Page 77 of The Dating Game

“Earthquake!” I cry in disbelief, and a second later I’m being pushed to the ground by Will, his big body covering mine as another ceiling tile falls to the ground.

“Get under the desk,” he shouts. We crawl across the room, sliding sideways as another tremor shakes the space. Will pushes me under the desk first, then joins me, the space entirely too small for both of us, thereby leaving half of him exposed, but he doesn’t complain. His eyes never leave my face.

There’s more crashing, then as suddenly as it started it stops. Everything goes still.

Will’s gaze is still fixed on me. “Are you okay?” he asks, his voice hoarse. I nod wordlessly.

“Good,” he breathes, one hand raising to gently cup my face.

“Are you okay?” I croak as his thumb brushes my cheek.

“I’m fine,” he assures me. “Aside from my worry about you.”

“I’m okay, really,” I assure him and his posture finally relaxes. Gingerly he backs out from under the desk, and a second later I follow after him, my body sighing with relief over not being confined in such a small space anymore.

Any relief I felt vanishes, though, as I take in the devastation around us. Despite the brevity of the quake it caused significant damage. Books are strewn about the floor, more than half the ceiling tiles caved in, and no pictures remain on the walls, instead the glass shards of the frames cover the room.

“Oh my goodness,” I breathe in dismay.

“That was crazy.” Will is similarly aghast. I look over to find his face has gone as white as a sheet. “The kids!” he exclaims, leaping across the rubble to get to the door. But when he jiggles the handle it doesn’t budge. He tries again, but still nothing. Finally he gives up and leans his shoulder into the door instead. Stillno luck. Thankfully I’m wearing tennis shoes, but I still sidestep the larger pieces of glass and ceiling on the floor to join him in his efforts.

Even with both of us leaning on the door, it doesn’t budge.

“What if we kick it?” I suggest, fighting the panic rising in my chest. This door is the only way out. There’s a window behind us, but the bars covering it make it impossible to climb in or out.

“Worth a try,” Will agrees. He doesn’t add what I already know: if, as I suspect, there’s something blocking our exit, kicking the door won’t help. We’re going to need someone to find us to get us out of here.

Simon knows we came back here, but what if he’s hurt? Or busy tending to anyone else who’s hurt? Or what if nobody can get into the building? Oh no! What happened to the kids and chaperones sorting food in the back of the building? Are they okay? What if they’re stuck too?

Next to me Will lifts a leg and slams it into the door. Nothing happens.

What are we going to do? Neither of us have our phones, since we left them on the bus. Who knows if the phone lines even work after that quake; it may have knocked out the cell towers!

I can no longer control the panic sweeping over me. I feel my body start to shake even as I fight to take a deep, supposed-to-be calming breath.

Despite the fact that I don’t verbalize my panic, Will seems to instinctively sense that I’m on the verge of falling apart. He turns from the door, takes one look at me, then pulls me against him, running his hands soothingly up and down my back.

“It’s fine, we’re fine,” he murmurs soothingly into my hair. “Someone will come get us. And hey, at least we’ve got water. Your personal Culligan man has provided as promised.”

A strangled laugh erupts out of me, and I bury my face further into Will’s chest, my panic miraculously beginning to subside. There’s something so reassuring, and devastatingly attractive, about a man who can take control of a completely out-of-control situation.

I lift my arms, lacing my hands tightly around his neck, letting him anchor me—at least until my fingers touch hot moisture.

“Will, you’re bleeding!” I exclaim, pulling my hand back to see the tips of my fingers painted red with his blood. I grab hold of his shoulders and turn him around to get a better look. There’s a long cut bleeding freely across the back of his neck, and I swallow back bile as I see the glass shard embedded at the top near his hairline.

“Oh, I wondered what that pain in my neck was,” Will says in a tone that is far too conversational and entirely too calm for the situation. I take back what I said before—this controlled man needs to join me in my panic!

“Will!” I cry. “This looks bad! There’s so much blood!” I look wildly around for something to staunch the bleeding. Should I remove the shard of glass or will that make it worse? What if the glass is holding some of his blood in place, like a sink stopper and removing it will only increase the bleeding? That’s a thing right?

I don’t know! I’m not a medical professional! I don’t even watch medical dramas! Oh! Why couldn’t he have sprained something! At least I know the RICE acronym from my years of dance.

Dancers don’t typically suffer glass injuries to the neck! I need help!Help! Duh!

I race toward the window, my feet crunching over the debris. “Help!” I shout. “Somebody help us! Heeelllppp! We’re trapped, and I’ve got someone injured in here!”

Despite my impassioned pleas noone comes running.

“Brooke, honey,” Will calls, and I whirl back to face him, my heart stuttering in my chest when I see the shard of glass the man removed from his own neck!

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