18. Jonah #2
But mostly I think about Lila—about last night, about how her body felt against mine, about the soft sounds she made when I touched her. About how I’ve finally found someone who makes me feel alive in ways that science never could, and now we might never make it out of this bathroom.
My throat tightens, and for a moment, I can’t breathe past the ache in my chest.
“Lila,” I say her name into her hair, my voice cracking. “I need you to know?—”
The roar intensifies again, drowning out my words.
I squeeze my eyes shut, trying to formulate what will probably be my last confession, but I can’t find the right words.
How do you compress everything you feel about someone into a final sentence?
How do you tell them they’ve changed you when you might not have another conversation, another touch?
Max whimpers against my chest, and I feel Lila’s good arm wrap around him, pressing him closer to her.
Even now, hurt and terrified, she’s comforting him.
That’s who she is. That’s why I fell for her in the first place.
This woman who throws herself toward danger and still finds room in her chest for a dog that isn’t even hers.
Who kissed me like she meant it. Who made me feel things I’d given up on years ago.
The building shudders again, and I press my mouth harder against her temple, breathing her in.
My eyes are stinging and I don’t know if it’s dust or tears.
It doesn’t matter. The roar keeps building, filling my skull, vibrating in my molars.
I think about our first kiss in the field.
About her grin when she told me I’d panicked afterward.
About the donut sugar on her lips this morning.
About how I never, not once, thought I’d end up like this—crammed into a motel bathtub, absolutely certain I’m about to lose everything I just found.
I never told her.
That’s what claws at me hardest. I never told her what she means. Not really. Not in words she can hold onto. I don’t even know if she can hear me, but I can’t die knowing I left it unsaid. Not now. Not like this.
“I love you,” I whisper against her hair, the words catching in my throat. “I know it’s fast and I know it’s probably ridiculous, but I do. I love you.”
The words hang in the air for a heartbeat, and then?—
The roar begins to fade.
At first, I think I’m imagining it. That the adrenaline or fear is playing tricks on my hearing. But the deafening freight-train sound is definitely receding, moving away from us rather than over us. The pressure in my ears equalizes gradually, making the world sound muffled, underwater.
“Is it—” Lila starts to ask, her voice small.
“Moving on,” I finish, not daring to hope yet. “I think it passed us by.”
And then, almost as suddenly as it began, the roaring begins to fade. The pressure in my ears eases slowly. The door stops its buckling. The building shakes, but less violently now. We’re in the outer circulation, the down slope or the outer edges. It’s moving past us.
“Are you okay?” I whisper against Lila’s hair, holding her tightly.
She nods against my chest, her breathing rapid but steady. “You?”
“Fine.” It’s a lie. My heart is racing, my muscles locked with tension. But we’re alive, and that’s what matters.
The wind continues to howl outside, but the terrible roaring has diminished to something almost ordinary—just a bad thunderstorm now, not the monster that nearly swallowed us whole.
Water drips somewhere in the bathroom, a steady plink-plink that sounds absurdly normal after what we just experienced.
Max whimpers softly between us, and I loosen my grip enough to let him breathe more easily. He immediately licks my face, then Lila’s, as if checking that we’re both intact.
“Good boy,” I murmur, running my hand down his trembling back. “You saved us.”
Lila shifts beneath me, wincing as she moves her injured shoulder. “I think we can get up now.”
I reluctantly disentangle myself, suddenly aware of how tightly I’ve been holding her.
In the dim light from my phone screen, I can see her face.
Her hair is wild, eyes wide and alert despite the medication.
There’s a small cut on her forehead I hadn’t noticed before, a thin line of blood trailing down her temple.
Without thinking, I reach out, gently wiping it away with my thumb.
“You’re bleeding.”
She doesn’t pull away from my touch. Instead, her eyes lock with mine, something shifting in her expression. The adrenaline is coursing through both of us, makes everything sharper, more immediate.
“Jonah,” she whispers, and something in the way she says my name breaks whatever restraint I’ve been clinging to.
I kiss her. Not gently, not carefully—not like before. This is desperation and relief and fear all tangled together. My hands frame her face, fingers sliding into her hair as she responds immediately, her good arm wrapping around my neck to pull me closer.
The angle is awkward in the cramped bathtub with Max between us, but I don’t care.
All I can think about is the softness of her lips, the small sound she makes in the back of her throat when I deepen the kiss.
Her fingers dig into my shoulder, holding on like I’m the only solid thing in a world that just tried to tear itself apart.
I pull back just enough to catch my breath, but she follows, capturing my mouth again with an intensity that makes my head spin.
Her teeth graze my bottom lip, and I hear myself make a sound that I barely recognize.
A primal sound that would embarrass me in any other context, but here, now, with her, it feels like the only honest response.
Max lets out a soft whine, nudging his way between us like he’s reminding us he exists. The intrusion breaks the moment, and Lila pulls back, her breathing ragged. In the dim glow of my phone screen, her eyes are wide, pupils dilated.
“We should...” she starts, but doesn’t finish the thought. Her hand is on my shoulder, fingers curled into the fabric of my t-shirt.
“Get out of here?” I supply, though that’s not what I want to say at all. What I want is to pull her back to me, to lose myself in her until the memory of the storm fades.
“Let me clear some of this glass away. I shift from the tub, away from her warmth, and grab a towel from the floor, using it to sweep away as much of the glass from the broken mirror as I can.
“Watch your step. I help her out of the bathtub, keeping a steady hand on her elbow. Her legs wobble. Max leaps out behind her, approaching the bathroom door cautiously, sniffing at the crack beneath it.
“Ready?” I ask, hand on the doorknob.
Lila takes a deep breath. “As I’ll ever be.”
I open the door slowly, bracing for the worst.
The room beyond is a disaster zone. The window has been blown in, shards of glass covering every surface.
The bed is a jumble of twisted sheets and the mattress pushed against the far wall.
Rain pours in through the gaping hole where the window used to be, already soaking the carpet.
Most of the ceiling tiles have collapsed, revealing exposed wiring and insulation above us.
“Holy...” Lila breathes beside me.
We pick our way carefully across the debris-strewn floor. Max stays close to Lila’s legs, whimpering softly as his paws crunch over broken glass and plaster.
“We need to check if anyone needs help,” Lila insists, already moving toward the wreckage.
“Not without shoes.”
I scan what’s left of our room. The tornado has torn through it, turning our temporary space into chaos.
Dresser drawers are emptied, their contents scattered everywhere.
The nightstand is upside down, the alarm clock dangling by its cord like some deep-sea creature.
In the rush to get to safety, I grabbed our bags.
Not our shoes. We’re both paying for that now.
“Stay there,” I tell her, spotting the heel of one of my boots wedged between the overturned desk and the wall.
I pick my way through the debris and pull it free.
The other one is a few feet away—soaked, but intact.
I shove them on, the insoles squishing unpleasantly.
“I’ve got mine.” I glance around again. Hers are nowhere in sight. “I can’t find yours.”
“I’ve got another pair in the truck,” she replies, then hesitates. “If there still is a truck.”
The thought hadn’t even occurred to me until now. Her dad’s truck. The last solid piece of him she has left.
“If it’s gone—” I begin, but I can’t finish the thought. The possibility is too crushing to say aloud. I know what that truck means to her.
Without waiting for her to respond, I scoop her up into my arms once more, cradling her against my chest like a fragile treasure.
The warmth of her body is a calming balm.
Yet, in this moment, I feel a surge of happiness that she’s alive, that she’s here in my arms, mostly uninjured despite the turmoil.
Her heart beats steadily against me, a reassuring rhythm that drowns out the distant rumble of thunder.
But beneath that relief lies a thread of fear—what will we find in the aftermath of the storm?
The uncertainty gnaws at me. Together, we step into the night with Max pressed tightly against my legs, the rain soaking us both, but I hold her tightly, determined to shield her from whatever awaits.
The motel’s entire western wing is gone.
Just gone. Where rooms 10 through 16 used to be, there’s nothing but scattered lumber, twisted metal, and broken furniture.
Our room marks the boundary where the tornado’s direct path ended.
One more room over, and we would have been. ..I can’t finish the thought.
Rain continues to fall, illuminated by the occasional flash of lightning as the storm moves eastward. The air smells of wet wood, exposed insulation, and the distinctive ozone scent that follows severe weather. In the distance, I can hear sirens approaching.
The parking lot is barely recognizable. Debris litters every surface. Emergency lights flash in the distance, casting eerie blue and red shadows across the devastation.
Lila’s body is tense in my arms as we both scan the parking lot, searching for any sign of her beloved truck. At first, I see nothing but destruction, my heart sinking with each passing second.
Then we spot it. The unmistakable red undercarriage of her F-150, now facing skyward.
The truck is completely flipped onto its roof, wedged against a large oak tree at the far end of the parking lot.
The massive tree, partially uprooted, seems to have stopped the vehicle from being carried further by the tornado’s fury.
I feel Lila go completely still in my arms. Her entire body seems to stop breathing for a moment. Then she makes a sound, not quite a sob, not quite a gasp, that tears through me worse than the tornado ever could.
“No,” she breathes. “Put me down.” The demand comes out rough, breaking at the edges. “Now.”
I hesitate, glancing at the glass-strewn parking lot and her bare feet, but her expression leaves no room to argue. Carefully, I lower her to the ground, keeping one arm around her waist for support.
The moment her feet touch the wet asphalt, she moves toward the overturned truck with single-minded focus. Max and I follow close behind, picking our way through scattered debris as rain continues to fall.
“Careful,” I call, watching her navigate the uneven ground. Each step has to hurt, but she doesn’t slow.
When she reaches the truck, she drops to her knees beside it, ignoring the glass and twisted metal beneath her. Her good hand reaches out, fingers tracing the undercarriage now turned inside out. The red paint is scratched and dented, but unmistakably hers.
“Dad’s truck,” she breathes, and the pain in those two words tightens my chest.
I kneel beside her, careful of the debris. “I’m so sorry, Lila.”
She doesn’t answer, just keeps tracing the metal like she can fix it through touch alone.
But even I know, there’s no coming back from this.