Page 33 of Spring Break with a Slap Shot

The realization hits me like a gust of wind: I'm not really chasing him for answers. I'm chasing the feeling of being alive that I had with him. The feeling of being out of control, at the mercy of something powerful and beautiful and terrifying.

Just like a storm.

I take a deep breath and pull back onto the highway. The rain is still coming down in sheets, but visibility has improved slightly. According to my GPS, I'm three hours from Charleston. According to the radar, the storm's eye will make landfall in about the same timeframe.

Perfect timing, indeed.

As I drive, I make peace with the uncertainty. Maybe Dakota will talk to me. Maybe he won't. Maybe the storm will be as bad as predicted. Maybe it won't. The only certainty is that I'm driving into something unpredictable, and for once, I'm okay with that.

My phone rings—the Charleston weather service again.

"Harmony, where are you?" Tom sounds stressed.

"About to cross into South Carolina."

"Listen, the barrier islands are completely cut off. Storm surge has overtaken the causeways. If you're coming to help with forecasting, head straight to our office downtown."

"What about evacuations for the islands?"

"Coast Guard is handling critical cases, but anyone still out there is basically riding it out now. Including your boyfriend and his teammates, if that's why you're really coming."

I don't bother correcting him about Dakota's status. "How do you know they're still there?"

"Because one of them—Grey? Gray?—called in reporting conditions. Said they've boarded up and have supplies. Crazy hockey players think they're invincible."

Asher Gray. Dakota's roommate and teammate. Of course they stayed.

The wind howls around my car as I continue southeast, following a route that skirts the worst flooding according to my radar. The storm has begun to wobble, its trajectory shifting subtly. This is common near landfall, but it makes predictions harder.

Just like Dakota wobbled when things between us got serious. Just like his surety shifted when I told him I was falling in love with him.

Two hours from Charleston, the worst of the outer bands hit me. Driving becomes an exercise in white-knuckled focus. The wind pushes against my car so hard that staying in my lane is a constant battle. Rain comes in horizontal sheets, reducing visibility to almost nothing. Twice I have to ford sections of road where water pools dangerously high.

But I keep going, guided by my knowledge of storm systems and a stubborn determination I didn't know I possessed until Dakota Miles broke my heart.

An hour outside the city, the wind shifts suddenly. The pressure drops—I can feel it in my ears. The storm's eye is making landfall. For a brief period, the rain lessens, though the wind continues to howl. This is my window.

I push forward, grateful for my Subaru's all-wheel drive as I navigate around debris and standing water. The city appearsthrough the gloom, buildings hunkered down against the storm's assault. Downtown Charleston looks like a ghost town, streets empty except for emergency vehicles.

I head straight to the National Weather Service office, as requested. But as I near the turnoff, I hesitate. The storm's eye is moving through. Soon the back end will hit—often more dangerous than the front, with its sudden wind shifts and potential tornadoes.

Dakota's house is on Pawleys Island. Currently cut off by the storm surge.

I make a decision. I call Tom at the office.

"I'm not coming in yet," I tell him. "I need to check something first."

"Harmony, don't be stupid. The barrier islands are completely inaccessible right now."

"I know these systems. The storm surge will recede temporarily as the eye passes. There's a window."

"That's insane. Even if you could get out there, you'd be trapped when the back end hits."

He's right, of course. It is insane. But so is driving through a hurricane for a man who broke up with me three days ago. In for a penny, in for a pound.

"I'll be careful," I promise, then hang up before he can argue further.

I turn east, toward the coast, toward Pawleys Island, toward Dakota. As I drive, the skies lighten fractionally—the strange, eerie calm of the hurricane's eye.

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