Anything that’s not nailed down is flying through the air—tree limbs, rocks, outdoor furniture. The wind peels roofing and siding from buildings and launches it through the air like missiles.
All three of us crouch to restore some strength, and when we start out again, we’re all stronger.
An ear-piercing crack sounds behind us, followed by the continuous pop-pop-pop just before a century-old banyan tree falls into our path, inches from smashing all of us. We stand there shell-shocked for a long moment.
With our path to the resort cut off, I look around for shelter and spot a few of the outlying studio cabins. “This way.”
I don’t wonder, worry, consider…I don’t even think again until all three of us cross the threshold of a building and slam the door behind us.
We all drop to the floor in exhaustion. In shock. For several long moments, no one speaks, no one moves.
You’re not done yet, cupcake.
My father’s voice vibrates in my head a split second before something bounces off the glass louvers covering an entire wall of the studio. I roll to my knees, but before I can drag myself to my feet, Chloe does the same, crowding me. She leans forward to take Laiyla’s face in both hands. Laiyla’s head is bleeding. Head wounds create so much blood, and Laiyla looks like she’s in the cast of Carrie.
While Chloe checks on Laiyla, I work my way to my feet and move to the louvered glass windows to shut them, blocking out the wind and rain.
Every move feels like a monumental effort, and I have to rest in between.
“Laiyla, help me upend this mattress,” I say. “Chloe, drag those chairs over here.”
Pulling at the mattress makes every muscle in my body scream. For the first time, I realize I taste blood, but I’m terrified to consider my injuries.
While Laiyla holds the mattress up, I drag a dresser and two nightstands to brace it against the glass.
I knew you could do it. My father’s final comment warms me. Now, get to know these women. They’ll be important to you the rest of your life.
1
KT
Seven and a half years later.
My phone dings with a text message from Chloe, and I stop scrolling through Instagram to read it.
My meditation session went longer than expected. I’m running late.
I laugh because her meditation session is self-scheduled and self-propelled. She lives next door in our small marina on Wildfire Lake in central California, so I barely have to lift my voice to ask her, “Is that code for you fell asleep?”
“I did not fall asleep,” she calls back. “And it’s so much more serene to text.”
The lack of privacy works for me, especially since I’m not hooking up the way I did when I worked on a cruise ship with a plentiful, varied supply of sexy men looking for nothing but fun.
Now, I live in a small town where everyone knows everything, and I’d rather not get a reputation as a slut. But the real reason I put my sexuality into hibernation is because I don’t do serious or long-term, and I really don’t want any complications or bad feelings in town. When the weather warms up again in a few months, I’ll head to Santa Barbara and catch myself a few surfer boys.
The heater in my houseboat kicks on, and that insidious engine tick starts up again. I clench my teeth and look toward the back of the boat, where the engine compartment lies beneath the deck. I’ve been meaning to look at that, but there’s always so much other work to get done.
I push from the futon I use as a sofa, stuff my phone into the back pocket of my jeans, and turn off the heater before I head outside. The winter air is crisp enough for my breath to create clouds, but not much more, and the marina is lit up by thousands of twinkling, multicolored Christmas lights. Laiyla, Chloe, and I strung them everywhere—the marina, the boats, even the construction equipment being used in the marina’s renovation.
The sight brings mixed emotions. I always miss my dad at Christmas, but I’m so grateful I’ve been able to reconnect with my best friends, Chloe and Laiyla. I’m also excited about this venture we’re undertaking together and the freedom it will bring me in the long term.
&nb
sp; I grab one of the hanging lamps I’m always using in my work and crouch to pull open the door to the engine compartment. On my knees, I hover over the engines, looking for anything out of place. When nothing obvious catches my eye, I reach in and tug on the belts and test the tightness of various nuts and bolts. The smallest engine controls the heating unit, and it’s tucked into a dark corner. Stretching, I reach around the back and squeeze my hand into an area I can’t see to feel around.
Everything seems to be in the right place. I sit back on my heels and try to pull my hand out, but it’s stuck. I wiggle and pry, trying to get free. Pain stabs my forearm, and I reflexively draw back, causing more pain. Now my arm is stuck in the engine. “Perfect.”
I hang the light on a deck chair and feel around with my other hand to figure out a way to get my injured arm back without any more damage. But, shit, it hurts like a mother, and the sticky warmth on my skin tells me I’m bleeding. Then and there, I decide to make Chloe drive to Santa Barbara for our Christmas Eve dinner tonight, so I can have an extra drink, or ten.