Page 85 of The Storm

Mostly, I’m fine, though. Which is weird to even think because it does feel like there should be something more. But so far, I’m neither afraid of fridges nor do I want to fuck one.

“And that’s disappointing?” I say belatedly. “Because… you miss it?”

“You don’t? I’m kind of thinking about going back. You know, for the atmosphere.”

I shift in my seat and turn my body a little more toward him.

“It sucked less because you were there,” I say. “I think I would actually be fucked up if I’d been alone in there.” I think about it for a second. “Well, technically, I would be dead becausethere’s no way I would’ve thought about hiding in the fridge in time.”

His fingers tighten on the steering wheel. “You would’ve been okay.”

“No, I’m pretty sure?—”

“You would have been fine. You would have thought of something.”

“But—”

“Can you just stop arguing, Blue? I need you to be okay in that alternate scenario, so can you just stop talking about dying?”

I press my lips together and nod.

It’s strange to have somebody else be more upset about the idea of you dying than you are. And he is. His whole body is tense, fingers tight on the steering wheel.

I chew on the inside of my cheek for a bit.

“Want to think about making out in the car instead?” I ask.

He turns his head toward me and blinks. “What?”

I straighten my back and point to the right. “There’s a logging road in about half a mile. No one will be there this time of night.”

“Good news. I’m now thinking about making out in the car.”

I laugh.

After a little bit of driving, he makes a right.

And we make out in the car.

TWENTY-TWO

INDY

The house isquiet when I stumble out of my bedroom. I pass Dia’s door. She’s off at her acting courses in LA and the most I’ve heard from her since we dropped her off at the airport has been a few sporadic text messages.

It’s a sunny morning, so I grab an apple and head outside. I stop on the back porch and try to resist the urge.

It doesn’t work.

A moment later, I’m jogging up the stairs. I hesitate for a bit in front of Nick’s door, but then I knock on it anyway.

No reply.

He came home sometime in the middle of the night after working a gig his boss offered him as a waiter at a wedding, so there’s a very good chance he’s sleeping. Even so, I give the door one more quick rap of my knuckles before I give up and head back outside.

You’d think working a job that takes me out on the water for hours every day would mean I get sick of it, but I never do.

Being out on the water is freedom.