Chapter Nine
The active weather pattern blurs one day into the next over the following two weeks.
Wake up in Kansas, go to bed in Texas, drive north to Oklahoma, snatch a few hours of sleep, and then a mad dash back south into New Mexico before a long race to Nebraska.
Aside from my mother’s extremely passive-aggressive texts—You can call me sometime so I know you’re not dead in a ditch—I don’t hear from my family, which I’m counting as a win.
I’m also much too busy obsessing over the weird shift between me and Wes to linger long on anything else.
Some things are exactly the same as every other year.
I’m not exactly surprised when he changes the name of my playlist to “Sloane Michaels and the Horrible, Awful, No-Good Playlist” while I’m inside a gas station—he’s complained more than once about the sheer chaos of multiple genres all randomly shoved together without any order—nor is it a shock that he mocks my bad aim when we’re killing an hour tossing pebbles at a fence post.
The nightly report on each hotel’s shower height, complete with photographic evidence, is decidedly new. And there are the little moments where he keeps surprising me with unexpected kindness. Both toward me—I have been well supplied with coffee—but also to complete strangers.
Yesterday’s lunch was yet another foray into the gas station / convenience store / taqueria that has a stranglehold on this part of the country.
It’s always a gamble ordering tacos from a gas station, but most of the time we luck out.
What I didn’t expect was that when the cashier struggled with her English, Wes effortlessly dropped into Spanish with a kind smile.
As surprised as I am to discover he speaks Spanish, the fact that he likes to mock Mother Nature like a kid slinging playground taunts isn’t much of a shock at all.
“What the hell are you doing?” I demand, certain I must not have heard him right.
Wes ignores me and shouts at the sky, “Get it together! My grandma is more impressive!”
“Are you seriously taunting the weather?” I glance around, checking for an audience. Some chase days, it’s us and our fifty closest friends in a conga line from hell crowding country roads. Today is one of the rare days we’ve claimed a spot without another soul in sight.
“You call that thunder?” he continues like I haven’t said a word, the low rumble echoing in my chest as it rolls across the open fields. “Weak! Do better!”
I have to bite my lip to suppress a smile and double check that my camera is level while Wes’s taunts turn more and more ridiculous as he goes. One minute he’s calling it a witty bitty baby storm and the next he’s telling it to be like Nike and just do it.
When I finally lose my composure and let out a laugh, he grins over his shoulder. “I knew fun Sloane had to be in there somewhere.”
I shake my head, refusing to participate in this madness. “Whether or not that storm spits out a tornado is a matter of science, not two unhinged storm chasers yelling nonsense at the sky.”
“So far I’m the only one doing any yelling.” He takes off his sunglasses to give me a pointed look. “Don’t knock it until you try it.”
“I don’t need to try it. You’ve got it covered.”
“Humor me.” Wes winks, then turns back to the storm and shouts, “Get your shit together or else Sloane is going to yell at you!”
“Get your shit together or a grown man is going to keep making an ass of himself,” I say half-heartedly without bothering to raise my voice. “Satisfied?”
“Not even remotely.” He folds his arms across his chest, tugging the thin T-shirt tight against his shoulders. “No one is out here but us. We already know you don’t care what I think.”
There’s that undercurrent to his words again that tightens my chest. I ignore it. Developing feelings for Wes is about as smart as driving a convertible into a hailstorm.
“It’s still ridiculous!”
“And?” Wes gestures toward the storm, where the cloud base is starting to ever so slightly lower. “What’s wrong with being ridiculous once in a while?”
“Some of us don’t have time for nonsense,” I snap, our good-natured bickering taking on a sharper edge that I don’t want but can’t seem to stop.
Feet planted and arms folded across his chest, Wes doesn’t back down. “No one is stopping you right now but yourself.”
I open my mouth to protest but nothing comes out.
I don’t have a good argument for that—because he’s right.
I’m so used to being the responsible one, the one who at least appears to have it together, that the thought of intentionally doing something as silly as taunting a supercell goes against my wiring.
“Here.” Wes takes off his Longhorns hat and plunks it onto my head.
He takes more time than he probably needs adjusting the fit so it doesn’t blow off my smaller head.
He’s close enough that the scent of his soap surrounds me despite the wind whipping across the fields.
When he tucks my hair carefully under the brim, I get the sense he’s lingering.
Just before he lets go, his eyes catch mine. Something hungry and dark stares back.
Wes looks away toward the storm, breaking the illusion and replacing his sunglasses. “Pretend you’re me,” he says simply. “Be an idiot for a few minutes.”
My chest tightens at the implied insult to himself. “You’re not an idiot.”
His playful smirk remains firmly fixed in place. “Have some fun, Sloane.”
Now I have to do this, if for no other reason than to prove that I can. Squeezing my eyes shut, I tip my head back and yell, “I could crawl across the interstate faster than you!”
Wes lets out a loud whoop. I pop my eyes open just in time for his sweaty arm to land on my shoulders before he squeezes me into his side. “Yeah, that’s the spirit!”
“I hope you’re happy,” I grumble. I should push him away, but despite the heat of the day, I don’t. Enjoying the temporary feeling of being with someone who wants to have silly, harmless fun with me doesn’t have to mean anything. Even if he has to bully me into it.
“I am.” Wes squeezes my shoulder and pulls me even closer. I glance up, caught off guard by the affectionate note in his words. We’re so close that if I tipped my head back just a little and he leaned in, we’d be kissing.
Which is not something I thought Wes was interested in—but the look on his face is far more than friendly.
At least until he shakes his head and lets go to bring his camera back up and point it at the storm. “It worked!”
The small funnel cloud wobbling out of the storm is a consequence of atmospheric conditions and updrafts, but I’m not about to argue. Not when I’m starting to wonder if that gas station kiss was more than the simple favor Wes claimed.
Especially when I try to give the Longhorns hat back. A hat I’ve seen him wearing for years. That suspicious softness back in his voice, Wes says, “Looks better on you. Brings out the amber in your eyes.”
He slides behind the wheel before I can do more than gape like a fish out of water. A brunette with brown eyes, I rarely get compliments like that. Lifting my hand to touch the brim of the hat, I allow myself a small, pleased smile before hurrying to the car.
The storm collapses without producing a tornado, and then we’re on to the next, back in the car and racing down the highway off a tip from one of Wes’s friends, who is on the other storm in the area.
We also get a couple of texts from Matt, confirming that the reason we had this one all to ourselves is that we picked wrong.
Frustrating, but it’s all part of the chase.
My mom starts texting again as we’re heading for the new storm. I shouldn’t even open the message, but since I’m gunning for idiot of the year, I make the mistake of reading it. “For fuck’s sake,” I mutter as another message comes in before I’ve even finished the first.
“Everything okay?”
Maybe it’s Wes forcing me to relax, or maybe it’s wearing his hat on my head, but I answer honestly. “My mom is freaking out over a dead battery.”
He takes his eyes off the road long enough to throw me a puzzled glance. “We talking a car battery?”
I let out a humorless laugh and shake my head.
“Of course not. That would be worth freaking out over, not that I could do anything about it from six hundred miles away. She’s got one of those keypad locks on her front door, but there’s a key slot for exactly this reason. She can just use a key for now.”
“So why is she texting you?”
“Hell if I know,” I mutter, already texting my brothers. Before either of them answers, my mom calls. With only ten minutes before we’re in range of the next storm, I don’t want to get back in the car to two dozen missed calls, so I begrudgingly answer.
“I already texted Eric and Sam to see if one of them can stop by to replace the batteries,” I say by way of greeting. “And I’m probably going to lose service soon, so I can’t talk long.”
“Hi, Sloane,” my mother replies, sweet as a poisoned berry. “So nice to hear your voice.”
“What happened to the reminder I set on your phone to replace the batteries every six months?” I learned a long time ago that trying to soothe her imagined slights only leads to more trouble.
“It was very annoying. I got rid of it.”
I tighten my grip on my phone so I don’t throw it out the window. “Littering is bad,” I mutter under my breath, which gets me a strange look from Wes and an irritated “Speak up, Sloane!” from my mom.
“I’m in Nebraska. I’ll send you a link to a YouTube video that walks you through it.” Again. “The mini screwdriver is in the top drawer in the kitchen next to the stove unless you moved it after the last time.”
“I can see I’m bothering you. I’ll just have to call a locksmith.”
I pinch the bridge of my nose, fighting for calm. “A locksmith is going to charge you several hundred dollars. This will take less than five minutes. I promise you can handle it.”
“I’ll invite Henry over for dinner. He’ll take care of it.”