by Mia Garcia
“You think this is that global warming shit they’ve been talking about for years?” she asks while she stuffs our items into bags.
“Uh . . . maybe?”
“Knew it. Been saying it for ten years, but no one listens. You got a goddamn storm destroying everything in its path, and we’re still using Styrofoam cups like we don’t know what’s up.” She’s boarded up the windows and is flicking off the lights as we exit the store. “Get yourselves home!” she yells as she follows us out and clicks the lock.
“Yes, ma’am!” Miles replies, and we wave as we continue on.
There are a couple of more people out now who also seem to be buying food and water and are heading back to wherever they’re going to spend the night. The lack of drunk people wandering the streets keeping the party going is a bit alarming, but Miles assures me they’re somewhere in the city, probably at a bar waiting on the last minute to head home.
“What’s this building we’re holing up in? Are we going back to the hotel?”
“Nice guess. There’s a floor they use mainly for storage and supplies. We’ll be safe there. We need to be above-ground in case there’s any water damage and leaks.”
“What about windows? Don’t things fly around during hurricanes?”
Light shines off the pavement as we dash our way back to the hotel. Pockets of water create tiny mirrors along the sidewalks that reflect the light from the streetlamps.
“They do, and we want to stay as far away from them as possible. There’s a storage closet filled with old furniture we can stay in, no windows to speak of so we should be good to go.”
“Are you sure about this?” I stop in the middle of the street, the wind wrapping itself around me, pushing me against Miles. It’s getting into the scary strong category and I wonder if people ever get carried up into hurricanes the way Dorothy got swept away by the tornado in The Wizard of Oz.
“Are you? Lila, it’s okay if you don’t want to do this.” Rain is pooling down his face, and he’s blinking like crazy. “I’ll take you back home and that will be that.”
He doesn’t mean home, of course, home would be a two-hour flight and a lot of yelling. But he doesn’t know that. Here, back would mean Tavis, who wouldn’t yell. He’d reach for my hand and be sorely disappointed in me, asking me to share my thoughts with the group, to explain how I was feeling and why I believed the only option was to run. Pushing and pushing.
“No. No, I want to keep going.”
Miles nods and pauses for a moment as if giving me another chance to back out. “Cool. I need to ask a favor first.”
“Okay.”
“I know we said no cell phones, but I need to check in with my family, make sure they’re okay. I’ll tell them I’m with some friends in the Quarter or something. I just need to know everything is fine.”
The rain soaks into my clothes, pools in my hair, and drips down my face. “Of course. Can you check on Taj and Danny as well?”
Miles smiles, making me feel much better about my decision.
“Thank you, I will.”
Fishing his phone out of his pocket, we duck underneath a balcony, the rain still more of a heavy mist. Our clothes are already so wet, what is there really to salvage, but neither of us feel like standing out in it, and who knows how long this conversation will last.
Miles’s phone pings with incoming texts as soon as he turns it back on. “Your mom?”
“Yeah—and my dad too. Give me a sec.” He dials his mother, and she picks up pretty quick. “Hey, Mom. Yes, I’m okay . . . phone died . . . right. Sorry, I know, I know. Yeah, Danny and Taj hooked up with Angie’s friends and I didn’t . . . yeah, exactly. No, I’m with Brian, from school . . . family has a house in the Quarter. Yeah, it will be safer here. Well, I suppose we owe Mr. Al a big ol’ thank you for helping with that, and you know he’ll never let us forget it. When are you all heading up? Okay, don’t wait for me. Yes, I’ll be fine. You taking Angie and her family? Okay, cool.” Miles’s gaze flicks over to me, a question in his eyes. “Yeah—I’ll keep my phone on. I promise.”
There’s no way I’ll force Miles to shut his phone off during the storm, he’s probably just as worried about his mom as she is about him. I nod okay, and Miles goes back to the conversation. A blessing, as the panic rushes back in—my parents must be panicked, they must know about the hurricane by now and they’re calling me only to have their calls go straight to voice mail—if my mailbox isn’t too full to accept new messages. I have no idea what Adam must be thinking—he must know that this all started with him, but I can’t bring myself to check my messages. I can’t go back—not now. I should call my parents and let them know I’m all right. I should call Adam, text Em and Kara. Apologize for being so damn selfish. The high-staticky sound that accompanies the memories floods back in the second I give it some space. My breath becomes labored, and I lean against a building concentrating on the rain and on Miles, how it felt to be in his arms, his lips on mine. How I know he trusts me even though he just met me.
And I wait for the static to pass.
Give Me Shelter
I RUB THE SCAR ON MY HAND AS MILES FISHES OUT THE KEY TO the hotel from its metal box and thoughts I’d had of asking him to take me back to the youth group fade. Will my punishment be any worse if I wait for the storm to pass? Probably not, and I need more time.
Miles looks over at me. “Ready?”
No static. No pitch. Just Miles.
“Ready.”
Our arms brush against each other as we enter the tiny hotel. Miles walks over to a panel on the wall and plugs in some numbers before we venture farther in.
“Alarm?”
“Yeah—I set it back on so we need to make sure we turn it off before we go opening the front door.”
It’s dark inside. Miles keeps his hand on my waist and makes no moves to turn on any lights but there’s enough coming from the windows. Inside, the furniture is sparse and covered in white sheets; an iron chandelier sits in the middle of one room, wires hanging down from the ceiling. I dally, pulling Miles with me as I tour the variety of paintings on the walls—some appear to be big blobs of paint on canvas, others large strokes in bright colors, and some incredibly detailed recreations of New Orleans houses.
“Local artists. Most of the stuff here is,” he says, head nestling into my shoulder. “Actually probably all of the stuff here is.”
I lean back as I examine the brushstrokes in a painting of the Quarter houses, stalling but I don’t care. Neither does Miles. We’ve been stuck in each other’s orbit since the kiss, any separation quickly amended by the brush of a hand.
Suddenly animated, he hops into the next room, motioning for me to follow. He points out a set of clay skeleton men standing in a row on a nearby table. They are no bigger than eight inches tall, painted a matte black with contrasting white for the bones. “These are my favorite. They represent one of the New Orleans Krewes.”
Each skeleton holds an instrument or object of some kind to set him apart from the others—a guitar, a saxophone, or just a top hat. I reach over to touch one, the texture rough against my skin.
“They’re beautiful.”
“Plus, the heads come off, I think.” He gently pulls on one of the sculpture’s heads, and it pops off in his hand. The rest of the body is shaped like a bottle, open at the top.
“Are they going to be okay out here? They look a bit delicate.”
To prove my point they all rattle like restless spirits—or really expensive bobbleheads.
“You worry too much, Lila.”
“I don’t think that’s always a bad thing.”
The heads continue to shake, seemingly in agreement. Miles obliges, and we move the little men inside a cabinet, laying them down and covering them with cleaning cloths as if setting them to sleep.
“Better?”
I smile, and we trudge up the stairs to the top floor and down the hall. Our way is slow, and I run my fingers over the smooth wood
railings and take in my surroundings; from the lacquered steps to the sculpted lace encircling each of the delicate chandeliers, everything is so carefully restored. It’s hard to tell in the dark, but I have a feeling that the colors on the wall are as vibrant as the Louisiana sunset I saw today. The rain pumps up the volume, slamming against the windows; we made it just in time. The doors to the guest rooms are unlocked so of course I peek into as many as possible; each has its own color scheme taken from a piece of art in the room. We move past them down the hall.
“No fancy room for us, then?”
“You looking for a bed, Sunshine?” He advances, pressing up against me, hand at my back. Not forceful, loose, yet challenging like we’re about to dance the tango. I stare him down, a playful smirk on my lips; I don’t blush. Challenge accepted.
Miles winks and gives me a smile so wicked that I swat him on the shoulder. This is fun. I might actually be a natural at this flirting stuff.
The room we end up with is more of an oversize storage closet containing a few stacked boxes, an old couch probably used by the staff to take naps on, and some cleaning supplies. No windows to be seen.
“Not bad, right? We’ll do just fine here,” Miles says. I’m not sure if he’s trying to reassure me or himself.
“Looks secure.” I walk in, brushing my hand on a nearby dresser. It’s covered in dust, and I clean my fingers on my jeans. “Not that I’ve ever been through a hurricane.”
“Aside from leaving the area depending on how bad it is, the rules are basic: high ground, sturdy building, stay away from windows, stockpile the water . . . So yeah. We’ll just need to figure out how to pass the time.” He leans against the wall and gives me the world’s most exaggerated wink.
I roll my eyes and turn away. He chuckles and pulls the supply bag from my hand, organizing our stash near the couch. He sets his banjo near the wall and starts to kick off his shoes. Miles tugs at his shirt, a flash of skin. I toss my bag near the couch, then remember the dirty construction shirt in my bag. Who cares if it stinks, just let it be dry. As soon as my hand reaches in I know it’s wet, everything is. Ugh. I take out the shirt and my phone, laying them all out on the floor to dry.
My socks are wet as well so I toss off my shoes and cozy onto the couch. Miles plops down next to me, and the couch gives a pitiful groan as we settle.
“So.”
“So.”
I’m unsure of where to start back up again after our conversation in the pool. I want to hear more about his life, but it feels so unfair that he’s offered so much and I so little, but still . . . the wet shirt sticks to his chest. Look somewhere else, I tell myself.
He extends his arm on the couch behind me, picking up a strand of my hair. His touch travels all the way to the base of my neck before it keeps going.
I tuck my feet underneath myself, my jeans not as stretchy when wet, and search for another benign subject to drone on about. “Well then . . .”
“Tell me more about yourself,” Miles says as if reading my mind. “Doesn’t have to be anything from the deep, dark depths of your soul. I think we’ve done a pretty good job of skirting around those issues.”
I kick him across the couch, and he holds his hands up. “Kidding. All I’m saying is that as much as I’d like to give advice on places not to be in at night in New Orleans, I’d rather hear about you. Anything about you, really, so I can remember.”
I nod. I can hear the patter of the rain on the windows outside in the hall—how long would it take before that patter became a pounding?
Suddenly, Miles hops off the couch, searching through a nearby cabinet, pulling out a deck of cards. He sits down on the floor, patting the area right in front of him. “Let’s make this interesting. Lose a hand, and you have to share something, anything. Wait.” I freeze like I did back in the cathedral, waiting for his voice to unfreeze me. “Green light,” he continues, “scratch ‘anything’: don’t want just some random information; it must be something good, like don’t be rude—this is poker—you gotta play for the high stakes.”
I sit down across from him, ringing the excess water from my hair. It makes a tiny stain on the hardwood floors. Miles holds out his hand to shake mine. Another deal. I should probably tell him I’m not exactly new at playing poker. Adam taught me when I was ten, and Abuela Julia taught him. I should probably tell him that. But I don’t.
Miles is so screwed.
The deck is pretty worn out and yellowed from use. I shuffle them, and they move easily between my fingers. I cut the deck, dealing. Miles tries to break up my amazing concentration by making faces at me from behind his cards. He has no idea what’s coming.
The first round is a warm-up. I lose. Fine. But I lose the second one too.
Miles is a horrible winner. Horrible.
“Ha!” He throws his cards on top of mine like we were in some crazy high-stakes thriller, playing for millions. He jogs a mini victory lap around our tiny hideaway then pretends to be so winded he collapses next to me.
I shake my head, holding back my smile. I don’t tell him I let him win, that often losing is the best way to figure out other people’s styles. How they bluff, what their tells are. It’s only been two rounds, but I can already spot Miles’s tells when he has a good hand: his shoulders straighten, he holds his cards closer to his chest, he tries very hard not to smile. He is toast.
Granted, figuring this out cost me information.
“Pay up.” He motions with his hands like I’m handing over a stack of bills.
“Anything?” I say.
“No.” Miles shakes his head. “Something good, remember? Like”—he shuffles the cards for the next game—“who taught you how to not play poker?”
Rude.
“My brother.”
“You have a brother! Fantastic. Tell me more.”
“His name is Adam.”
“Strong name, very biblical.”
I shake my head, a smile threatening to sneak through.
“Sorry, sorry. I’ll keep quiet, I promise.” He places his hand over his heart, then changes his mind. “Nah—I’m going to keep asking questions. Older or younger?”
“Older.”
“Why did he teach you poker?”
“He taught me a lot of stuff, and I pestered him until he caved.”
“So he’s a good big brother then.”
I pause for a moment, about to answer before I realize that what Miles said was a statement and not a question. Yet it still made my heart skip with its certainty—because Adam is a good big brother, he is—but for a moment, and just for a moment, I had to think before I could respond.
I settle the cards between us. “Yeah, he’s good.”
“No fighting and shit?”
“I don’t think that makes or breaks a good big brother really.”
“Just trying to get you to talk, Lila.”
I nod, tugging at my shirt. It and my jeans have superglued themselves to my body. My skin feels itchy and cold, and I wish there was a way to dry them a bit. “He’s a good brother. He just got back from a tour of duty.”
“Whoa. How long was he gone?”
“A year.”
“Shit.”
“About right.”
“But he’s back now?”
I reach over for the cider and take a small sip and nod, avoiding his eyes. “Yeah, he’s back.”
I pick up my cards, ready for a next round, when the lights flicker out and we’re plunged into darkness.
“Don’t move, Ace.” I hear Miles shuffling for our bag of supplies and the soft clink of the Santa Barbara candles as he places them on the floor. He lights one and uses the lit candle to place the other smaller ones around the room, leaving one or two still in the bag for later.
It takes a moment for my eyes to adjust to the soft glow from the candles around us. The room looks so different now, way more intimate than it was before. Memories of the pool rush back, I let them. These are much better memories to drow
n in. I consider snuffing out the candles and continuing our previous activities, but a girl’s gotta kick ass first.
I win the next hand. Miles shakes his head, narrows his eyes.
“I see how it is.”
I shrug my shoulders. “Pay up.”
“That’s just mean, Lila. Would your grandmother approve of such methods?”
I laugh, reaching for the cider. “She didn’t need them. She made everyone talk to her whether they liked it or not.” I take another swig, smiling against the mouth of the bottle. “Everyone. Mom wasn’t allowed to recap anyone’s day, like she would lie or something. We each had to get on the phone ourselves so Abuela Julia could hear it straight from us, and she would get so snippy when we dallied or said ‘like’ too many times. I think she got everyone to spill all their secrets that way.”
“You miss her?”
“Yeah.” My fingers brush the surface of the cross. “I could’ve used her no-nonsense style this year.” My voice fades as I hand the bottle over to Miles. He’s watching me, and I realize he’s figured out my tells as well. Sneaky, sneaky. “Don’t try and change the subject. Pretty sure you lost, so my reward, please!”
“I don’t like what this game has done to you.” He slaps his cards on top of mine. “Aren’t you tired of my story?”
“No—not at all.” I pick up the cards, my turn to shuffle.
I deal. Miles gathers his cards, holding them tight to his chest. “A grandparent for a grandparent then. My gran-gran.”
“Gran-gran?”
“Yes, Gran-gran and Gram-gram. I was not a very creative little kid. What do you call your grandparents?”
“Pretty much Grandma and Grandpa, but Abuela Julia was always Abuela Julia unless I wanted to be snarky, in which case it was Doña Julia, and she would follow it up with a ‘Qué mona.’”
“That’s what I thought.” He rearranges his cards a little too much, pairing them up. “Gran-gran likes to leave half-empty glasses of water, juice, and milk all over my aunt’s house, claiming he’ll clean them up eventually or that he’s saving them for later. Gram-gram says he’s just an old fool who can’t remember where he left anything, and my aunt agrees when she’s not fighting with Gram-gram over what is appropriate attire for a woman her age and in her field.”