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TATUM
Iavoided Clara like the plague, picking her up and dropping her off wherever she needed to be with little more than the barest of greetings.
It was hell.
I felt like a grade-A bastard, and on top of that, I ached for her like an addict. Grimly, I reminded myself it was for the best. Best for her, best for me, best for my family. Best for everyone, I repeated to myself ad nauseum.
Things were manageable…
Until the hurricane.
The night of the hurricane changed everything.
Hurricane Augusta made landfall in Louisiana and barreled to the northeast coast to drown the city in a deluge of epic proportions. It battered Manhattan, and like a wrathful god, it tore through the boroughs. The flooding, along with the tornado warnings, almost drove me to the brink of insanity as I lay in my luxurious penthouse, unable to leave my building and race over to Queens to take care of the ones I loved.
Strong wind gusts blasted sheets of rain against the glass wall of my apartment as I wore a groove into the parquet floor pacing, up and down, up and down. The city implemented a travel ban until 5 a.m., a nail-biting experience rivaling the Titanic.
Cell reception was intermittent, but Star kept in contact when she could. Thank Christ, in the end, our house was spared. It was sheer luck and nothing else because Alex’s mother’s house, a few places down from my mother’s, was flooded. Part of the roof was torn off, and some of the siding was missing. Windows were blown out. Power was out for the whole neighborhood.
I let out a hushed curse when Alex alerted me to the situation. He and I were texting incessantly. There was a good hour of sheer panic as his house in Queens held out against the hurricane-turned-tornado, the women trapped inside.
Icy terror flooded my veins.
Clara.
I should’ve been there, or she should’ve been here with me. By my side. In my arms. In my bed. Safe with me, dammit. This was my fault. All of it. Regardless of how much she hated me, I should’ve dragged her over to my place the moment I’d heard about the hurricane. It wasn’t like I hadn’t lived through Hurricane Sandy in 2012. It was after Sandy that I had our basement flood-proofed. I may have only been twenty-one years old, but I was the head of my family, and I’d be damned if I didn’t protect my mother and sister.
I stopped by Alex’s penthouse next door and told him to evacuate the women to my mother’s house the moment it was safe enough for them to venture out into the streets. Those turned out to be a rough few minutes as they braved the elements to find refuge. The rain was still coming down hard, but they made it safely to my mother’s doorstep with the clothes on their back and nothing more.
Once the rain had dissipated enough for the city to lift the travel ban, I took off in the Range Rover. I drove through the flooded streets, swirling with debris, bringing what supplies I could with me. As I slowly crept across the Queensboro Bridge at a snail’s pace, I glanced down at the East River. It roiled beneath me like a cauldron from hell.
Once Queens-side, I slowly swerved around fallen trees and made it five blocks away from Mama’s house before I was forced to abandon the car.
Throwing the door open, I grabbed what I could and waded through the rushing river that came up to my hip. Rain pounded down on me like buckets thrown down by an angry Thor or Zeus. Their wrath reflected my inner turmoil; I was furious at myself for having been so far away from the women during this waterlogged apocalypse.
Anticipating my arrival, Star flung the front door open as I dragged myself up the flight of stairs to Mama’s house. Squinting my eyes against the rain, I made out Star’s slim silhouette. Eyes wide like a panicked horse, she covered her open mouth with her hand, as I took the last few steps in the torrential downpour, drenched to the bone.
“Oh my God, are you alright? I can’t believe you drove through this,” my little sister said in a panicked rush.
I stripped off my drenched sweater as I stepped through the door and dumped it on the floor of the foyer along with the bags of supplies I’d carried with me.
Grabbing her to me, I held her tight.
I didn’t do touching. It was even rarer for me to go into a full hug, but I was desperate to feel her under my fingertips and make sure she was alive.
Caressing her hair, I pressed for information, “How is everyone?”
“Fine, Tatum. We’re fine. Mama is with Alex’s mom and Bunica in the kitchen. And Clara’s here, of course.”
“Clara,” I murmured and felt an odd pricking sensation on my nape.
As if I’d conjured her up, I looked over my sister’s shoulder, and there she was, leaning against the wooden column flanking the entrance to the living room.
Our gazes clashed.
Jesus, she was as gorgeous as ever. More so, even.
Wiping dripping water off my face, I quickly stepped away from my sister.
