Page 98 of Awaiting the Storm
Shove.
A not-so-gentle push sends me stumbling forward. My heel catches the edge of the drive, and I nearly eat dirt. I flail, right myself at the last second, and spin around, wide-eyed and livid.
“Charli!”
“Good luck, Sissy!” they all scream from inside the truck.
“Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do,” Harleigh calls gleefully from the back window.
Shelby hits the gas, and the truck lurches forward, wheels skidding on the gravel as they peel out of the drive and vanish through the trees.
I’m standing in the middle of the driveway. Alone. In a tiny red dress. With no phone. No jacket. And rage bubbling in my chest.
“Oh. My. God. I’m gonna kill those brats,” I hiss, spinning in a circle like it might somehow rewind the last five minutes.
The night air is frigid. Wind cuts right through my skin.
I wrap my arms around myself, stomping my feet for warmth, and scream, “I hate all of you!”
And that’s when the cabin door creaks open.
I turn at the sound, and out steps a woman.
An older woman—maybe late fifties, early sixties. Long, dark hair and dark eyes—eyes just like his. She wears a soft sweater and slacks.
Shit.
I wish the ground would open up and swallow me whole.
“Well,” she says in a voice laced with amusement, “you must be Matty.”
Ifreeze, my mouth working uselessly. “I—I didn’t mean to … I wasn’t … they … left—I was left …” I babble as I point toward the road.
Her smile is gentle but amused. “Isn’t it a little cold for that dress, sweetheart?”
I nod, mortification coursing through my body as I grab the hem and tug at it, trying to cover all the important parts. “Yes. Yes, ma’am. My sister picked it out. We went out, and they thought it would be funny to … drop me off here. As a joke.”
“Ah,” she says, stepping onto the porch. “Sisters.”
She says it like she has a few of her own and knows.
“Do you want to come in?” she offers. “Before you start growing icicles.”
I glance at the cabin door behind her—the warm glow. The faint scent of firewood drifting out. My pride screams at me to turn and run as fast as I can, but my toes are already going numb, and my bladder is about to explode.
“Okay,” I whisper.
She steps aside, and I walk up the steps and past her into the cabin, my eyes scanning for him.
The television is on. There’s a half-empty glass of wine on the side table. The fire pops in the wrought iron stove, casting its light across the room.
I stand there, pressing my thighs together, doing a little dance as she shuts the door behind us.
There’s rustling in the bedroom as she calls out, “Case, we have company.”
The bedroom door swings open, and he’s standing there in nothing but a towel, his hair wet and droplets of water clinging to his bare chest.
“Matty?” he breathes.
