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I hate thunderstorms. The thunder sounds a lot like gunshots, and it reminds me of my time at college in Seattle. That, along with the fact that I’m in a rickety cabin, the fire has gone out, and there are no lights on, sends me right into Anxiousville.
Rain pounds on the roof, and more thunder and lightning have me hiding under my covers. I try to slow my panicked breathing, but it’s coming too fast and I’m already spiraling out of control—all my thoughts are fleeting. I need light.
“Take a breath, Lainey. Take a breath and figure it out,” I tell myself. I inhale deeply and exhale slowly. Breathe in. Breathe out.
There has to be a flashlight somewhere in here. Or some candles. I gave up on charging my cell phone yesterday, since I have one of those cheap carrier services and I haven’t been getting reception at all. Still, it doesn’t hurt to see if it’s holding a charge so I can at least use the screen to find something more reliable. Unfortunately, it’s dead, just like all the lights in this place.
A cold drop of water hits me on the back of the neck—and then another on my arm.
The momentary reprieve in my panic dissolves as I stumble around in the strange inky darkness, searching the cupboards for anything other than the pack of matches I keep using to light the fire. I finally find a lighter, but all it does is spark without giving me a flame. Eventually I manage to find a flashlight, but it flickers once and dies. “Is nothing about this stupid place reliable?” I yell to no one.
The only answer is a strike of lightning and a boom of thunder.
The wind picks up, howling through the walls, making it sound like there are wolves outside my cabin. Which is when I totally lose it. Because here I am, alone in this cabin with no lights, no flashlight, no candles—and the roof is leaking in a bunch of places, based on the number of times I’m getting dripped on.
“You need to get a grip, Lainey,” I tell myself through a sob. I suck in a deep breath and release it through my nose, trying to focus on the visualization strategy my therapist always tells me to use when the panic gets too big.
I go through my senses: five things I can taste, four things I can touch, three things I can smell, two things I can hear—that doesn’t help the anxiety at all, since thunder happens right at that moment.
I work to block out the memories from college. The storm. The lightning and thunder, how they overlapped with the repetitive rat-a-tat. The crashing open of the lecture hall doors. The screaming . . .
I’m startled once again when the phone rings. If it’s my parents, there’s no way they’re going to believe I’m okay. Because I’m not. I’m terrified. But I really don’t want to be alone in this storm right now, so I answer it, even if it’s going to bring me nothing but grief.
“Hello?” I croak.
The line crackles with static. “Lainey?”
It’s not my parents, thank God. “RJ?”
“Hey, I’m glad you answered. I tried to call earlier, but the line was busy—” He cuts out when a huge crack of thunder makes the cabin shake. I also shriek, which makes it hard to hear. “Are you all right?”
“Uh . . .” I consider lying but realize there isn’t much of a point. “I don’t have any power.”
“Yeah, all the lines are down. The summer storms can be harsh here, and we can lose power for a couple of days.”
“A couple of days?” There’s that high pitch again.
“Yeah, I have a generator in case of power failures. I’ll come get you, okay? I’ll be there in five minutes, maybe ten at the most.”
“Okay. That would be nice.” I whimper at the next flash of lightning. “I don’t really like thunderstorms.”
“I’ll be there as quick as I can.”
“Can you bring a flashlight? The ones here don’t have any batteries.”
“Shit. Yeah, of course. I’m already on my way out the door. See you in a few.”
“Okay. Thank you.” I reluctantly hang up the phone. I want to pack a bag, but I can’t do that without some kind of light source.
Minutes drag on for what feels like hours, until a knock scares me—although pretty much everything is scaring me right now. I flip the lock and throw open the door. Standing on the rickety, unsafe back steps, getting pounded by the rain, is RJ, dressed in a yellow rain slicker, holding a flashlight bright enough to land a plane.
I step back, letting him in. His hood falls back, exposing his gorgeous face, flushed and dotted with raindrops. I close the door behind him and throw myself into his arms, not caring that he’s soaking wet. Or that I look desperate. A crash of thunder has me trying to bury my face in his chest.
