Page 75 of Skating and Fake Dating
“Thanks, everyone. So much for the evening concert, but we appreciate your help. You fit right in here,” Nanna says affectionately to Carson.
He sure does. The good news is he gets to stay, while I’ll soon be getting on an airplane set for another destination, another player, another team.
Shoving down the sadness inside and trying to keep my voice even, I call after them, “Sounds like a plan.”
Unfortunately, I don’t get to hear about Harlow’s businesssuccess as the wind kicks up and we have to hustle against the incoming weather.
Twenty minutes later, I help a small crew secure equipment in the basement of what’s now the haunted house for Maple Fest and what long ago was the town’s general store. It’s mostly used for storage now, but with the talk of the big-time developer with ties to the town claiming the land here is his, next year we might be looking at a big box shopping center or factory rather than the site of our beloved fall festival.
The rain begins to hammer the roof as I carefully step through the bulkhead to the basement and walk down the old stone steps with an armful of extension cords.
“Last one,” Carson says from behind me, carrying a heavy container of sound equipment into the basement.
We’re arranging everything when a powerful gust of wind slams the metal doors to the bulkhead behind us.
“Yikes! That doesn’t sound good, but I think we’re done. Just in time.” I dust off my hands and try the door handle. It remains fixed in place. I jiggle it and it doesn’t budge.
Carson gives it a try, putting his shoulder into it when the door refuses to open. Looking around, it’s the only way out or in. We both holler a few times, but the howling wind drowns our voices.
Stating the obvious, I say, “I think we’re locked in.”
“Do you have your phone?”
I pat my pockets. “It’s in my purse, which is?—”
“In Nanna’s truck?” he finishes.
My cheeks puff on an exhale. “Yep.”
Carson pulls out his phone. “Mine is here, but I don’t have service.” Holding it aloft, he takes a few steps, turns, and says, “Not a single bar of connectivity.”
I groan, sliding down the wall to sit on the floor. We could continue shouting, calling for help, but over the roar of the storm, I doubt anyone would hear us.
Carson tries the door one more time before joining me on thefloor. “Well, at least we have shelter from the storm. Someone will notice we’re missing, eventually.”
I glance at my watch, then remember it’s not there. “What time is it?”
“Just past five.”
“The rain is coming down pretty hard, so it might be a while before anyone comes looking. When was the concert supposed to start?”
He says, “Seven.”
“Maybe this will blow over and they’ll still set up for the concert.”
“Or postpone it,” Carson mutters.
I groan. With Carson seated beside me, I want to absorb his warmth like a comforting blanket, but nerves set me on edge.
He bumps his shoulder into mine. “You know, we have been stuck somewhere before and it worked out okay.”
Remembering the airplane bathroom, I chuckle. “But let’s make a pact not to get trapped again.”
In the dim shaft of light coming through the narrow basement windows, Carson says, “That doesn’t seem to be up to us.”
“I’d rather we be stranded on a dusty road in the South, on a warm evening.” I clap my hand over my mouth not only because I described my dream, but because of how dream-like my voice sounded.
“Is that so? A dream? Just the two of us?” he asks, tone deep.
