Chapter 21
twenty-one
Colson
The sky has that look to it, the one that matches the weather alert that popped up on my phone.
I’ve lived through enough Chicago summers to recognize the shift: the air goes heavy, the wind changes directions and acting like it’s fading, only for it to sprint back.
The unexpected thing about living near a lake is how quick the wind picks up and turns a bad storm into something personal.
I move through the house on autopilot, checking windows, latching the loose one in the back, pulling the garbage cans into the garage.
The rain comes down in sheets and is almost sideways. It pounds against the glass, louder than it feels like rain should be. I’m tugging the last window shut when I see her.
Sadie’s crossing the parking lot toward the rec center, jacket zipped up, hood pulled tight around her face. She’s wrestling with a blue tarp that’s clearly winning. The wind snaps one corner loose, yanking it sideways like it’s got a mind of its own.
She stumbles but quickly regains her footing. I think she’s going to leave the tarp behind, get inside, but she doesn’t.
“What the hell?” I mutter.
She’s trying to juggle the tarp and the door at the same time, rain pelting her in the face. Another gust catches the tarp and sends it billowing, the plastic cracking loud enough that I hear it even through the glass.
My chest tightens. Why wouldn’t she ask for help?
Without thinking, I move. I’m bolting out the door, barely getting my rain jacket on, the wind slamming into me the second I step outside. Rain needles my face as I jog toward her.
“Sadie!” I shout.
She turns, eyes wide in surprise as the tarp tries to take flight again. I reach her in two strides, grabbing the loose corner and anchoring it against my side.
“What are you doing?” I ask, having to be loud enough to fight the wind.
“Just need a tarp. I’ve got it.” The wind shifts, making us turn our faces in order to catch our breath. “I’ve got it.”
“You’re kidding. You do not have anything!” I yell, taking her place in front of the door, holding it open and giving her the leverage to get inside.
Once we’re inside, dripping water in the gym entrance, something is heavy on my chest.
She laughs breathlessly, half-relieved, half-exasperated. “I was managing.”
“You were losing,” I say flatly.
Thunder cracks overhead, closer this time. Sadie takes the tarp, trying to shake the water out. She uses a towel to try and take care of the rest of the rain water on the tarp, struggling to handle the awkward size of it. Still, she doesn’t ask for help as she takes a few steps into the gym.
Her water-drenched shoes are quick to slip and I’m thankful I’m following her, so I can catch her.
“Sadie. What the hell are you doing?”
She barely acts like I’m there, not making eye contact, focused on the task. “There’s a few leaks, no big deal. I’ll put the tarps under the buckets and we’ll be good.”
Scoffing, I say, “No big deal? You were almost airborne with that tarp out there. And let’s not forget you almost falling on your ass, cracking your head open, with your wet shoes.” My tone is sharper than I mean. “Did you call me and I didn’t answer or something?”
I try to make sense of her doing this on her own. Especially when I’m right next door.
“I can handle a leak or two. Didn’t want to bother you.”
Something tightens in my chest at that. Not anger, exactly—something closer to regret. Like she decided somewhere along the way that needing help from me was asking for too much.
I rub my hand over my face, still damp with rain. “Next time,” I urge, softer now, “you ask.”
She looks up at me, rain clinging to her lashes, jacket plastered to her shoulders. “Okay,” she says quietly.
I look past her then and see a few buckets spaced across the gym floor, water tapping steadily into plastic.
“You asking for help isn’t bothering me,” I insist, more to myself than to her.
I take the tarp from her hands before she can argue, fold it tighter, already turning toward the doors. “Where’s it coming in?”
She points, surprised, and I head that way, rain still thundering overhead.
It comes easily, stepping in like this. And with it comes the realization that sticks—I don’t want her carrying things alone because she’s afraid of asking me.
By the time we finish getting buckets and tarps set up inside, it’s clear the storm hasn’t let up.
We push through the doors and I stop short. Water is already creeping across the road in front of the rec center, pooling where it shouldn’t be, swallowing the curb line completely. The rain turns the asphalt into a moving sheet, reflecting flashes of lightning like it’s alive.
The rec center sits low. My place—the summer house—is farther up, perched on a small rise that suddenly feels a lot more intentional than aesthetic.
Sadie pulls her hood tighter and glances toward her car. “I should probably head home while I can.” She pulls her keys out of her pocket.
I turn to her, disbelief crawling through my chest. “You’re kidding.”
“What do you mean?”
“There’s flooding. You’re not driving through that.”
She pauses. “It’s not that far.”
“That’s not the point,” I argue, sharper than I mean to.
She hesitates, clearly uncomfortable, then says, “I don’t really want to stay here.”
I scrub a hand over my face, irritation flaring—not at her, but at the fact that I even have to say this.
“You’re not staying here,” I say flatly. “And you’re not driving.”
She looks at me, rain plastering her hair to her jacket, eyes searching like she’s trying to figure out the least inconvenient option.
I sigh heavily. “For the second time tonight, let me remind you… my place is next door.” I gesture towards the house, my words sarcastic and annoyed—exactly how I meant them.
Her eyebrows lift. “Colson—”
“I’m not arguing with you about this. Driving through flooded streets isn’t safe, especially with a bunch of tourists who are doing god only knows what. Now, don’t make me carry you.” I gesture in front of me, wanting her to move, as the rain continues to fall, cool on my skin.
Thunder cracks overhead before a strike of lightning quickly follows, close enough that she flinches. Sadie exhales slowly, resignation mixing with relief. “Okay. Fine.”
I nod once and follow her as soon as she starts making the way toward the house. I’m annoyed that I had to offer. More annoyed that she was about to do her second careless thing in a matter of minutes.
And even more annoyed by how right it feels to make sure she’s safe.