while I was with my family, but I willnotlet him down.

A year and a half ago, I stood by his side at that EOCC meeting, holding him up with quiet support while he listened to his brother—but my hands were still tied. My fingers couldn’t dip beneath his shirt to soothe his tense muscles. My lips were forbidden to touch his cheek, his arm. And my heart . . . Well, I did what I could to lock it in its cage before it gave me away completely.

Tonight will be different.

The rest of our lives will be different.

So long as he doesn’t blame you for putting him in the spotlight in the first place.

Ruthlessly, I shove the thought away and exhale a sigh of relief when his street sign comes into view. Blinker on, I make the turn, moving slower than I did on my very first day behind the wheel when I was fifteen. When I pull into his short driveway, alongside his black truck, I honk the horn to let him know I’ve arrived.

Ignition, off. Umbrella, ready to be popped open. Heart, beating uncontrollably fast. The wind whips at my tiny Miata, the gust all the more powerful since the house sits beside open water.

Swinging the car door open, I bow my head, already lifting the umbrella above me to shield my body from the rain, and promptly run into a brick wall.

Owen.

Big hands find my shoulders, drift down to my elbows. “You’re getting wet!” I angle the umbrella, so it won’t bop him in the face. Rain pelts the cement like tiny rubber balls, pinging back to splash my sandaled feet, my bare calves. A chill sweeps down my spine when thunder cracks overhead, and then it’s all being replaced by heat, by rain, byOwenas he slicks his hands down to my butt and lifts me clear off my feet.

The umbrella falls from my hand, clattering against my car.

Owen’s mouth finds mine in the darkness, his lips wet, his beard damp against my skin. The kiss isn’t polite, and it isn’t a hello—it’s a blending of hearts, of unspoken hope and a promise of safety. I fall into it eagerly, chasing his tongue, wrapping my legs around his hips and linking my ankles so that I won’t go slipping down his soaked frame.

On swift, agile feet, Owen turns us for the stairs that lead up to his front door, never once breaking the kiss. My clothes cling to my skin as he climbs each rung, an urgency to his step that I have a feeling has nothing to do with the summer storm and everything to do with what happened today.

I need you here.

I don’t think I’ll ever purge that voicemail from my head—a confident, successful man brought to his knees by the prospect of losing it all. The bleakness in Owen’s voice ruined me, yanking a whimper from my mouth that my parents heard clear across the living room. And when Dad asked me what was wrong, I gave it to him straight: “Owen needs me, and if you have a problem with that, I don’t want to hear it. You can hate yourself for what you did to him, but you can’t hate him for your mistake. You’re better than that, Pops.Bebetter than that.”

Amelie gave a slow round of applause and Mom lifted her glass of wine in support, and Dad . . . he nodded and drove me to the office so I could grab my car.

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