chapter ONE
My body bolts up in bed; chest heaving and skin prickling with sweat. My fingers grip the sheet as I take a second to get my bearings and focus on the wall in front of me, and the painting of the setting sun that hangs over my dresser.
“It was just a dream.” A sigh of relief escapes my lungs.
It’s been months since I had a nightmare like that. At twenty-five years old, I should be able to move on from the sins of the past. Not my sins–I did nothing wrong. It’s his sins that live on my skin. His sins that have me calling out his name as I emerge from tormented sleep.
I raise my hand to eye level and watch as it quivers like a leaf. Actually, that's a false comparison. What my hand is doing is nothing like a green blade dancing in the breeze. I’m more like a petal that is clinging to the end of a branch, desperate not to get swept away.
Falling back on the mattress, I pull away the hair stuck to my neck and rest a hand on my chest—my palm feeling the rise and fall of each breath.
It astounds me that one man could leave a scar so deep that I’m still affected. It’s not just the dreams or the nervous ticks – it's the way I live my day-to-day life straddling the past and the present, unable to see the future.
The theme song from Law & Order plays as my ringtone alerts me to a call. I pick up the phone and see Kevin’s name in white.
I swipe the screen. “Hey, babe.”
“Did I wake you?” he asks in an apologetic tone.
The clock glows ten in the evening. I must have dozed off after running errands all day.
Pressing my thumb and forefinger into my closed eyelids, and swallow down my nerves. “No,” I lie. “I'm just sitting in my room.”
“You sound shaken up,” he asks with concern and my eyes widen at his quick observation. “It’s the storm, isn’t it?”
“Yeah,” I clear my throat and give my body a shake. “Yes. It’s really coming down out there.”
“I’ve been watching the news, and I think you should come over here. The weather’s getting rough, and forecasters are calling for power outages and flooding. We should be together.”
There is a hurricane warning for the East Coast, with New York City in the eye of the storm. The Mayor has evacuated all beach areas and coastal neighborhoods. For a city made up of islands, that’s a lot of people.
“I’m fine where I am,” I assure him while rising from the bed.
Pulling back the sheer rust-colored drapes, I gaze out the window at the rain hitting the slick Manhattan streets making it look like there’s an oil spill on Avenue C.
“Trish, there’s a hundred-mile-wide storm driving up the coast. I’ll come to you,” he offers. “It’s weird you don’t want to be with me tonight. Couples run to each other in times like this.”
I rub a finger over my temple and push in on the pressure point.
Kevin and I have been together for two years, and he’s been nothing short of dedicated to our relationship. It’s just that, recently, things have been moving in the wrong direction. He has a growing desire for me to share his address, but I’m not ready. It’s not that I don’t want to live with him, per say. He’s amazing. It’s the steps that follow that make me nervous and send caution flags flying.
A picture of us at our company holiday party is on the nightstand next to my bed. He has on a CBGBs t-shirt and a huge grin on his face. His arm is slung around my shoulder as I look into the camera with a bashful, closemouthed smile.
If there’s anyone who’s going to take care of me tonight, it’s Kevin. And that's why I need to make sure he’s safe as well.
“If the weather is that bad then neither of us should be traveling. If you got hurt on the way over here, I’d never forgive myself.”
He lets out an irritated breath on the other end. “Fine. Will you at least check in with me? Let me know you’re okay?”
I shake my head. “You’re too sweet for me.”
“And you’re too independent for me. You know that?”
His comment makes me laugh lightly as we say our goodbyes.
I hang up the phone and let it roll from my hand onto the nightstand, my chest still pounding. I close my eyes and try to tame my erratic heartbeat.
Kevin’s right. I should want to spend tonight with him, probably having crazy hurricane sex or something. But the thought of being trapped in his apartment during a horrific storm with nowhere to go makes me feel…caged.
“Trish, you awake?” Kelli’s voice comes from the living room.
“Yeah,” I call as I run my fingers through my hair and twist into a standard braid.
Wearing only boy shorts and a tank top, I walk into the living room. Instantly, I raise my arms to cover my chest at the sight of Vince, the guy who lives in 3C. “Dammit, Kel. You didn’t tell me we had company!”
“Don’t worry, no one’s lookin’ at your itty, bitty titties,” Vince chides with his eyes staring at the TV. The two are watching the news, which is completely out of character for them.
I snap my fingers making Kelli turn around. I give her a bug-eyed expression and raise my brows in Vince’s direction—she knows I can’t stand him. He’s always hanging around, eating our food, and using our Wi-Fi. Not to mention he’s a misogynist who consistently makes inappropriate comments about our bodies.
I take an afghan off the back of the sofa and wrap it around my shoulders.
Kelli ignores my qualms about our neighbor and her sometimes boy toy. Her short, dark hair whips around her cheeks with the turn of her head. “Get dressed. We’re going to a hurricane party on the fourth floor.” She rises from her seat and runs her hands down the sequins of her silver mini-dress. The shiny metallic acts as little plastic mirrors I can just barely see my reflection in. “Cute, right?”
“Adorable,” I deadpan as I look over at the flat screen TV that’s mounted to the wall.
Lonnie Quinn, the local weatherman, has his sleeves rolled up as he points to the wall behind him showing a graphic of the city. The red hurricane icon glows over the Atlantic Ocean. The island of Manhattan and the areas around it are highlighted in yellow to illustrate the danger while Lonnie continues to make circular motions around our area. He uses rhetoric like “tidal surge” and “gale-force winds” to depict the severity of the situation—you know it’s serious when the meteorologist has removed his jacket and tie.
“What’s that thumping sound?” Vince asks, his eyes glaring around the room.
“That’s Trish. She does that when she gets nervous,” Kelli responds.
I glance down and see my right leg is, indeed, shaking so I walk over to the kitchen and where the bags from my trip to the store are sitting on the counter. I reach inside and pull out a box of candles.
“Are you expecting company tonight?” Kelli asks, wiggling her eyebrows.
“I got them in case we lose power. I also have batteries, non-perishable food and two gallons of water.”
She rolls her eyes at my purchases as she skims through the plastic bags. “You’re such a worry wart. Surprised you don’t have one of those hand crank radio thingies.”
I raise a finger in the air at her reminder, while making an “aha” face.
Turning on my heel, I go down the hall of our small apartment and get the red and black toolbox from the top shelf of my closet. Manhattan has seen everything from September eleventh terrorist attacks to Super Storm Sandy. One can never be too prepared.
“What the hell is that?” she asks when I return.
“Our survival kit.” I flip open the lid. Inside are my flashlight, more batteries, first aid kit, whistle, moist towelettes, and my battery-powered radio.
“It’s just a little rain.” She glares out the window and back to me. “Besides, what can happen to us all the way up here?”
Her question makes the hair on the back of my neck stand at attention. “The power could go out for days. We’d be stuck here with no food, water, or supplies.”
Kelli saunters into the kitchen and opens one of the cabinets where I’ve stocked more water, cans, and boxed food. She’s giving me a questioning glare.
I continue, “The water might get turned off, meaning sanitary conditions can get pretty rancid.”
She twists her face. “That’s beyond gross.”'
“Looting. Flooding. We could be here for days. Two girls on their own…” I jolt, and start to make my way back to my room. “That reminds me. I have a Swiss Army knife under my bed—”
“Trish!” she cuts me off and I freeze. “Calm down. You’re doing that thing again.”
“What thing?”
“Man, I knew you had issues, but I didn’t realize you were so uptight,” Vince chimes in as he moves from the couch to the kitchen. “Must be a red-head thing. You’re all a little crazy,” he jokes as he picks up the small chainsaw and duct tape I placed on the counter. “You’re also a little kinky.”
He takes me in with beady, little eyes that are trying to see what’s beneath my afghan. I pull the blanket tighter around my chest, and my stomach rolls at the same time my toes start dancing inside my sock.
Kelli looks down at my foot and then turns to Vince. “Hey, why don’t you head down to the party? Trish and I’ll meet you there.”
Vince’s eyes rake me in, and then dart to Kelli before shrugging. “Yeah, whatever. I’ll see you down there. And Trish, wear one of your schoolgirl skirts. Your legs look killer in those.”
If I could vomit, I would.
Kelli escorts him out. No sooner is the door closed than her back is to it, leaning on it like she’s posing. “He’s harmless.”
“He’s a pig,” I retort, throwing the afghan on the couch.
“You hate all men,” she says as she pushes off the door.
“Just the undeserving ones.” I dump the rest of my supplies on the counter and continue to put them away. “Did you charge your laptop?”
She gives me a cute little smile and walks toward the television. “Yes, mom. And my phone just as you requested.”
Kelli and I have been friends since I moved from Wyndham, Virginia, to Cheshire, Connecticut. I was sixteen and in a dark place at the time. I became aware my life was shit when my parents had to uproot our entire family and move to a different state so I could start over. I didn’t want any friends–I just needed to keep my head low and graduate high school. Yet somehow, Kelli weaseled her way in, and we became friends. It wasn’t until sometime in college when we roomed together at Eastern that she finally got me to confess.
About Wyndham.
About Jackson.
About the video.
“Shit, this storm is going to be a motherfucker,” Kelli exclaims, raising volume with the remote.
“Told you. Everyone said it was going out to sea except for the European model. It’s the only weather tracker that predicted this.”
“Freaking meteorologists. They have one job to do, and that’s to tell the weather. They can’t even do that right.”
“Well, it’s a bit more complicated than that.”
“At least I won’t have to worry about hurricanes when I move to Hawaii.” She tosses the remote on the coffee table and falls to the couch behind her.
I nearly drop the pack of Duracell in my hand at her wildly incorrect statement. “Hawaii is in the middle of the Pacific Ocean.”
She waves me off. “Whatever. They’re Hawaiian hurricanes. Totally different.”
“Totally different is right,” I mutter under my breath.
Kelli is living a pipe dream right now. Every month she says she’s moving somewhere new. Last year it was L.A. Before that, Vegas. She seems to keep relocating her next destination further out west. Soon she’ll be saying Japan. Truth is, she isn’t going anywhere. She’s a dreamer and a flighty one at that.
She puts her hand inside the top of her dress to lift her boobs up in her bra. She’s staring at her cleavage with an appreciative look. “Speaking of which, I bought my ticket.”
“Ticket?”
“For Hawaii. I’m moving at the end of next month.”
This time I actually do drop something. Thankfully, it’s only a box of Band-Aids. “What do you mean you’re moving?”
She looks at me with her head tilted to the side and brow creased in confusion. “Trish, I’ve been talking about moving to Hawaii for months. I told you I was applying for jobs. I even showed you apartments I was looking at.”
I stare at her. Not moving. Not flinching. Not saying a word.
She rises from the couch. “What’s wrong? Why aren’t you fidgeting?”
I blink a few times.
“Trish, please say something. You’re scaring me.”
She went to school for business before she decided she wanted to be a hair-stylist. At twenty-five, she should be focusing on her career, not moving to the middle of the ocean on a whim. This is the time to establish yourself, make something of your chosen vocation—put down roots. Not that I should talk. I’m just a lowly assistant at a digital production company, Asher-Marks Communications. I’ve been trying to make a name for myself, but can’t seem to get a permanent promotion.
“You’re really moving?” I ask in disbelief.
“Yes. I got a job at a hotel working at a high-end salon.”
“Why would you do that when we have the best salon’s in the country right here?”
She shoves a hand on her hip and points out the window. “Because it’s dark and dreary here. I want sunshine and adventure.”
“Where will you live?”
“In an apartment I rented,” she answers slowly like I’m an idiot for not knowing her plans.
“But you haven’t seen it. How will you know the area is safe? What if you get there and it’s a dump? Or the neighbors are sex offenders?”
She takes an exasperated breath. “I don’t, Trish. It’s called taking a chance. Ever heard of it?”
“I don’t gamble.”
“You don’t live.”
My jaw drops with a gasp. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
Kelli tugs on the ends of her brown hair and closes her eyes in frustration. “It means you let an asshole from almost a decade ago destroy every decision you make today.”
I furrow my brow at the mere mention of Jackson. The nightmare I had is still too fresh. “That’s not true.”
She crosses her arms and lowers her forehead. “It’s not? You’re in a career you hate. You can’t commit to save your life, and you’re writing every word I’m saying right now on your thumb.”
I cast my attention to my hand where my index finger is tracing words on my thumb. It’s a small habit I do when I feel like I have zero control over a situation. I force my hands apart and splay them on my hips.
She takes a step toward me and places a hand on the counter. “We both know you’re never moving in with Kevin.”
“You don’t know that,” I argue but am cut off by her raised brows and pursed lips, daring me to finish my sentence.
My face must contort into an odd expression because she quickly adds, “You can come with me.”
“What would I do there? You’re a hair stylist. You can work anywhere. I don’t see Hawaii bustling with television jobs.”
“You act like I’m moving to the wilderness. There are jobs in Hawaii. And so what if you can’t get a producing gig? You never wanted to work there, anyhow—it was your fall back job. You can put your years as an assistant to good use and work in a hotel or any other office. I’m sure that fancy boss of yours, Alexander Asher, has connections. Doesn’t he own hotels or restaurants or something?”
“I’m not asking Asher to get me a job. Besides, he’s dismantling the company. He’s not exactly my boss anymore.”
Her arms fly out dramatically. “Exactly! You’re gonna be out of a job soon, anyway!”
“The new board of directors may want me.”
Kelli leans in closer. Her potent scent of dahlias and spice is giving me a headache. “Why are we staying in this city? Don’t vie for a job at a company you don’t want to be with when there are so many other opportunities out there. Haven’t you ever just wanted to take a chance and do something so out of the box it scares you?”
I shake my head. Not because the answer is “no.” Because the answer is “always.” I’m always taking chances—putting myself out there, doing dumb things in an attempt to right a wrong.
As if seeing I’m not in the mood to have this conversation, she steps back and adjusts her dress making sure the sequins are all facing in the downward direction. “Think about it, okay. At least come visit.”
I offer her a sideways smile. “Of course, I’ll visit. You can show me how to hula.”
“I’m gonna get some hot guys to teach us how to surf!” She spins on her heel and prances into the living room, stopping in front of the television. “Do you really think this storm is going to be as bad as they predict?”
The deluge of swirling wind echoes as it hits the panes. There’s an ominous cloud of the unknown that sends a chill up my spine and makes my hair feel like its standing on end.
“I think it’s going to be worse.”
Kelli scrunches her lips. “Well, we have everything we need here, right? Go get dressed.”
“I’m not going to that party.”
“Come on! What the heck are you going to do up here alone all night?”
“Workout and catch up on some reading.”
She points a finger. “Don’t sit on your Kindle all night. The battery will die.”
“Look at you worrying about losing power.”
She gives me a sly grin. “If you change your mind, you know where I’ll be.” She slides her shoes on and gives her hair a toss before leaving.
As soon as the door closes behind her, my hands are in my hair, and I pull on the strands as hard as I can without hurting myself. With a loud exhale, I walk around the small kitchen island and pace the living room.
Standing still with Kelli here, was driving me insane. Between my dream, Kevin, Vince, the storm, and now Kelli’s announcement of her impending move, my anxiety is off the charts.
I breathe in and out with measured beats and try to calm myself. Shaking my arms away from my body, I jog in place in an attempt to expel this pent-up energy.
After all her threats of skipping town, Kelli is actually leaving. I can’t sort out my feelings. I’ll miss her like crazy. That’s a fact. I’ve only had one true confidant since high school, and that’s her. I have a lot of friends, but those relationships are superficial—bar nights and shopping excursions with acquaintances, not true friends. Kelli is the only one who knows the real me.
My jog turns into jumping jacks. Letting my arms fly over my head, I think about what this will mean for me. I could get a new roommate, but who would that be. I can’t live with a stranger and all of my friends have roommates or boyfriends or prefer to live alone. Even if they wanted to move in, I don’t know if I could handle that. What I show on the surface is different from what Kelli knows about me on the inside—and I haven’t even showed her everything.
Sweat drips down my neck as I fall to the floor and do sit-ups—working out helps clear my head. Tonight, as the rain pelts the glass, the thought of the impending hurricane spinning around the city has me pushing myself harder than usual.
Kevin will want to move in. He’ll hate the idea of me living alone, and without Kelli, I have no excuse not to take our relationship to the next level.
My abs burn, the pain stinging from my hips up to my collarbones, and my chest constricts with each rise.
Kelli is leaving me.
My back tightens. I push myself until it hurts and then do ten more.
She said I hate my job. I do, but no more than any other person in the world.
My stomach grows numb. My body wants me to slow down, but I fight through the pain.
She said my romantic life is shit. Why? Just because I’m not ready to play house with my boyfriend?
It gets harder to pull myself up from the supine position. My stomach shakes as the muscles weaken.
She said I let him destroy me.
Pushing harder, rising up, my knees lock.
She was right.
I fall to the ground and lie on my back. My lungs expanding with a tightness in my back. My hairline is coated, slick with sweat—worse than when I woke from my dream. Staring at the popcorn ceiling, I lie in personal silence, waiting for my muscles to relax.
My fingers fiddle with the necklace I wear every day—a gold rosette, a gift from Jackson before he left for college. It’s the one thing Kelli doesn’t know about—otherwise, she’d make me take it off.
With my body exhausted, I give my brain a rest for the remainder of the evening as well.
I rise from the floor and then walk to the refrigerator to pour myself a large glass of ice water and chug it. The television catches my attention where the newscasters are actually report stories instead of whether.
“The Congressional Subcommittee on Energy was in town today. The group made up of eight U.S. Senators were set to discuss a new proposal for solar energy at the United Nations. The meetings were cut short due to the storm and will reconvene in a few days. In other news…”
I groan and exit the living room in favor of the bathroom and turn on the shower letting the hot water hit my scalp; the heat energizes my sore muscles and rejuvenates my spirit. Placing my palms against the smooth porcelain tiles, I bow my head to allow the stream to pummel my spine. Sometimes a baptism by faucet is all a person needs to serve as a reset button on a shitty day.
I dress in black pants and an orange tank top, and then throw a sweatshirt over it. With my hair brushed and my favorite fuzzy socks on my feet, I now sit on the most comfortable spot on the couch.
I welcome my newest paperback to my hands and raise it to my nose, inhaling the scent of fresh pages. The aroma is familiar and cozy—it’s rare that I read a physical book. With the convenience of a Kindle and the significantly lower price of e-books, I find myself entranced by a glowing screen more often than not. But this paperback is part of my hurricane preparedness—the battery can’t die on this baby.
But the lights can.
Crap.
Just as I open my book, the electricity flickers—TV, microwave, and refrigerator, all of them off—dammit
Feeling my way around the apartment, I find the kitchen and grab my flashlight. Nestling myself back on the couch, I pull out my laptop from under the coffee table. It’s fully juiced, so I tap into the Wi-Fi using my mobile hot spot and log onto Facebook.
The virtual world is pandemonium. Post after post shows what is happening in people’s neighborhoods, coupled with news stories from the South where the storm originated—images of destruction clutter my newsfeed.
I hear the noise from the party on the fourth floor. Despite the lack of electricity, they all seem to be having fun. Lord help us they don’t burn the place down with candles. I could go down there, but I prefer being alone.
Scrolling through my newsfeed, the Facebook messenger light pops up. I click on the icon, and my stomach drops at the sight of the name in bold of the incoming message.
Ella Davis.
Jackson’s sister.
My fingers tap on the silver frame of my Mac with nervous anxiety. I haven’t heard from Ella in years, and her message, although still unread, sends my stomach into twisting, painful knots.
We became Facebook “friends” a while back, but that’s not a real friendship—I’m not lying when I say I accepted her friend request because, at one time, the two of us were very close. And if I were to lie to myself, I’d say it wasn’t due to my burning curiosity to keep tabs on Jackson—to catch a rare glimpse of him in a family photo she posts around a holiday or her daughter’s birthday. Or maybe even see her brag about his recent accomplishments. Imagine my surprise, the boy who once was the apple of his daddy’s eye and a future politician, grew up to be a tatted-up musician who goes by the name, Jax.
Cliche, I know.
The subject line under her name reads part of the message.
Trish. I need your help. Jax…
My finger hovers over the mouse. The moment I click the message, she’ll know I read it. I won’t be able to help her—I’m stranded in my apartment during a hurricane; not to mention, I’m in New York. According to her profile, she lives in Washington, D. C. I can’t fathom what she could need me for or what would make her reach out after all this time.
I move my hand closer to the mouse pad, about to click and then pull back. I can’t open it—not if it has anything to do with him. She knows Jax was the guy in the tape and that he’s the reason my family uprooted and moved to Connecticut. She has one hell of a nerve reaching out.
The bottom of the computer feels hot on my skin as my finger hovers over the mouse. She hasn’t contacted me in almost a decade, even after we “connected” online. This is Ella Davis—the respectable, courteous, sweet, and proper girl I once studied with, and later became good friends. If she needs my help then it must be important and I shouldn’t ignore her.
I click on the message. My heart threatens to beat out of my chest before I read the first word.
Trish, I need your help. Jax was in an accident tonight and taken to Holy Samaritan in NYC. We called, and it doesn’t sound good. I’m freaking out. We’re trying to get into the city, but all flights are grounded. I know this is the craziest request, but you’re the only person I know there, and I need you to go to him. From what I’m being told, he’s dying and there is no one there to sit by his side. Please. I don’t have any one else to ask. If my brother doesn’t make it through the night, I don’t want him to be alone.
Trembling.
My body shakes.
I try to breathe, but the air can’t inflate my lungs fast enough. I take sharp, shallow breaths. They’re quick, and I can’t keep up with them. The words I just read have me hyperventilating.
I walk over to the kitchen, banging my foot on the end table unable to see in the dark. My knees hit the floor, so I crawl, fingers pawing at the vinyl flooring desperate to catch hold of anything to cling to.
In the cabinet under the sink, I grab a brown paper bag and slam my back against the cabinet door. With my knees pressed tightly to my chest, I raise the bag to my mouth and take a series of deep breaths, inhaling as long as possible until my lungs resume normal function.
Jax is in the city.
Jax is dying.
His family wants me to go to him.
I want to tell them no. I should type back that Jackson deserves whatever happens to him tonight. A part of me died years ago at his hands, and I’ll never get it back.
A thunderous boom sounds from outside the window making a car alarm blare.
Beep. Beep. Beep.
Flash. Flash. Flash.
The lights from the vehicle reach our fifth-floor apartment providing a faint glow on the wall—the same wall that has a techno color picture of Jesus wearing sunglasses and giving the thumbs up. With pulsating beats, his holiness is illuminated like a neon sign along with every flash of the alarm.
“You’ve got to be kidding me,” I shout into the pitch-black apartment.
Beep. Beep. Beep.
Flash. Flash. Flash.
Over and over, the blaring noise continues. If the owner of the vehicle would please turn their stupid alarm off it would be of great assistance, because right now, I’m freaking the fuck out. If I ever believed in signs—this would be the one to heed.
My darkest enemy, the Judas of my life, lies alone in a hospital room dying, and I have been summoned to his bedside.
I cover my ears, but the incessant wailing of the car won’t stop. Neither will the light blasting across the wall leaving me to contemplate the plight and answer the moral question of the night: Do I go to Jax or do I leave him there to suffer alone?