I push the candles and everything I gathered back into the box,unable to take my frustration out on anything but these poor inanimate objects. “Guess we don’t need these anymore,” I say.
His hand drops on my arm, stopping my movements. The touch burns. I feel it. Everywhere.
His eyes grow wide, as if he’s feeling it too, the electric current coursing between us.
I yank my arm away quickly, and he throws his hands up in front of him.
“Sorry,” he says. “I only wanted to keep the candles out. And the flashlights. Just in case.”
I sink back into my chair, but don’t say anything. Not as he arranges the candles in the center of the table. As he sets the lighter by his place mat. As he returns to his meal, then gets up to microwave his plate. I don’t even respond when he politely asks if he can microwave mine as well. I just nod, using all my energy to hold back a loud exhale of relief when he leaves the room.
I wish I could call my mom and get her advice, but even if my phone somehow started working again, I can’t tell her that I’m here. In Houston. And I can’t tell her about Nikhil. She doesn’t know anything about him. No one in my family does. I couldn’t tell them about our impulsive, whirlwind relationship. Not when so much was riding on me. Not when I’d seen how they’d responded to my sister. Not when I’d silently promised I’d never turn out the same way.
Nikhil comes back from the kitchen, a plate in each hand. He sets mine down in front of me, and I force myself to take a bite even though I’d lost my appetite a while ago.
Nikhil doesn’t seem to suffer from the same issue. He tears into his meal with a vengeance, coming to a stop only when the lights above us flicker.
I glance up, hesitating for a moment. “Do you think—” I start,but I don’t need to finish my question. The lights go out again, clearly providing an answer.
“Is everyone okay?” a deep voice says, coming out of the box on the table.
I jump as Nikhil turns the flashlight on his phone back on. He reaches into the box, pulling out a lantern-looking thing, then presses a button on the side. “We’re all good here,” he says. “Did everyone else lose power too?”
“We did,” a woman replies, “but we’re good. Generator isn’t kicking on though.”
“Mine isn’t either, Elizabeth,” Nikhil says. He picks up the lighter and lights the two candles between us.
A laugh travels over the radio. “Well, if Nikhil can’t get his to work, I don’t think there’s any hope for the rest of us.”
“We still have power,” a man says. “If anyone needs anything, let us know. We could take in four or five people if we had to.”
“Let’s hope it doesn’t come to that,” Elizabeth replies. “Everyone on the low end of the street evacuated, right? So, I think we should all be fine.”
“I didn’t,” a different man says.
The line goes quiet for a beat, and I watch as Nikhil scrubs a hand across his face.
“Alan?” Elizabeth asks. “What are you…You didn’t leave?”
“Nope,” Alan replies cheerfully. “But I think it’ll be fine. But if anyone else needs help, let me know. In fact, Nikhil, I could stop by and try to fix that generator for you?”
“Oh, no,” Nikhil says quickly. “Thanks, but that’s okay. We can manage.”
“Let’s all keep checking in, all right?” Elizabeth says. “We’ll stay on this frequency.”
People sign off, agreeing and saying their goodbyes, and Nikhilflips a switch, placing the lantern back in the box. “So,” I say, “that was…”
Nikhil looks up, the candlelight playing across his face. Light and shadow. In one moment, I can’t see him. And in the next, his skin is warm and golden, almost aglow.
“The neighbors,” he replies. “We’ve been through a couple storms now, so Elizabeth—she has a background in disaster prep—she set up this line for us to keep in touch. Just in case anyone needs anything.”
The skin over my ribs stretches tight.Who is Elizabeth?
I swallow, my throat suddenly itchy. “And the generator? It’s not going to…It’s definitely not working then?”
He takes a sip of his water and shakes his head. “I did a full reset last time. And if that didn’t fix it…I don’t know what will. I could try it again, but I’m not sure how many resets this thing can take without breaking once and for all.” He sounds resigned, but underneath it all I can hear the barely restrained frustration. He’s trying hard to hold it back, but I can tell he’s upset. That he’s mad his fix didn’t work.
“It’ll be fine,” I say, adopting a cheery tone, but it sounds all wrong. Like grape-flavored cough syrup. Artificial and sickly sweet.
