Page 119 of Yes No Maybe

He holds up the image—Tom and Vernon on his doorstep in a debate, each holding different sprinkler heads.

I laugh. “Looks serious. I should go anyway. I have a hundred essays on the stylistic differences between classic and contemporary lit waiting for me. Continue this later?”

“As soon as possible. Let’s hunker down at your place for the storm, huh?”

“Sounds like a plan,” I say, not hiding my cheesy grin.

Forty

Rowan

Latethenextnight,I stare at the TV weather map, where red lines band their way into our region. Hurricane Nadine has been downgraded to a tropical storm. But winds rattle the trees and whistle through the woodwork of the little house. Rain pours in thick sheets, underscored by low rumbles of thunder.

It’s my first significant storm in the little house.

But hunkering down with Jack has eradicated anxieties over what’s happening outside. Cards from abandoned games are strewn across the coffee table next to empty glasses of wine and nibbled cheeses and crackers on a snack tray. An empty popcorn bowl sits there, too, from the movie we watched earlier. It’s felt like a sexy slumber party, only it’s gotten late. He dozes on the opposite side of the couch, our legs entangled under a blanket.

A crack of lightning stirs him. He sits up, rubbing his tired eyes. “Shit, I should check on Harper Lee. She hates loud storms.”

“Bring her back here. Edgar won’t mind.”

“I’ll grab my laptop, too. Feeling inspired,” he says coyly.

“Oh, by dreamland? Because you were snoring a minute ago,” I chuckle.

His brow knits. “I don’t snore, liar.” He leans over me, giving me a soft kiss. “Back in a minute.”

His words are bookended by winds howling across the chimney top. A shiver races through me as the front door shuts behind him.

I take our dirty dishes to the kitchen to clean up before bed. With the rain coming down in sheets against the sliding glass doors, I get a towel from the bathroom—Jack’ll be drenched when he returns.

Several minutes pass. I resettle on the couch, eyes glued to the storm coverage.

An explosive crash and a bright light make me scream and curl against the couch. The power flickers out. Cracking comes next, and a low whistle before the ground shakes in a massive thud with a raucous explosion that rips through the house. Though I can’t see the source of the noise, it sounds like a tank has taken a slow detour through the walls and over the floorboards, crushing the little house under its belted wheels.

The tree!

Edgar darts like a gazelle from the couch to my bedroom, surely hiding under the bed. Grabbing my heavy-duty flashlight from the kitchen, I go in the opposite direction—to the laundry room and converted garage. Opening the door reveals the tree, splayed and broken in brittle bits across the converted garage. The outer walls and roof are gone. A rainbow of notebooks, books, and art supplies forms a debris bed, presently soaking in the pouring rain. To the left, netting from the screened-in porch wraps around its trunk like an odd blanket, and to the right, my car’s hood acts as a pillow for the tree’s piney tips.

But this damage is nothing compared to what my flashlight reveals across the gap between our houses.

“Jack!”

I shut the outer door, securing the main house. I race into my rubber boots and raincoat. The wind and rain hit me like a wall. Through ankle-high water, I circle my car and the tree to get to Jack’s front door.

It’s locked. I pound on it, waving my hand over the doorbell sensor. When a minute passes without a response, I border the house, bracing myself against it, and go around back. Lightning cuts the gray sky like a jagged knife. I cringe inside my hood. I climb the deck and find the tree trunk split into two pieces. One has shattered the outdoor kitchen and sliding glass doors, spreading tree bits into the living room. The other, larger section holding the majority of the thick branches has scraped through the side of Jack’s house like a rake and made a path through his study.

Oh, my God, he wanted to get his laptop!

I cut through the broken doors, carefully avoiding the large glass shards dangling from the threshold.

“Jack!” The wind takes my voice away, so I yell louder. “Jack!”

There’s no response but my pounding, racing heart banging against my chest. My flashlight bobs across the room as I rush toward his study. Wicked imaginings form in the seconds it takes to get there—Jack hurt, Jack crushed, Jack... I am gasping and desperate when I examine the space, the flashlight shaking.

There’s too much debris—I can’t even make out his desk chair for the broken tree limbs, busted furniture, and fallen books. Bracing myself on the stable wall to the right, I lean in, shining my flashlight everywhere. I see no sign of him, but the silver corner of his computer peeks through the clutter like a beacon.

He’s buried underneath!I must find him. And fast. I scream for him over and over. But the windy silence lures me onto the broken floorboards. My rubber boots feel too heavy for such an unstable surface, and I slip on the damp decline with my second step, scraping my leg against the splintered tree trunk. I fear falling through to the crawlspace and getting stuck. It’s dark and difficult to know where to put my weight. But I inch closer to the center, finally giving up my grip on the stable wall to reach where I’d imagine he’d be. I miscalculate my next step, and books give way beneath me, making me fall to my knees. The surface ahead looks even more precarious—I’ll never get to him on time.

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