Page 42 of Stuck With the Best Man

Stuck in traffic somewhere in Connecticut,I type back.I’m fine. Love you.

Barely two seconds after the message sends, my screen lights up with an incoming phone call.

I sigh loudly and answer, shooting an apologetic glance at Ben.

“I said I’mfine, Gram,” I answer in lieu of hello.

“You tell that boy to get off the roads right now, Ruby Jane Sullivan.”

“I won’t be doing that,” I reply evenly. “We’re in the middle of nowhere. We just have a couple more hours left until we reach the city.”

On the other end of the line, she scoffs loudly. Gram rarely gets visibly upset, but it’s evident that she’s not pleased to discover that I’m caught in the storm.

“It’s not safe. You’re really going to risk your life like that? You won’t have any toes to dance on if this hurricane sweeps you away into the sea!”

“Okay, well, it’s not yet a hurricane in this particular area,” I say, trying to sound calm and rational even though the sound of Gram’s panic is making me feel panicky all over again. “And I think my toes will be fine. I’ve got to go, okay? I’m distracting Ben and he needs to focus on the road. I love you.”

“Ruby—”

Even though I know I’ll regret it later, I hang up. To my relief, she doesn’t immediately call back, but I’m sure I’ll have a very strongly worded text message soon enough.

“You weren’t distracting me,” says Ben. “It’s not like the car is moving that much at the moment.”

“This is a disaster.”

“Literally,” he agrees. “A natural disaster.”

It’s hard not to notice that we both have to raise our voices to be heard over the monstrous storm. Just like that, I become a little too aware of the fact that nothing but a steel frame and flimsy glass windows act as a barrier between us and the raging tempest outside.

Then I consider that not choosing to heed the wise woman of the beach’s warnings is a recipe for self-destruction. Or worse.

Still, even though I’m sure Ben heard everything she said loud and clear, neither one of us says a word.

Eventually, after thirty excruciating minutes, we see a mass of flashing yellow lights in the distance. They illuminate a huge road barrier that is bright orange and so reflective it causes me to squint after being so used to relative darkness. There are other lights too—red and blue—from two police cars parked at the front of the mass of traffic, right underneath a sign directing us onto an exit ramp that I hadn’t even realized was coming up.

It takes another twenty minutes before we finally get our turn to get off the highway. Immediately, we are plunged back into darkness. The GPS announces that it’s “rerouting” in a robotic, vaguely feminine voice.

Nearly nine o’clock.

Ben exhales low and long. “Ruby…”

“What?”

“I think we need to find somewhere to stay for the night.”

“Excuse me?”

“It’s just not safe. We can’t drive directly into a hurricane.”

“It’s a tropical storm.”

Ben takes a left onto a narrow country road. I catch a glimpse of a fluorescent-lit convenience store, one paltry streetlight, and little else. I imagine we’ve found ourselves in a small town that very few people travel through on purpose. Thanks to the flooding and rerouting, I bet this town is seeing more traffic than it has in years.

The GPS says that we’re heading in a general northward direction, back up toward western Massachusetts. I curse quietly at the lack of progress.

“You promised you’d get me back home,” I say, feeling like a whiny child even as the words come out.

“Yes, and I meantalive. I’d prefer both of us to stay alive. Listen to what they’re saying on the radio, Ruby. Flash floods. Falling trees. Power outages. It’s extremely dangerous to be on the roads right now.”

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