Page 19 of Chasing the Other Woman

The temptation to pick up the phone and text him, to fix it, is right there, like an itch that if I could just reach it…

“I need something to do,” I say, interrupting the thought before it can make me do something stupid.

“Shower. Sleep. Eat.”

“Fine,” I agree, knowing she isn’t going to let go of those three. “But after the showering, sleeping, and eating. Put me to work.”

“Here?”

“No. At McDonald’s. Yes, here, Petra. I need something to keep my brain off…”

I wave my hand around as if that explains everything.

She sighs. It’s all I need.

“Fine. You can work tonight. Clean off the tables. Deliver drinks. Look cute. Get tips.”

By nine, The Funnel Cloud is hopping. Calling it a dive bar at this point seems generous since more reputable establishments have apparently co-opted the term. It isn’t that The Cloud is seedy. It’s just old and set in its ways. No one is going to do a TikTok spotlight on this place any time soon.

Truckers come in from God knows where. Linemen take up space near the back of the room, tracking mud on the floor. A couple of ranch hands stand near the back end of the bar arguing about cattle prices. Two off-duty sheriff deputies try to look imposing at a table near the front, but only manage to look like part of the scenery.

The TV above the bar is tuned into weather coverage. In a few months, it’ll be sports, but right now, the action is in the sky.

A severe thunderstorm warning crawls across the bottom of the screen. I absentmindedly wipe down a table while watching the graphic.

The weather team on screen switches to the radar. Yellow polygons. Several counties north of us under the gun, which isn’t unusual for the Texas panhandle. And a little hook is making an effort to make something of its short life along the edge of the cell.

No doubt, back in Oklahoma, the team is getting ready to roll out. The sponsors and money don’t ask whether or not Brooks’s arm is suited for driving. Maybe Hershel will take the wheel.

Maybe Luci will.

I clamp my teeth together.

“Will it go tornadic?”

I turn and look at a boy who has shot up at least half a foot since I last saw him. He has Petra’s brown eyes and a serious expression that makes him look older than his fourteen years.

Petra had warned me that he would be peppering me with questions. I hadn’t expected him to open with one, but I welcome it.

I glance back at the television. “Not tonight. There’s too much cold air undercutting it. It may get a little nasty, but I’d be surprised to see it drop a funnel close by.”

Tom’s mouth curves into a knowing smile. “That’s what I told Mom. I told her you’d say the same thing. Brooks Carlisle said on stream last May that you have the best storm sense of anyone he’s ever met.”

There’s no warning that my chest is going to feel like I’ve just been punched. And Tom, looking at the situation with the flat, emotionless logic of a raw radar feed, has no clue he just sent me reeling.

“He said that, did he?”

Tom nods, completely unaware of the minefield he’s stepping into. Petra once described Tom as “more perceptive than God, except when it comes to stepping in horseshit.”

“On a clip from May 14th. Mesocyclone near Dumas. One of the clips without the bracelet.”

I don’t grip the chair next to me because that’s the type of tell Tom would pick up on.

The bracelet. He stopped wearing that bracelet after the accident. I never had the heart to ask why. I’d given him that bracelet for his birthday, not long after we started dating. Something to keep me with you.

When he stopped wearing it, I was afraid of what that meant, so I never asked.

But my mind always filled in the details regardless.