The Storm (Us #2)

1. Nick

ONE

NICK

Just for the record, I’ve had a bad feeling about this trip from the start.

Mom says a change of scenery will be good for us, and then I’ll have something to share once school starts up again in the fall.

The radio is on low, and the wipers are still ticking even though it stopped raining a few miles ago. Mom’s gaze is aimed into the distance, her fingers clutching the steering wheel.

I’m slouched in the passenger seat, the collar of my T-shirt pulled high over my nose so only my eyes are visible, arms crossed over my chest. I inhale the scent of oranges. All my clothes smell like oranges from the homemade detergent Mom uses.

I reach out and turn the wipers off.

She glances at me and sends me a small, apologetic smile. All her smiles have been apologetic for a while now.

She reaches out and slides her fingers through my hair. She doesn’t tell me to sit up straight like she usually would. We’re both too distracted, and there’s nothing usual about the trip we’re taking today.

She keeps throwing those glances my way, and I keep moodily slouching deeper in the seat.

She sighs. “It’s going to be—”

“Do we have to go?” The words fall out, even though I’ve been trying so hard to keep them locked inside me.

She sighs again and bites down on her lower lip.

This isn’t easy for either of us, I know that, and I told myself I wouldn’t make it harder.

So, that’s a fail.

I turn my head to the side and the collar of my T-shirt falls away from my nose.

“We’re doing fine,” I say.

A plea.

A promise.

She presses her lips into a thin line until they turn white.

“Baby,” she says gently.

“We’re doing fine,” I repeat. “We don’t need help from a bunch of strangers.”

She turns the already low music even lower. Talking takes effort nowadays.

“Everybody needs friends.” Her voice is steady, but she pauses afterward, breathing in through her nose. “It’s just… being proactive. They’re nice people.”

“How would you know? You said you haven’t seen them in forever.”

The road curves uphill. Mom leans forward in her seat and takes a slow, fortifying breath like she’s preparing to climb the hill on foot. Her exhale is long and careful, like she’s rationing air. When she speaks again, her words come out slower.

“They used to be. And she was nice on the phone. Eager.”

“Yeah, well, I don’t care,” I mutter. My heart gallops in my chest. It’s been going too fast for days now. Ever since Mom sprang this visit on me. I wish it wasn’t. I wish I didn’t care.

“It’s going to be okay.” She nods.

She’s lying.

We both know it.

We’re living on borrowed time.

And once the clock has ticked down… Well, then nothing will ever be okay again, will it?

The house comes into view, and I hate it on sight and on principle. If everything were still okay I wouldn’t even know it exists, and because of that, I hate it.

Mom parks the car, but neither of us makes a move to get out. We just look.

It’s a two-story colonial, white, with a gray roof and cornflower blue shutters. A red tile path leads to the front door, lined with rose bushes on both sides. The lawn is manicured to perfection, complete with flowerbeds, towering trees, and bushes trimmed into ovals.

“This is nice,” Mom says. The cheerfulness in her voice is so purposeful it feels practiced.

I refuse to reply, but then I feel bad about being like this. Ashamed. It’s a childish response. I’m supposed to be strong. Better. I’m supposed to prove I can handle anything. That I don’t need this house and the people inside it. That if push comes to shove, I can take care of her by myself.

She slides her thumb down between my eyebrows.

“Less scowling, maybe?” she suggests. “At least try. For me?”

I close my eyes before I nod and force my face to relax.

I open the door and get out of the car. She fumbles with the keys for a bit before she locks the doors. I wait until she makes her way to me, and then I match my pace to her slower one as we walk toward the front door.

She sends me a tight-lipped smile and draws in a fortifying breath before she knocks.

The door opens almost immediately, giving me no time to prepare, like whoever’s on the other side was pacing there, waiting.

A woman stands at the entrance, holding the door open.

She’s tall, towering over Mom, dressed in jeans and a simple T-shirt.

Her feet are bare, her nails painted electric blue.

There are faint laugh lines in the corners of her brown eyes, and her dark hair has been cut short, so it barely touches her shoulders.

She swallows hard and a tremulous smile appears on her lips.

“Oh,” she breathes out, looking between me and Mom. “Oh,” she says again, then laughs. “Look at you.” She presses her knuckles against her mouth when her eyes focus on me. “Both of you. Hi!”

“Hello, Liz,” Mom says faintly.

“Claire.” The woman—Liz—smiles. A tear falls down her cheek. She wipes it off and laughs again. “Look at me. Getting all sappy.” She takes a step forward. Stops. But then she’s hugging Mom, whispering something in her ear. Mom nods the whole time she’s listening.

“I’m sorry,” Mom says. “I really am sorry.”

Liz steps back, wipes away more tears, and smiles some more.

“Let’s not.” She shakes her head.

It’s all a whirlwind after that. She ushers us in. She gives us a tour. Leads us through too many hallways and rooms and points out drawings on the walls and talks and talks and talks to fill the awkward silence Mom and I provide.

She’s a whirlwind.

A tornado of nervous energy, and why is she so… weird?

As if in a dream, I find myself sitting on their back porch at a wooden table.

There’s food. So much food. And awkwardness.

There’s a man, Liz’s husband, in paint-splattered jeans and a T-shirt with a picture of a crow on it.

She introduces him as Gus. There’s a girl.

Fifteen. Just like me. India. I avoid looking at any of them for too long.

“Where’s Go?” Liz asks her daughter.

India rolls her eyes and flips her long chestnut hair over her shoulder. “Where else? On the bay.” She sounds mildly exasperated but mostly amused.

“Our son,” Liz says, “has a terrible habit of forgetting the time and everything around him when he’s doing something he loves.”

“He’s a space cadet.”

“Be nice, Dia,” Liz admonishes.

India shrugs and sends a curious look my way while Liz claps her hands.

“Lunch,” she says, starting to hand out plates.

“Oh, shoot. I forgot the… I’ll be right back.

” She rushes into the house and comes back with glasses and a pitcher of water she precariously balances between her forearm and hip.

Gus takes them from her and kisses her on the temple.

Her shoulders drop until her eyes move over the table once again.

“Utensils,” she groans.

“I’ll get them.” Gus disappears inside the house.

She’s scattered. Nervous. She tries to hide it. Fails.

She masks the nerves with chatter.

She talks.

Gus talks.

He’s an artist.

She’s an accountant.

An unlikely pair, they both say, laughing.

They moved here from New York because the city was too loud and busy for Gus.

Liz likes to redecorate. Dia and Gus tease her about it.

Gus has a studio in the backyard where they used to have a pool, but “who needs a pool when you live by the bay?”

India’s a theater kid. Obsessed with Broadway. They went and saw The Phantom of the Opera on her birthday, and her dream role is Eponine or maybe Sandy or Elphaba, but it’s so difficult to decide because there are so many, and “do you get what I mean?”

Their last family vacation was a disaster. We learn about it in detail. “Never rent an RV online, sight unseen, am I right?”

I’m bombarded with information, and my brain isn’t ready to process any of it. I don’t want to know what their jokes are about, don’t want to hear their stories.

Questions start flying.

Suddenly I’m being involved.

They want to know everything.

About school and hobbies and friends.

Favorite foods.

Music.

TV shows.

Movies.

Video games.

The chair lets out an earsplitting screech when I abruptly push it backward. It topples over, silencing everybody, and then I’m left standing there, pulse pounding in my neck, breathing too shallow, ears buzzing.

“I—”

I can’t bring myself to apologize. Instead, I back away from the table, whirl around, and stalk away. With no idea where to go, I head toward the shore, and then I keep walking.

I walk until I’m out of sight, and only then do I stop. I lean forward and clutch my sides.

It takes a while before I feel like I can breathe again.

Slowly, bit by bit, my heart rate goes back to normal, and the buzzing subsides.

I should go back. Be with Mom. Be there for Mom. But I can’t seem to make myself.

Instead, I look around. I’m standing in the middle of a dirt path with trees to my left and the bay to my right, surrounded by towering oaks and damp earth.

The shade of the trees makes the ground smell like fallen leaves and moss and rain.

No roads. No voices. Just the slight breeze threading through branches and the distant cry of birds.

Everything is slightly overgrown and a little wild, like nature has been inching its way back slowly.

My shoulders relax just a bit.

There’s a dark shape a little farther away between the trees. Something big. I move forward, fueled by curiosity, willing to take any distraction.

Right there, on the edge of the shore, between the trees, the path comes to an end. A wooden shed has been built right at the start of a dock. Its doors have been pushed open, a red and white lifebuoy hanging next to the door.

I stand in front of the open doors.

It’s a boat shed. Wooden racks line the walls. There’s a kayak attached to the lower one on my right. The upper spot is empty. To my left, there’s another kayak, this one with two seats. A double? I don’t know what the right word is.

On the back wall there are life vests and oars and a shelf with trophies and medals.

Even more curious now, I start to take a step inside.

“Private property.”