Magnolia (19 page)

I
awake with a start, shaking the cobwebs of sleep from my mind. It's pitch-dark out, the wind howling. It takes me a couple seconds to get my bearings, to realize I'm in my parents' bed, Ryder beside me, on his side, facing me. Our hands are still joined, though our fingers are slack now.

“Hey, you,” he says sleepily. “That one was loud, huh?”

“What was?”

“Thunder. Rattled the windows pretty bad.”

“What time is it?”

“Middle of the night, I'd say.”

I
could
check my phone, but that would require sitting up and letting go of his hand. Right now, I don't want to do that. I'm too comfortable. “Have you gotten any sleep at all?” I ask him, my mouth dry and cottony.

“I think I drifted off for a little bit. Till . . . you know . . . the thunder started up again.”

“Oh. Sorry.”

“It should calm down some when the eye moves through.”

“If there's still an eye by the time it gets here. The center of circulation usually starts breaking up once it goes inland.” Yeah, all those hours watching the Weather Channel occasionally come in handy.

He gives my hand a gentle squeeze. “Wow, maybe you should consider studying meteorology. You know, if the whole film-school thing doesn't work out for you.”

“I could double major,” I shoot back.

“I bet you could.”

“What are you going to study?” I ask, curious now. “I mean, besides football. You've got to major in something, don't you?”

He doesn't answer right away. I wonder what's going through his head—why he's hesitating.

“Astrophysics,” he says at last.

“Yeah, right.” I roll my eyes. “Fine, if you don't want to tell me . . .”

“I'm serious. Astrophysics for undergrad. And then maybe . . . astronomy.”

“What, you mean in graduate school?”

He just nods.

“You're serious? You're going to major in something that
tough? I mean, most football players major in something like phys ed or underwater basket weaving, don't they?”

“Greg McElroy majored in business marketing,” he says with a shrug, ignoring my jab.

“Yeah, but . . . astrophysics? What's the point, if you're just going to play pro football after you graduate anyway?”

“Who says I want to play pro football?” he asks, releasing my hand.

“Are you kidding me?” I sit up, staring at him in disbelief. He's the best quarterback in the state of Mississippi. I mean, football is what he does. . . . It's his life. Why
wouldn't
he play pro ball?

He rolls over onto his back, staring at the ceiling, his arms folded behind his head. “Right, I'm just some dumb jock.”

“Oh, please. Everyone knows you're the smartest kid in our class. You always have been. I'd give anything for it to come as easily to me as it does to you.”

He sits up abruptly, facing me. “You think it's
easy
for me? I work my ass off. You have no idea what I'm working toward. Or what I'm up against,” he adds, shaking his head.

“Probably not,” I concede. “Anyway, if anyone can major in astrophysics and play SEC ball at the same time,
you
can. But you might want to lose the attitude.”

He drops his head into his hands. “I'm sorry, Jem. It's just . . . everyone has all these expectations. My parents, the football coach—”

“You think I don't get that? Trust me. I get it better than just about anyone.”

He lets out a sigh. “I guess our families have pretty much planned out our lives for us, haven't they?”

“They
think
they have, that's for sure,” I say, just before a loud, shattering crash makes me gasp.

Ryder's already up, reaching for one of the lanterns. “That came from the living room,” he says. “You better get your camera. Whatever it is, we should film it.”

I nod, grabbing it before following him out. Sadie jumps down and tries to go with me, but I herd her back into the bedroom.

“Shit!” Ryder calls out from the living room. “I'm going to need some help here.”

I run toward his voice, terrified by the alarm I hear in it. “What is it?”

“A tree limb crashed through the window. Stop right there! Don't come any closer. There's glass everywhere. You got a tarp somewhere? And duct tape?”

I freeze, gaping at the sight. “Yeah, it's all in the dining room.”

“Okay, get it and put on some rain boots or something to protect your feet. We've gotta try and tarp up the window.” He pushes the furniture away from the window, the wind whistling loudly through the broken pane of glass as rain lashes against the hardwood floors.

I pan around with the camera, hoping I'm getting some usable footage in the dim lighting. The lens seems to provide a filter, making me feel somehow detached from what I'm seeing: jagged, broken glass; a tree branch half in my living room; my mom's favorite drapes pulled from the rod, flapping noisily against the battered window frame.

I've seen enough.

“I'll be right back,” I say, flipping off the camera before searching for supplies. I find a pair of flip-flops in the laundry room and figure they'll do, then make my way to the dining room, where I grab a blue plastic tarp and a roll of silver duct tape. I hurry back to the living room, hoping there's not too much damage.

It takes us a good half hour to get the tarp taped up securely. I'm not sure it's going to withstand the wind for long, but it's better than nothing. It's only when we're done that I notice Ryder is tracking blood everywhere.

“Oh my God, Ryder! Your feet.” While I've been tromping through the broken glass in flip-flops, Ryder is barefoot.

His eyes seem to widen with surprise as he glances down—as if he's just now noticing that he's hurt. “Can you get me an old towel or two? I'll get the floor cleaned up.”

The floor? He's bleeding like a stuck pig, and he's worried about the
floor
?

I manage to find a stack of ratty old towels in the downstairs
linen closet, and hand him two. “Here. Wrap these around your feet and go to the master bath and wait for me. I'll clean up the blood out here, and then I'll see about those cuts.”

“Nah, I'm fine. I can—”

“Ryder! Just do it. Go.”

He does, visibly wincing with pain.

It takes me another half hour to clean up the blood as best I can in the semidarkness. Whatever I missed can wait till the morning, when I can actually
see
what I'm doing.

When I make my way to the bathroom, Ryder's sitting on the edge of my mom's tub, picking glass from his feet and laying the bloody shards in a towel. He's got the oil lamp in there, along with two battery-operated lanterns, but it's still not enough light, not really.

I find the hydrogen peroxide and some cotton balls in the closet and lower myself to the floor. “Okay, let me see how bad it is.”

“It's nothing,” he says. “I think I got all the glass out.”

I shake my head. “I love that you made
me
go get shoes while you just tromped around in the broken glass.”

“It was too late; I'd already stepped in it before I even knew what was going on. Besides, there wasn't time.”

“Yeah, right. C'mon, be still. You've gotta let me clean out the cuts.” Holding one foot over the tub, I pour peroxide over the wounds, dabbing with cotton to make sure all the glass is
out. “I think we've got some gauze and bandage tape somewhere. At least, I hope so. Maybe in Nan's and my bathroom.” Nan's always taking a cleat to the shin or getting a bad scrape from artificial turf. “Okay, this one's good. Let me have the other one.” This foot's worse. I find a couple more slivers of glass and manage to pull them out before cleaning it up.

Luckily, Nan does have gauze and tape in the bathroom cabinet, along with a tube of Neosporin ointment. I retrieve it all as quickly as possible and hurry back to the relative safety of downstairs. Ryder remains stoically silent as I daub the wounds with ointment and then wrap his feet in gauze, securing the bandages with tape.

“Okay, done. How's that feel?”

“Fine. Um, I think I cut my hand, too. It's pretty deep, actually.” He holds out his right hand—his football-throwing hand, I realize, my heart sinking. He's got it wrapped in one of the towels, blood soaking through.

“Oh my God, Ryder! Crap.”

I start to unwrap it, but pause when an all-too-familiar sound rents through the night. The tornado sirens.

“You have
got
to be kidding me,” I say. “I mean, what else?”

“I'll get the cats,” Ryder says, rising with his injured hand cradled against his chest. “You round up Beau and Sadie.”

I shake my head in frustration. “How are you going to get the cats? Look at you—you're a mess.”

He opens the bathroom door with his good hand. “Don't worry. Just go.”

I grab the Neosporin, peroxide, and gauze and dash out, stashing the supplies in the storage room before going back for the dogs. It doesn't take too long to coax Beau out—he's good that way—and Sadie's happy to follows us into the hall.

When I reach the storm shelter, Ryder's already there, two lanterns lighting the space. All three cats are tucked safely in the crate, meowing their displeasure. I follow the dogs in and latch the door behind myself, adrenaline surging through my veins.

“Here we go again,” Ryder says. “Hope it's quick this time.”

But fifteen minutes later, the sirens are still going. We've passed the time hunched over in strained silence, but there's no sign of imminent danger—no freight-train roar this time. I sit up straight, allowing my tensed muscles to relax a bit.

“Looks like we're going to be here awhile,” I say. “Might as well settle in and get comfortable.”

Ryder scoots over, glancing around the small space. “Damn. I took out one of the sleeping bags and left it in your parents' room.”

“Just open up this one,” I suggest, reaching for the zipper. “It's not like we're going to get much sleep anyway. What about your hand?”

“I think it's okay. You didn't happen to bring the gauze, did you?”

I produce it, holding it up. “Right here. Let's see what I can do.”

I bandage it as best I can, considering the circumstances. “Okay, there you go,” I say once I'm done.

“Thanks.” He cradles it against his chest. “The sun'll be up in a couple hours. At least we'll be able to see what's going on then. I sure hope the tarp holds.”

“I hope so too. If we're staying here, I guess you can let the cats out of the crate.” I rise to my knees, reaching behind the case of water for the little disposable litter box I'd had the foresight to buy. I rip off the liner covering the litter and hand it to Ryder. “Here, put this in the crate and leave the door open. They'll figure it out.”

Soon, kitties are scampering across our laps, happily making their way over to join Beau and Sadie in the dog beds. Spock stops long enough to rub his chin against my knee. I stroke his soft fur, glad we're all safe and sound. I don't even want to think about all the animals—livestock, pets, strays—left out to battle the elements. The very idea makes my heart hurt.

“You okay?” Ryder asks me.

“Yeah, why?”

“I dunno.” He shrugs. “You just looked . . . sad or something.”

I'm shocked at how well he can read me. “I was just thinking about anyone—any
thing
—stuck out there in this. You know, dogs, cats, horses. Cows,” I add, sighing heavily.

“We've got cows!” Ryder quips, quoting that old movie about tornadoes—you know, the one with Bill Paxton.

I admit, it makes me smile.

“Sorry, I couldn't help myself,” Ryder says. “But yeah, it
is
sad. I just . . . well, let's try not to think about it, okay?”

I yawn loudly, so far beyond exhaustion now that there's not even a word for it. “I really need to close my eyes for a little bit.”

“You go on. I can't sleep anyway. I'll wake you up if things start getting bad.”

“Thanks,” I say, snuggling down on the open sleeping bag. My eyes close the moment my head touches the pillow.

I have no idea how long I doze, but when I open my eyes again, the sirens have quieted. Ryder's lying beside me, our shoulders touching.

“You awake?” he asks.

“Yeah,” I mumble sleepily. “Is it morning yet?”

“Not quite. Soon.”

I nod, and we both fall silent. Inexplicably, I find myself scooting closer to him, fitting myself against his side, seeking his warmth.

He puts an arm around me, drawing me closer.

I let out a contented sigh. There's something so familiar—
and yet so foreign—about his closeness. I think about those shared cribs, the communal Pack 'n Plays our mothers insisted on. Maybe that explains it—old memories, too far out of reach to be easily accessed, but there all the same.

That's why this feels so . . .
right
. It must be.

I feel Ryder's fingers in my hair, combing through it absently. His heart is thumping noisily against my ear, his chest rising and falling with each breath.

“Jem?”

I swallow hard before answering. “Yeah?”

“I've been thinking about what you said—you know, about the eighth-grade dance. I've been racking my brain, trying to figure out what you were talking about. And”—he swallows hard—“there's something I need to tell you.”

Why is he bringing this up now? “You don't have to, Ryder,” I say, my heart accelerating. “You were right. It was a long time ago.”