Crazy Little Thing Called Love (19 page)

Her mother's sigh seemed to press onto Vanessa's shoulders. “You'll have to move anyway to go to Tallahassee, Vanessa.”

“It's a three-hour drive. That's not the same thing as going across country again.”

“It's because of that boy, isn't it?”

That boy. She and Logan had been dating since early October—almost three months—and her mother still called him “that boy.”

“FSU has really grown since 2001, Mom. Mindy's been telling me all about it. They've renovated their dorms and built a lot of new buildings. It's a great college, whether Logan goes there or not.”

“Logan Hollister is a nice young man, Angie.” At least her father defended Logan to her mother. “But where
he
goes to college isn't our concern. It's still not too late to apply to other colleges.”

Applying to other colleges was a waste of time and money—that's what Vanessa wanted to say to her parents—because it was all settled. She and Mindy—and Logan—were going to Florida State in the fall.

College. A chance at four years in one place—and nothing changing even if the military made her parents move again. At last she would be in charge of her own life. Free to make her own decisions. To stay. No worrying about whether she was moving or not moving.

Never again.

She could make real friends, not who-knows-how-long-we-can-be-friends friends. And Logan would be on campus with her. They would have time to figure out . . . everything.

Later that evening her mother came and stood in the doorway of the bathroom. Vanessa watched her through the mirror, as she scrubbed her face with a warm, wet washcloth.

“I hadn't mentioned this yet because nothing's definite—but your father may be deploying for a year.”

“What?”

“And if he does, I'm planning on going back to Colorado to be near family.”

That didn't make any sense. “Just for a year?”

“We can rent out this house, and you and Rylan and I can get an apartment in Colorado. It will be easier.” She waited until Vanessa finished washing her skin. “We'll come back here after your father's deployment, when Rylan starts high school. I want you to go with us.”

The wet washcloth dropped into the sink. “No.”

“Vanessa, your father and I have discussed this, and we think it's the best choice for the family.”

“And I'm eighteen. I can make my own decisions. You can't make me move back to Colorado.”

“Are you forgetting who pays your tuition?”

Vanessa turned on the hot water, rinsing the washcloth again and again so that her hands were scalded red. Her parents wouldn't hold her tuition money hostage . . . would they?

Her long-awaited dream of independence seemed to slip a bit, move just out of her reach.

“I—I can always pay my own way through college.”

“I suppose you could. Or you could come to Colorado for one year—just one year—and then, if you still want to . . . you can transfer to Florida State after your freshman year is over.”

But so many things could change in a year. She'd learned that the hard, heartbreaking way. People didn't wait for you, even if they promised.

Logan loved her now . . . but would he love her a year from now?

Since homecoming, he'd made sure they never came close to making that . . . almost-mistake . . . again. He'd continued to say, “I love you,” but the words remained lodged in her throat, even though she knew Logan wanted to hear her say them back.

And she did love him. She did. She just couldn't say it out loud.

Going to college together would give them time to figure out their relationship. She'd never even come close to forever with anyone before. But maybe, just maybe, Logan was the one. Maybe she'd be one of those girls who married her high school sweetheart.

And Mindy had applied to Florida State, too. If she got in, she'd already said they'd be roommates. Imagine that—heading to college with her boyfriend and a roommate.

Why couldn't her parents understand that not everyone liked packing up their belongings every couple of years? That some people wanted another type of life? That she wanted something different? Stability.

“Well?”

“I'll think about it, Mom.”

“I thought so.”

Vanessa shut the bathroom door. Slumped to the floor, her back pressed to the wall.

Thinking about it didn't mean she'd change her mind.

Adversity introduces a man to himself.

—H. L. MENCKEN (1880–1956), AMERICAN JOURNALIST AND SATIRIST

I
f he were alone in the rental car, maybe he'd find the words to pray. Out loud. If not the words, maybe that groan that the Holy Spirit knew how to interpret when you didn't know what to pray.

At this point, Logan had nothing.

He unclenched his fists, wiping his damp palms on the front of his jeans. He wasn't going into the storm—not exactly. Not the way the Stormmeisters did when they traversed miles and miles of Tornado Alley, hunting down every possibility of a storm. Playing what some people thought was a reckless game of hide-and-seek as they sought the monsters that could wipe out entire towns within minutes.

And he wouldn't be doing anything more than he needed to—just what Vanessa asked of him. Drive to Twin Cities Hospital and back. No need to push the edge. To think,
Maybe just another half mile, another minute longer
—and then regret that decision for months. He was helping someone—not harming them.

He needed to focus. To pray. But with the way he'd initially refused to transport a dangerously ill boy to the hospital and even now fought against the urge to go back into the arena, surely God wasn't listening.

The prayer of a righteous man
. He stared straight ahead into the storm. Right now he didn't come close to qualifying.

“Thank you.” The tear-soaked voice of the woman sitting in the passenger seat next to him yanked Logan's attention from his internal struggle. “I'm so worried about my son . . .”

“Of course you are, ma'am.” Logan forced himself to make eye contact with her, hoping she didn't discern how he wanted to turn the car off, pocket the keys, and return to the evacuation shelter. “Any mother would be.”

His mom would walk to the hospital in a storm if that's what it took to get him or Caron the medical help they needed. And his dad—even though he didn't understand Logan's passion for tornadoes—he wouldn't let his son die in a hurricane shelter.

“I'm Logan Hollister, by the way.”

“I'm Tonya—my son is Christian.” She wore a red raincoat, her brown hair plastered against her scalp even though Logan had pulled his rental car up to the entrance of the arena.

She stopped talking as Vanessa and another paramedic exited the building, supporting Christian between them. The boy was hunched over, his eyes half open, his steps slow. Vanessa fought to hold an umbrella over him, even as Hurricane Cressida tried to pull it from her hands.

“Wait here.”

The wind-driven rain battered Logan the minute he stepped outside the car to open the back door. The other paramedic handed him a bucket with an apologetic, “He's probably gonna need this.”

Well, it wasn't as if he'd expected a pleasant afternoon drive around town.

Logan stood back while Vanessa and the other paramedic helped the boy into the backseat, water soaking his hair and wetting his face and neck, shutting the door once Vanessa said, “We're all good back here.”

The other man patted him on his shoulder with a hasty “Good luck,” and disappeared inside the building.

Nothing left to do except get in the car and drive.

God help them all.

Logan slid behind the steering wheel. Stared straight ahead at the storm raging outside. He needed more than luck—he needed someone to pray for them, even if they were “only” going to Twin Cities Hospital. He looked into the rearview mirror, his gaze catching Vanessa's unwavering one. And when her hand rested on his shoulder, he knew she was interceding for them. For him. He reached back and, for just a moment, rested his hand on top of hers.

For those few seconds, it was as if only the two of them were in the car. Her touch somehow anchored and steadied his heartbeat.

It had always been that way.

A quick memory returned of the evening he'd shown up at Vanessa's house, spewing words against his father because he wanted Logan to major in business, not meteorology.

“I'm riding out to the beach. I need to walk. To think. Will you go with me?”

“No.”

Her refusal brought him up short. “What?”

“I'm not getting on your motorcycle with you when you're upset like this, Logan.”

“I know how to drive—”

“Have you been listening to yourself? Because I have. You're angry—and I don't blame you.” She tugged his helmet out of his hand, wrapping her fingers around his wrist. “I will walk with you. And listen—all night if you want. But you're not getting on that motorcycle when you're this mad. You told me I'd always be safe when I rode with you—”

Her words, her touch, had been enough to calm him. To begin to diffuse the turmoil fueling his actions.

The slight pressure of Vanessa's hand pulled him back. He would do this. He cranked the defroster higher. With four wet people in the car, he'd be battling to keep the windows from fogging up, even as he navigated his way through whatever Cressida threw at him.

As he wheeled out of the parking lot, Christian groaned in the backseat, and Logan eased back on the gas pedal. Vanessa murmured something to the boy, even as she squeezed Logan's shoulder before shifting away.

“So, you're a storm chaser?” Tonya twisted around to face the front again, raising her voice to be heard above the pelting rain and the wind.

Was she making conversation just to distract herself? Probably. But he would prefer to drive in silence.

“Yes, ma'am. I've driven in all sorts of bad weather—usually because I chose to be out in it.” A dismembered tree branch fell into the road, causing Logan to swerve. Christian cried out again. “We'll get through this okay. The hospital is only about two miles from here. Normally about a five-minute drive.”

Logan stopped talking, battling with limited visibility—maybe fifteen feet ahead of him. Every bump and jostle, every time he drove over a smaller downed tree limb thrown in front of the car, seemed to distress Christian. And then came the sounds of the poor kid retching into the bucket
. Please, let him be puking into the bucket and not all over the backseat of the rental car
. An acidic, sour smell filled the thick air.

“Sorry—” Vanessa's voice was small, tight.

He met her eyes for just a moment in the rearview mirror again. “Don't worry about us. We're good.”

When Christian's mother went to unbuckle her seat belt, as if to turn and assist her son, Logan stopped her, placing a hand on her arm. “I need you to stay sitting down.” He patted her hand once, then gripped the steering wheel again. “Everyone needs to stay seat-belted. We'll be there as soon as possible. Pray—if you believe in that.”

“I do.”

“Then let Vanessa take care of Christian. Let me drive. You pray.”

•  •  •

“You have to do
something
—”

“I'm sorry. We can't help you.” The doctor overseeing the hospital shook his head, not swayed by Vanessa's pleading. “Our generators were hit when a chunk of our roof blew off. We only have enough power to keep up basic utilities—our operating rooms aren't functioning.”

Vanessa pressed both of her fists to her mouth, turning to face the glass sliding doors leading outside. An ER physician knelt half in, half out of the rental car, examining Christian, seemingly oblivious to the rain soaking the lower part of her scrub pants and her shoes.

“We've been in contact with Eglin Air Force Base Hospital, which is a larger facility than we are.” The doctor spoke behind her. “It's also a hurricane shelter—and it's fully operational.”

Vanessa spun back around. “Remind me how far that is from here?”

“Just under ten miles—less than fifteen minutes in good weather—if you go by Eglin Parkway. You don't want to go through town and risk crossing the bridge in Valparaiso.”