I blinked and gave my head a shake. Jesus, I was going to give myself a hard-on right there in Aisle 4. I stared at the woman until she scurried away, then strode for the exit, dropping the basket somewhere on the way out.
I called another Uber, which took nine centuries to arrive while I huddled out of the pouring rain. This time, I went to a regular grocery store, grabbed a cart, and filled it with dude food.
The man at the checkout gave me a once-over as I gnawed a piece of beef jerky and flipped through a National Enquirer in my bathrobe.
“How are we doing today, sir?” he asked, scanning six packs of soda, orange juice, bags of chips, pretzels, packages of Twinkies, sandwiches from the deli, hot dogs, a whole carrot cake, and a cheese platter.
“Did you see this?” I flapped the paper. “Big Foot kept a lumberjack as his sex slave. Crazy world, am I right?”
“Uh, yeah,” the guy said. “Crazy.”
That night in the guesthouse, I listened to the storm gather power. Twice, the lights flickered, and thunder shook the house as if a giant were stomping around Santa Cruz. I spent the evening in bed with a bottle of Reg’s one-hundred-year-old Scotch tucked under my arm watching Love Actually and adding my own running commentary.
“Don’t buy that damn necklace, Alan Rickman. You’re going to break Emma’s heart, you Snape.”
I checked my phone. Nothing. Not even a text.
I wondered if they were gathered around Mom’s giant dining room table—the one they only used for formal events. Maybe a bunch of family—cousins, my grandparents, aunts and uncles like Reg and Mags, talking and laughing and bragging about who was better at hiding their money in offshore tax havens.
“Leeches,” I muttered, then shot up. “Goddammit, Rick Grimes, you can’t hit on a married woman like that, ya bastard.”
I swigged the Scotch. Checked my phone. Yelled at the TV.
Not the worst Christmas I’d ever spent, all things considered. Not when you factored in Alaska.
I stared at my silent phone. “Fuck’em.”
The following morning, I woke to rain coming down in biblical proportions and a hangover that felt like the wrath of God itself. A hangover in body and soul. My goddamn heart ached for my parents. For Reg and Mags.
For River.
My phone was just where I left it on the nightstand, quiet and message-free.
I dressed in jeans, shirt, sweater, coat, and boots, wrapped a scarf around my neck and bagged up the food to take to the Shack. The Uber took eight lifetimes to arrive and the bastard didn’t even help me load the groceries into the trunk. I was soaked by the time I dove into the back seat.
“The Lighthouse Cliffs?” he said, reading his phone. “You sure you want to be out in this shit?”
A hundred cutting remarks came to mind. I rested my aching head against the window instead.
We arrived at the side street nearest the path that led to the beach, and I climbed out. The rain was relentless and I, too, questioned the wisdom of such an undertaking. But keeping my promise was literally the only thing I had going for me.
My arms laden with four full grocery bags and rain drenching me to the bone, I took the path down to the beach. The goddamn cold soaked into my sodden clothes and wrapped itself around me, squeezing. I trudged slowly on the rocky path, my shoulders screaming and the plastic bag handles digging into my hands. I stumbled more than once; water lapped at my boots. Lightning crackled in a gray sky over the ocean.
“Just singing and dancing in the rain…” I sang weakly, my teeth chattering, trying to keep my brain occupied.
But Alaska came anyway.
The cold rain and the endless walk awoke memories of forced midnight marches through black forests, the counselors berating us for being worthless while we stumbled half-dead from lack of sleep and cold.
By the time I got to the Shack, tears mingled with the rain on my face. I dumped the bags on the wooden table and lit the lantern with shaking hands. No sign of Ronan or Miller.
Because of course not, dumbass. In this storm?
But Miller said we’d meet, and he kept his promises too. I blew on my fingers, determined to wait it out. But PTSD wracked my body with cold as much as the storm. I couldn’t let them see me like this, sodden and shivering and on the verge of breaking down.
They’re your friends. They’ll want to help.
Even if I believed that, the rain wasn’t letting up. No one in their right mind would make that trek in weather like this.
With fear curling my stomach, I pushed myself out of the shelter of the Shack and back into the storm.
The return trip felt like it took ten times as long with memories of Alaska whipping at me over every step. The Uber I’d called while huddled against a utility building came mercifully quick, the woman driver’s eyes widening with concern as I climbed in, drenching the backseat.
“Honey, what happened?”
I shook my head, my jaw stiff with cold. “Sorry about the water.”
“Don’t be sorry. What do you need, baby? What can I do?”
I hunched tighter, willing the tears back with everything I had.
“Take me home.”
My phone chimed a text just as I stepped inside the guesthouse, dripping water all over the floor. With trembling fingers, I pulled it from my pocket. Miller.
Where are you?
My house.
You dropped the food and then left?
I said I would, I typed.
Why’d you leave?
In case you haven’t noticed, it’s a fucking hurricane out
