Page 29 of A Curvy Girl’s Hurricane Survival Guide

I once watched a documentary about the strange behaviors of animals and people around storms. Something about barometric pressure or infrasound that made sharks dive deeper, birds fly erratically, and dogs pace.

Now I wonder if it also affects women, making them forget themselves when trapped in close proximity to hunky men in the dark.

I am a serial monogamist. I hold dear the morality of a committed relationship. I have never cheated or strayed. I believe in clear communication and honest conversations. So what is happening to me that I nearly threw every principle I hold dear out the window in that closet? Why am I having to flex every muscle of willpower I possess just to keep from throwing myself at Sonny?

We gather the scattered candles and flashlights in silence, the air between us still crackling with everything we hadn’t said. I feel compelled to fill it. “It wouldn’t be a true return home if I didn’t lose my footing at least once,” I say lightly. “I always assumed I’d grow out of my clumsiness by the time I was a wife or a mom. Have you ever seen a mom who’s constantly stumbling or falling?”

Sonny clears his throat, rubbing the back of his neck. His voice stays low, meant just for me.

“You know, some guys are the kind that don’t look ahead,” he says carefully. “They may mean well and have all the good intentions in the world, but ultimately, they’re no good for someone who has long-term goals. You deserve someone who can see a future with you, especially if you’re already thinking about being a wife and mom. You need someone who’s willing to build something real, not just ride the moment until it gets hard.”

My stomach drops.

He is talking about himself.

The realization hits like another clap of thunder. In the closet, with our bodies pressed together in the dark, he’d felt the pull too; the heat, the way we fit.

Now, out of the closet into the dim glow of the flashlight someone had brought down the hall, he feels the need to warn me. Telling me, in the gentlest way possible, because I brought up motherhood, that he is the kind of guy who lives in the present. The fun, kind, steady guy who shows up during a hurricane but who probably isn’t looking for forever. Not with someone like me.

Of course, he isn’t. He’s successful and confident, and he clearly has his own life and goals. Why would he want to tie himself down to a mess like me, still tangled up with an ex, lying to my family, carrying all this baggage?

The guilt that has been simmering all night flares hot and sharp. I force a small nod, my throat tight. “Yeah… I think I understand what you mean.”

Sonny gives me a gentle, almost relieved smile. “Good. I know I said I wouldn’t give you more advice, but I just felt I had to say that.”

The lantern light flickers between us, casting shifting shadows across his face. For one suspended moment, I want to tell him the truth. That every word he just said has twisted like a knife because I am terrified he was describing the limits of what he can offer me.

The words won’t come.

Instead, I clutch the box of candles tighter and whisper, “We should probably get these to the others before the storm gets worse.”

As we walk back toward the living room, the gusts outside are wailing now; the hurricane mourns the loss of something she never had, as the weight of everything unsaid presses down on my chest.

Sonny thought he was warning me that he isn’t long-term material. He is gently letting me know that whatever this electric thing between us is has an expiration date.

And the worst part? A selfish, storm-addled part of me still wants to ignore the warning completely.

Rule #13

DISCLOSING PERSONAL FEELINGS DURING A HURRICANE IS STRONGLY DISCOURAGED

CAI

The biggest complaint from my family isn’t the darkness; it’s the heat. Even though the power has only been out for maybe fifteen minutes, the air is already turning tepid and muggy, thick with humidity and the lingering scent of dinner. We huddle in the living room near the hall that leads to the rest of the house. We are a safe distance from the single candle on the kitchen counter, close enough to catch its dim light but not so close that we feel its heat. The flame flickers as Crispi gives us the last storm update he got before we lost power.

“The worst should hit in the next hour or so,” he says. “Then a little reprieve, then the back half. But that’s not as bad.”

“That’s if it doesn’t change,” Papa chimes in. “You can’t always predict these things.

Sofia breaks in, sounding on the verge of tears. “Does anyone have a signal? I thought we’d have more time.”

Everyone starts checking their phones, shaking their heads. I pull mine out too—and freeze. There is a new message from Trevor, delivered before we lost service.

I stand there, heart hammering, while the group keeps talking around me.

“Everything is holding up fine. We just have to wait it out,” Rey says.

“Abuela says she’s going to bed. You’d think it’d be impossible to sleep with the storm, but you can’t tell her anything,” Mama says, exasperated.