Page 2 of The Storm

She’s lying.

We both know it.

We’re living on borrowed time.

And once the clock has ticked down… Well, then nothing will ever be okay again, will it?

The house comes into view,and I hate it on sight and on principle. If everything were still okay I wouldn’t even know it exists, and because of that, I hate it.

Mom parks the car, but neither of us makes a move to get out. We just look.

It’s a two-story colonial, white, with a gray roof and cornflower blue shutters. A red tile path leads to the front door, lined with rose bushes on both sides. The lawn is manicured to perfection, complete with flowerbeds, towering trees, and bushes trimmed into ovals.

“This is nice,” Mom says. The cheerfulness in her voice is so purposeful it feels practiced.

I refuse to reply, but then I feel bad about being like this. Ashamed. It’s a childish response. I’m supposed to be strong. Better. I’m supposed to prove I can handle anything. That I don’t need this house and the people inside it. That if push comes to shove, I can take care of her by myself.

She slides her thumb down between my eyebrows.

“Less scowling, maybe?” she suggests. “At least try. For me?”

I close my eyes before I nod and force my face to relax.

I open the door and get out of the car. She fumbles with the keys for a bit before she locks the doors. I wait until she makesher way to me, and then I match my pace to her slower one as we walk toward the front door.

She sends me a tight-lipped smile and draws in a fortifying breath before she knocks.

The door opens almost immediately, giving me no time to prepare, like whoever’s on the other side was pacing there, waiting.

A woman stands at the entrance, holding the door open. She’s tall, towering over Mom, dressed in jeans and a simple T-shirt. Her feet are bare, her nails painted electric blue. There are faint laugh lines in the corners of her brown eyes, and her dark hair has been cut short, so it barely touches her shoulders.

She swallows hard and a tremulous smile appears on her lips.

“Oh,” she breathes out, looking between me and Mom. “Oh,” she says again, then laughs. “Look at you.” She presses her knuckles against her mouth when her eyes focus on me. “Both of you. Hi!”

“Hello, Liz,” Mom says faintly.

“Claire.” The woman—Liz—smiles. A tear falls down her cheek. She wipes it off and laughs again. “Look at me. Getting all sappy.” She takes a step forward. Stops. But then she’s hugging Mom, whispering something in her ear. Mom nods the whole time she’s listening.

“I’m sorry,” Mom says. “I really am sorry.”

Liz steps back, wipes away more tears, and smiles some more.

“Let’s not.” She shakes her head.

It’s all a whirlwind after that. She ushers us in. She gives us a tour. Leads us through too many hallways and rooms and points out drawings on the walls and talks and talks andtalksto fill the awkward silence Mom and I provide.

She’s a whirlwind.

A tornado of nervous energy, and why is she so… weird?

As if in a dream, I find myself sitting on their back porch at a wooden table. There’s food. So much food. And awkwardness. There’s a man, Liz’s husband, in paint-splattered jeans and a T-shirt with a picture of a crow on it. She introduces him as Gus. There’s a girl. Fifteen. Just like me. India. I avoid looking at any of them for too long.

“Where’s Go?” Liz asks her daughter.

India rolls her eyes and flips her long chestnut hair over her shoulder. “Where else? On the bay.” She sounds mildly exasperated but mostly amused.

“Our son,” Liz says, “has a terrible habit of forgetting the time and everything around him when he’s doing something he loves.”