20. Trending at Thunderstorm O’Clock
TRENDING AT THUNDERSTORM O’CLOCK
Addison
I crouch at Row Three, Table Six, twisting a length of dusty-blue polyester grosgrain ribbon around the number card until the bow sits crisp and snug.
A hush lives under these apple trees — only the low mutter of distant thunder and the rustle of the orchard leaves rubbing together like anxious hands.
At this point, I’m glad I fought for polyester over satin ribbons.
The fairy lights strung overhead blink steadily, wedding perfect.
One last ribbon, I tell myself. Secure, snap a photo for Meredith’s nightly update, then maybe I’ll let myself breathe. Fingers crossed that these will hold.
My phone vibrates against the grass. Probably the weather app again — it’s been shrieking SEVERE THUNDERSTORM WARNING all afternoon.
I silenced the last five alerts. The forecast can wait until the table numbers behave.
I finish tightening the knot, wipe dew from my knees, and finally swipe the screen.
SIMON BAXTER flashes across the top, followed by a single, taunting link. No greeting, no emoji—just:
tiktok.com/@CassandraCares: Age is just a number, especially if he works for free
With my stomach pitching, I tap. Cassandra’s face fills the screen, banana-smooth hair under rink-bright lights at Butter the fairy strands thrash like trapped birds. Meredith calls my name, voice thin in the squall.
Then, lightning strikes.
A sound like timber snapping — loud, violent — shatters the night.
I whirl. The center post of the arch lists drunkenly, fairy lights whipping off it in bright arcs.
High above, the hummingbird keystone, Dylan’s carefully carved flourish, teeters, then cracks clean, tumbling through the air.
It slams into sod with a mute thud, beak buried, wings splintered.
“No, no, no!” I race forward, mud sucking at my flats. The arch groans, tips another inch, lights rasping free. Rain catches the bulbs; half of them fizzle in tiny pops.
Mr Langford shields Meredith with his coat. Gina’s stare is full of accusation. “This is exactly what happens when professionalism takes a back seat to flirtation,” she snaps.
I drop to my knees beside the ruined keystone, fingers splaying across the raw cedar wings. The arch teeters, holds — barely.
Suddenly, headlights sweep the aisle, and Dylan’s truck fishtails onto the wet grass. The door slams, and he vaults out, toolbox in one hand, ratchet straps coiled over his shoulder like a fire hose. His T-shirt is soaked through in seconds, hair plastered, yet he looks carved from purpose.
“Addison!” He jogs over and kneels beside me. “You okay?”
I nod, mute, because shame clogs my throat. He sets a steady hand on my shoulder, then takes in the fallen bird and the swaying frame.
He rises, voice pitched to cut wind. “Mr Langford, can you help me brace that post while I anchor new straps?”
He blinks, unused to orders, but something in Dylan’s calm sparks obedience.
He hands Meredith off to Gina and strides toward the arch.
Dylan shouts for extra hands. Two orchard crews, lingering near the barns, sprint over.
Instantly, Dylan’s delegating: ropes, sandbags, temporary wedge blocks. He may as well be wearing turnout gear.
Gina edges in. “Touching tableau, Ms. Bennett. Tell us — what is the payment arrangement between you two?”
My cheeks burn hotter than the lightning flash. My mouth opens, but no sound emerges. Rain pours down the back of my collar.
Meredith’s gaze swings from Gina to me, eyes wide with shock and doubt. That breaks something fragile inside.
Thunder cannons directly overhead. Lightning rips violet across the clouds, throwing the whole scene — Dylan setting ladder feet, Meredith’s dad muscling a brace — into a freeze-frame of chaotic brilliance.
I can’t breathe fast enough. The arch might fall, the wedding might implode, and TikTok already owns my reputation. I’m the planner who promised perfection and delivered a headline.
I lean toward Dylan, voice shredded. “I — I need a minute.”
He turns, eyes anchoring me. Rain streaks his jaw, but his expression is steady. “Addy, stay with me. We’ve got this.”
Another TikTok ping buzzes in my pocket — viewer count over fifteen thousand.
Fight or flight? Flight wins.
I back away. Dylan reaches for me but misses as I pivot. “Addy!”
“I’m sorry,” I whisper, but I don’t know if he hears over the roar. I run, binder thumping, rain needling my scalp. The orchard tilts, and the fairy bulbs behind me sputter out one by one like dying satellites.
My worst nightmare has come true. Giving in to my desire has led to my professional demise.
I fumble keys and yank the Civic door open. The interior already smells of damp fear. Wind blows the door wide as I haul it shut, sealing me in a coffin of my own heartbeat.
Through the blurred windshield, I see Dylan bracing the arch, Mr Langford grappling a rope, Meredith gripping a ladder rung with bare fingers. Gina’s waiting on the side, observing the chaos.
The engine sputters but catches. My wipers smear storm across the glass, my hands shaking so hard the steering wheel dances.
I thought I was the one who held things together — lists, plans, contingency grids. Yet there Dylan stands, shoulder to cedar, keeping the dream upright while I sit here leaking mascara and professional credibility.
I put the car in reverse, ease my foot off the brake. Then get a grip.
Get a grip of yourself, Addy.
I put the car in park.
I take a deep breath.
You got this, Addy.
My pulse pounds a syncopated confession I’m not ready to voice:
Maybe I’m not the glue after all. Maybe real strength is letting someone else be steady.
Lightning backlights the arch, and I see Dylan’s silhouette locked against the storm.
More deep breaths.
I’m unsure how much time has gone by when I see a truck pass by my car, then another one.
What’s happening? Who are those people?
I can’t breathe. My hands are white-knuckled on the steering wheel, the wipers slashing away the rain I’m not even seeing anymore. I should leave. I should.
But I can’t.
My name is tied to this wedding, to this moment. And so is Dylan. And the thought of him holding everything together while I unravel in a Civic — that stings more than any gossip ever could.
I let fear win. Again.
I let the silence settle. “Show up, Bennett,” I whisper. “Even if it’s messy.”
I open the door and step into the storm’s breathless aftermath — not sure if I’m walking into redemption or more regret, but at least I’m walking.