Page 151 of The Love Haters

WAS THERUEthe Daywell-equipped with safety gear?

I’ll let the full storage tub of flashlights answer that question.

Hutch, it turned out, had several first-aid kits, fresh drinking water, multiple fire extinguishers, and a battery-powered radio that was older than he was. Not to mention a snorkel, flippers, and mask. And a flare gun.

Wait!Don’t call them flippers.

A snorkel,fins, and a mask.

Add to that, a whole closet with life jackets stashed away inside—including, God bless Hutch, a dog-shaped one for George Bailey.

Docile and perhaps slightly catatonic with fear now, he let me zip him into it. Then I did the same for myself.

Next, I found a freezer bag in the kitchenette to waterproof my phone.

Then I turned on a battery-powered lantern.

Then I started to holster the flare gun in the waistband of my jeans before deciding I was more likely to shoot myself with it than do any good—and I put it back in its case.

What next?

Try to figure out the radio? Try to turn on the boat and steer it somehow? Call 911 again? Cry?

Yes. Yes to all those things. At once.

I’m embarrassed to admit how panicked I was. But I wasn’t a crisis person. I wasn’t a woman of action. I wasn’t the dashing hero of the story. I was a mid-level employee at a commercial video-production company!

I didn’t want to have adventures: I wanted to be the person in the backgroundfilming the person having adventures—or, better yet, a person asking a subject toreminisce about long-past adventures.

Who could I appeal to for a do-over?

Adrift in a houseboat with a thunder-phobic dog during a hurricanemight be a bad fit for anyone—but it was the full-on worst for me.

Meanwhile, George Bailey was staring at me like I was in charge.

I flipped some switches on the radio until I could hear broadcasts and interchanges, but, honestly, it was mostly jargon. People talkingaboutknotsandlat and longand saying random numbers. Suitable mostly for background noise. I tried to leave it on for the voices—but then, as the frantic Maydays started coming in, I turned it off.

The shore was receding, and I could only tell because part of the marina was now on fire. Was it a boat? The boathouse? I couldn’t see well enough to know. But the flames were a point of reference, even as they receded into the distance—or we did.

I suddenly felt colder.

And the waves seemed bigger and sharper.

I felt my first rise of nausea, though if it was seasickness or fear, I wasn’t sure.

It’s possible at this point that George Bailey was starting to regret his choices. As I moved around the cabin, frantically trying todo something, he stayed with me like Velcro.

The end of the boat with the shattered window now had a wet floor—in addition to glass shards—one inch of water sliding side to side with the waves.

We stayed at the other end.

Maybe I shouldn’t have, but I scolded George Bailey a little.

“I hate to say this is all your fault,” I said, “but it totally is. If you’d just gone with Lieutenant Alonso, you’d be in Miami by now, all dry and warm and bedded down for the night. And so would I! But now we’ll both die in a watery grave. So thanks for that.”

Then, as if George Bailey had responded with,You’re the one who decided to come back for me, I went on: “What choice did I have? Honestly. I wasn’t leaving you here alone. Not after all you’ve been through. I just wish you had trusted me a little more, you know? Never choose fear, okay? Choose love. Choose trust! When a good person shows up to rescue you, choose that person!”

What was I even saying now?

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