Page 83 of Chasing the Other Woman

We fall inside more than climb. Brooks yanks the door shut behind us and throws the bar across. The storm hits the other side with a force that makes the whole shelter shudder. Darkness swallows us.

The air inside is cold and thick with the damp, mineral chill of underground stone. Brooks grabs me and pulls me down. The shelter shakes again. Dust sifts from the seams.

Something slams into the door. I flinch despite myself, and Brooks covers me with his body. For half a second, I let him. Only half.

Then I shove at his shoulder. “Stop.”

He doesn’t move. “Stay down.”

“You stay down.”

“I am down.”

“You’re on top of me.”

“Observant as ever.”

“Brooks.” My voice cracks around his name. I push harder. “If something comes through that door, you being over me won’t fix it.”

“If something comes through that door, it goes through me first.”

“No.” The word tears out of me. “You don’t get to decide that.”

His face is inches from mine. Rain drips from his hair onto my cheek. His breathing is rough, and I can feel the tremor in him where his chest presses against my arm.

“I'd decide it every time,” he says.

The shelter groans.

I grab his soaked shirt in both fists. “That isn't romantic. That isn't brave. That’s you trying to leave me with one more storm I have to survive without you.”

His mouth opens. Nothing comes out.

The door rattles so violently that I taste metal. Fine limestone dust blows through the gap near the bottom, stinging my eyes. Brooks lowers his forehead until it touches mine. “I’m sorry.”

“Don’t.”

“I love the way you argue with me like you know you're right because you usually are."

My heart stops. “Brooks.”

“I love the way you go quiet when you’re reading a storm. Like the whole world could be on fire and you’d still catch the one detail everyone else missed.”

“Stop talking like this.”

“I love that you still make that face when you’re pretending coffee isn’t too hot. I love that you tuck your left foot under you when you read. I love that you used to steal all the motel pillows and then deny it while lying on every single one of them.”

My fists tighten in his shirt. The roar above us grows until there's no separation between the storm and the shelter and my own blood rushing in my ears.

“I loved you when we were broke,” he says, voice rough and too close. “I loved you when we built something bigger than either of us knew what to do with. I loved you when everything was falling apart and I was too scared to say the right thing, so I said nothing. I loved you badly, Sammy Girl. But I never loved you less.”

My eyes burn. “No,” I whisper. “No, you don't get to make this your last speech.”

His hand cups the back of my head as another impact lands outside hard enough to make the light flicker. “Sam.”

“We’re not dying.”

“I hope to God you’re right, because I've got a lot to make up for."