Page 21 of Stuck With the Best Man

Two hours later and it’s evident that my begging hasn’t worked.

It’s pouring. Buckets of rain gush from the dark clouds, pelting the world with merciless force. The wind is howling—blowing so forcefully that the house is groaning around me. I hope everyone was able to get off the beach fast enough before this tempest struck. High tide will be dangerous; several times in the past, storms have resulted in a flooded Main Street and swept away some of the sand dunes.

But this isn’t a big deal. It’s just another summer storm. By dinnertime, the sky will end its punishment and leave the town to dry itself out. It happens all the time in New England. Sometimes, these storms last only five minutes. Other times, five hours. You never really know for certain.

As long as it’s over by tomorrow morning when I have to head back to New York, I’m content to watch the watery deluge from the comfort of Gram’s living room.

I’m curled up in the window seat, preparing a new pair of pointe shoes. Gram is nestled in a pile of cushions on the floor, using pliers to weave wire around various gemstones to create wearable charms. There’s an old Western film playing on the television that neither one of us is paying much attention to.

The cardboard crunches loudly in my hands when I break the shoe in half backwards. Breaking in pointe shoes is a satisfyingly violent process, and each dancer has their own routine. With the aid of scissors, I rip off the upper half of the shank and then grab my pliers to pry out the tiny little nail that keeps the inner sole attached to the outer. I always feel a bit like a mad scientist performing a forbidden experiment. Luckily, it’s like second nature now, since I go through about two pairs a week. Three or four during the height of performance seasons. It’s a blessing that the company pays for our shoes.

I reach for the liquid glue and squirt it carefully into the toe box to hopefully get a little bit more longevity out of this pair.

Gram hums under her breath, using her own pair of pliers to twist a swirl of silver metal around a jagged chunk of aquamarine. I smile to myself, thinking that we look like two witches in a workshop, dutifully crafting our magical tools.

I thread a needle and then reach for the roll of elastic just as a deafeningboomof thunder rattles the windowpanes.

Gram glances up, brow furrowing. The wind moans, pummeling this little town angrily like beating fists.

“It’s a big one,” she murmurs, then returns to her work.

My stomach drops. That can’t be good.

***

When morning comes, I’m relieved to hear how quiet it is beyond the windows of Gram’s guest room. The rain has stopped. I roll over in bed and gaze past the narrow opening in the curtains at the dull gray light. I guess the sun isn’t in the mood to come out today after all the havoc wrecked overnight.

I reach for my phone, thinking to check if the storm front was large enough to hit New York as well, but then I see an email pop up in my inbox and jolt upright in bed.

“No,” I breathe. “No, no, no…”

My train has been cancelled. I gape at the little CapeFLYER logo in horror. The email doesn’t provide many details, but it does mention that some flooding on the tracks has left them with no other option except to cancel services today…andtomorrow.

“Please, no. This can’t be happening.”

I switch to the website I use for coach bus services, which is sometimes way cheaper than Amtrak, only to discover that they’ve also suspended their services for the next forty-eight hours. I open Twitter and discover many of the trending local news stories include detailed videos of multiple main roads around Boston and the Cape that are completely ruined. Floods, fallen trees, entire chunks of pavement torn away by a river that broke loose from its dam.

It’s all very dramatic.

I fling myself out of bed and stumble downstairs. Gram is in the kitchen, muttering some choice words for the electric kettle that she seriously needs to replace with a more updated model.

“My train is cancelled,” I announce. It comes out more like,I’m doomed and cursed and my life is over.

Gram nods and offers me a sympathetic smile. “Cedar Road is blocked off. Tree fell last night. East side of town doesn’t have power. Beach flooded too.”

“Oh, no no no.” I sink down into a chair at the table. “I need to get back to New York.”

I can’t wait another two days to go back to the city. Rehearsals for the ridiculous modern ballet Ben chose for us this summer start Wednesday morning, which means that I need to be in the studionow. I shouldn’t have even left for Eva’s wedding. If I was a worse person, I might not have come at all. That’s how much this matters.

Even if I can get on the first train out of here, I probably won’t be back in Manhattan until late Wednesday, and that’s only if there are no delays, no technical issues, no traffic, and no other storms on the horizon. Missing one rehearsal isn’t necessarily a disaster, but I have a perfect attendance record, and I can’t afford to sully it if I’m actually going to be promoted anytime soon.

Gram sighs. “I’m sure there’s some configuration of back roads you can take down to the city that haven’t been messed up too badly by the storm. I’d offer you my car, but…”

But she needs her car. Obviously. What would I even do with a Subaru hatchback once I get to Manhattan? I wouldn’t even know where to park it.

I might be able to borrow Amy’s car, since she’s away for another couple of weeks anyway, but then she’d still have to come and fetch it from New York at some point, and that’s just too much of a burden to shoulder on my sister.

Don’t panic, I beg myself.Stay calm. Think of your options.

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