Page 32 of Spring Break with a Slap Shot

I glance at my reflection in the rearview mirror. My curly auburn hair has escaped its ponytail, forming a chaotic mess around my face. My green eyes—the ones Dakota has named—look back at me, tired and a little wild.

My phone rings again. This time it's not my boss or my mother, but a Charleston area code. The local weather service, probably. I answer, putting it on speaker.

"Baker."

"Harmony, it's Tom Jenkins from Charleston NWS. Your office said you might be headed our way?"

I wince. So my hasty departure didn't go unnoticed. "I'm tracking the system. Your team is underestimating its strength."

"Actually, we just upgraded our alert. Category 1, possible Category 2 by landfall. Are you really driving into this?"

"I have experience with systems like this." It's not a direct answer.

"Well, if you make it here safely, we could use your expertise. Just... be careful. Roads are washing out along the coast."

After we hang up, I feel slightly better. At least now I have a professional justification for this insane journey. I'm not chasing Dakota; I'm chasing the storm. I'm providing my expertise to colleagues. This has nothing to do with wanting to look Dakota Miles in the eye and ask why—why pursue me so relentlessly only to walk away?

The storm intensifies as night turns to dawn. I stop at a truck stop for coffee and to stretch my legs. The TV behind the counter shows weather alerts scrolling across the bottom of the screen. Hurricane warnings for the Carolina coast. Evacuation orders for some barrier islands.

"You heading east?" the cashier asks, eyeing my professional-grade rain jacket and the equipment visible in my car.

"Storm chaser?" I reply, which isn't exactly a lie.

She shakes her head. "Y'all are crazy. But good luck."

Back on the road, fatigue tugs at me. I've been awake for nearly thirty hours now, running on caffeine and hurt feelings. Not the safest combination. I find a motel just off the highway and check in for a few hours, setting multiple alarms. I can't afford to lose too much time, but driving exhausted into a hurricane is a death wish.

In the shabby motel room, I spread my maps and printouts across the bed. The storm has intensified further, now a solid Category 1 with sustained winds of 90 mph. Charleston will feel its effects within hours. I think of Dakota's beachfront house, shared with his teammates. I wonder if they've evacuated or if they're riding it out, cocky and confident as always.

I doze fitfully, dreaming of hazel eyes and howling winds.

The alarm jolts me awake three hours later. Outside, the sky is an ominous green-gray, a color that makes every meteorologist's pulse quicken. Time to move.

Back on the road, I call the Charleston office.

"I'm about four hours out," I tell Tom. "What's the situation?"

"Deteriorating. We've got storm surge predictions of eight to ten feet for the barrier islands. Most residents have evacuated, but you know how it is—always some holdouts."

I think of Dakota again. Is he a holdout type? Probably. Too stubborn and sure of himself to leave.

The rain becomes torrential as I approach the South Carolina border. Twice I have to detour around flooded roads. The sky is nearly black despite it being midday, and the wind buffets my Subaru like it's trying to push me back.

Ten miles from the state line, disaster nearly strikes. A massive oak tree, its root system weakened by saturated soil, crashes down just yards ahead of me. I slam on my brakes, the car fishtailing before coming to a stop mere feet from the massive trunk.

My heart hammers against my ribs. Too close. I'm breathing hard, hands shaking on the wheel. For the first time, I question what I'm doing. Chasing a storm to a city where a man who doesn't want me lives? Risking my life for... what? Closure? An explanation?

I pull over at the next rest area, which is deserted except for a couple of emergency vehicles. Rain pounds against my windshield in sheets, making it impossible to see more than a few feet. On my tablet, I pull up the latest radar. The storm has turned slightly, its eye now tracking just east of Charleston. The city will be hit by the dangerous right quadrant of the hurricane, where winds are strongest.

I should turn back. This is foolish. Dangerous. Unprofessional.

But as I sit there, watching the swirling patterns of the storm on my screen, something shifts inside me. Weather systems are unpredictable. We can model them, track them, name them—but in the end, they do what they do, governed by forces too complex for even our best computers to fully map.

People are like that too.

Dakota Miles is like that too.

I've spent my entire adult life trying to predict the unpredictable, to control the uncontrollable. I chase certainty in a world of chaos. And when I couldn't predict Dakota—couldn't control how he made me feel or what he would do—I panicked.

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