Page 24 of Small Town, Big Storm

As I walk down the hall, through the kitchen, and across the living room, the floor is vibrating softly beneath my feet, the buzz of conversations in the bar below echoing through the hundred-year-old wood.I smile, remembering all the times I’ve felt the same thing, all the years I’ve lived here.All the conversations I’ve witnessed and the people I’ve met and the home I’ve helped build.

First with my uncle.

Then with Holly.

Christmases and Easter egg hunts and birthdays and visits from the Tooth Fairy.

Tantrums and dinners that were nothing more than sustenance (and sometimes barely that).Diaper changes and sleepless nights and tears that sometimes seemed never ending.

And laughter.

And memories.

And the best times of my life.

All with the buzz of the bar below accompanying them.

I smile and slip out the front door, making sure it latches behind me.Cedar Hollow is a small town, but this is still a bar and my daughter is sleeping inside.

So, I’m careful.

This door locks automatically, and the one downstairs does as well.

Though, I recently installed keypads so Holly can come and go more easily without having to fumble through a bunch of keys like I had to do when I was growing up.

Four little buttons and she can get herself back upstairs.

I make my way downstairs for my shift, stomach knotting as I scan the floor, half-expecting Storm to be on that stool again, nursing another drink named after him.The look in his eyes at the park…well, that hadn’t belonged to a man who seemed like he was going to disappear.

But he’s not in Sully’s.

And that’s not disappointment swirling through me.

It’s…reality—he left before, he’ll leave again.

It’s anger.Because what right does he have to be mad?

He’sthe one who left.

Holding tight to that thought, I relieve Cassie and am quickly swept up in mixing drinks and closing out tabs and making sure my geriatric crew of regulars have their beers and soda waters.The hours pass quickly and pretty soon I’m picking up chairs and mopping the floor.

And all the while, Storm doesn’t show up.

No, I don’t care about that either.

There’s a stock take to do, and I have to put in an order for supplies, but I decide that both of those can wait for tomorrow.

Grunting, I dump the dirty water from the mop bucket into the big plastic sink—that’s got to be thirty years old if it’s a day—and stow the rest of the equipment in the back of the supply closet, noticing that I need to do an order for items in here too.

Cleaning products and paper towels, toilet paper and gloves.

And napkins.

And coasters.

And soap for the bathrooms and?—

“Tomorrow,” I remind myself, flicking off the light and pulling the door closed behind me.