Page 106 of Two-Step
Sally gives me a careful smile, but Ramon’s not convinced. “You sure, Iris?”
I nod. “Yeah. I’m not sure what I’m going to do yet, but I need to stay in town.” I don’t have any doubts about this. It’s everything else I’m uncertain about. “I’ll be fine. I promise.”
“We won’t leave until we’ve made sure you have everything you need—food, water, batteries. Shit like that,” Ramon says. “I’ll drop you two at the house and hit the grocery store.”
“I’ll go with you,” Sally says, her eyes on him.
These two. What they have has taken on a life of its own. Sally won’t leave Ramon to face any of this alone.
I inhale slowly, trying to will away the ache watching them gives me. I’m happy for them, really. Truly, I am. But witnessing this relationship that’s unfolding between them only makes the sting of my solitude that much more potent.
I should just go to Jonathan’s. At least I won’t be alone. And it does sound like the safest and—let’s face it—most comfortable option. Maybe if I take charge, I can control the narrative on social media. Post my own pictures of me, alone, at Jonathan’s.
I shake my head. I can’t make a decision now. Waiting until tomorrow might be best. But I shoot Jonathan a text just to keep my options open and leave the other two dozen or so messages unread.
Chapter Twenty-One
BEAU
I spendFriday buying and cutting plywood and then boarding up my tiny house. There’s only the two side windows, the one door, and a skylight, but the job takes all morning—mostly because the lines at the Northside Home Depot check-outs were at least six customers deep.
I picked up a few sand bags while I was there, but I hope I don’t need them.
I just make it to Camelia Court in time to join Mom for her favorite “Catfish Friday” lunch, and unlike most Fridays, the place is packed. Nearly each table holds a visitor. We all know we won’t be able to come visit this weekend, and even with the safety protocols, the caf buzzes with a nervous energy.
“I won’t be able to take you to Riverside on Sunday, Mom,” I tell her. We’ve talked about the storm, not that talking has done much good.
“Why not?” she asks, giving me a soft frown.
“Because of the hurricane.”
She looks embarrassed, but not surprised, so she must remember something about it. “Will the restaurant be closed?”
With the storm hitting Saturday night? Yep. I nod. “It will.”
Her frown etches deeper, her eyes widening with worry. “Will you still come see me?”
I reach across the table and cover her hand with mine. “If I can, I will.” I refuse to make promises I can’t keep. Even with forecasts, no one knows exactly how bad the storm will be. The last direct hit Lafayette took was just a Category 1, but the storm produced so many tornadoes, thousands of trees fell, pulling down power lines and blocking roads. Life wasn’t normal for weeks. “I’ll come as soon as I can.”
That’s a promise Icankeep.
When I leave Camelia Court, I take a detour to Cherry Street to check on Iris and her crew. I’ve been worried about them—about Iris—since she had to cancel class last night. It doesn’t make sense, but I don’t want to go until some time next week without seeing her. But when I turn onto her block, the Range Rover isn’t there.
Maybe she and her buddies are still battling crowds at the grocery store, stocking up on supplies.
I texted her yesterday after Ramon cancelled our class, just to make sure she was okay ahead of the storm—and, yeah, I could have just as easily texted Ramon to ask, but I wanted to talk to Iris—and she never responded.
I haven’t messaged her again. I don’t want to bethatguy, but I keep wondering if Iris and her friends have any idea what to expect.
My worry is grounded. I brake in front of the house and can’t help but notice that all the porch furniture and plants are still outside. So are wind chimes and bird feeders. That shit needs to be put away before the winds pick up.
According to the radio, Hurricane Addie, as of noon today, is packing winds of eighty-one miles per hour and strengthening. A Cat 2 storm clocks in with sustained winds anywhere between ninety-six and one-hundred-ten miles per hour.
Lafayette is about fifty-miles inland of Vermilion Bay, so the town won’t get the same punch as folks in Cypremort Point or even Delcambre, but winds will still be hurricane strength with gusts nearing one-hundred-miles per hour—strong enough to send a bird feeder through a window.
I’m tempted to pull into Iris’s driveway and pick up all of this myself, but what would she think? I’m not supposed to be here. Would it startle her if they drove up and saw me hauling patio furniture to the garage? Would it be undeniably obvious that I think about her all the time?
I opt to shoot Ramon a text instead. As Iris’s assistant and protection detail, he should be the one taking care of that—even if I’d feel better doing it myself.
