by Beth K. Vogt
Logan’s words and actions tilted Vanessa’s world—and yet she wanted to lean into everything he offered her. Himself. A future together. Them becoming a family. Stability. Marrying Logan meant so much more than going to FSU. . . . For a few moments, she allowed herself to be caught up in Logan’s embrace, their laughter silenced by a kiss that stole her breath away.
And then the weight of reality pulled Vanessa back to earth. Married. To Logan. But that meant her parents wouldn’t pay for college.
“Logan, what about my tuition?”
“We’ll apply for loans. Lots of kids do.” Logan held on to her hands, his smile unwavering. “Look, the gang’s all at lunch, and then they’re going to the beach. Let’s do this! We can get on my motorcycle and drive over the state line to Alabama and find a justice of the peace or whatever to marry us.”
“But don’t we need a license or something before we get married?”
“I don’t know . . .” His ran his fingers through his long hair. “All right. Let me do some checking around. It may take me a day to figure this out—and we might have to at least tell Mindy what we’re up to. One way or the other, we’re getting married this week—and then we’re going to college together in the fall. Say yes, Vanessa. Please?”
Vanessa stared into Logan’s electric-blue eyes. He seemed so sure. He was offering her the chance to own her life. The two of them becoming the Hollisters—no parents having a say in what they did or didn’t do. To stop moving around at the whim of the military.
And Logan did love her.
And just because she couldn’t say the words “I love you” yet, that didn’t mean she didn’t really love him, too. She was just being cautious.
“Yes, Logan. Yes.”
• • •
Logan stopped Vanessa from opening the door to the ground-floor motel room in Alabama.
“What are you doing, Logan?”
“Hey, we’ve only been married three hours, but I do know the tradition.” Before she could stop him, he picked her up in his arms, kicked the door open, and carried her into the room. Then he deposited her in the center of the room, giving her a swift kiss—the realization that his action was a prelude of what the night held for them causing his heart to thud faster in his chest.
“What was that?” Vanessa couldn’t stop laughing as she slid the strap of her sundress back in place.
“I carried you over the threshold. It’s tradition when you’re just married.”
“Well, now you have to go back out and get the suitcase.”
“No problem, Mrs. Hollister.” He saluted her as he exited through the door.
“Why, thank you, Mr. Hollister.”
After he placed the suitcase on the bed, Vanessa rummaged through it, pulling out the T-shirt with an airbrushed design of a beach sunset he’d bought her the day before.
“I, um, think I’ll take a quick shower. Is that okay?”
A shower? They’d been here less than five minutes. What was he supposed to do while she took a shower? Watch TV? “Sure. Go ahead. It’s been a long—and adventure-filled—day.”
With the soft click of the bathroom door, Logan was left alone.
He was a married man. Vanessa Hollister was his wife.
He twisted Vanessa’s class ring around the pinkie finger on his left hand, a short huff of air escaping between his pursed lips. He’d managed to get a marriage license—but forgotten they’d need wedding rings. Vanessa had improvised, not hesitating for a moment when he slipped his class ring on her finger, a giggle escaping as she moved it to her thumb, where it was still a bit too large. And now he wore her class ring, but only after promising to buy her a proper wedding band once they got home.
And now . . . it was their wedding night. How could he ensure he handled that right?
The motel room was old. Brown. No other way to describe it. The walls were painted a beige-brown. The curtains were a faded tan, and the bedspread was dark brown threaded through with lackluster gold. Well, he couldn’t change that now. He couldn’t afford anything else. But he’d make it up to Vanessa—someday. Maybe on their first anniversary he’d find a way to surprise her and take her to a nicer hotel in Destin.
He paced the confines of the room. Why was he daydreaming about next year? He needed to figure out what he was supposed to do tonight.
Vanessa was taking a shower. Just how long was she going to be in there, anyway? Should he get in bed . . . be waiting for her when she came out? Or would that seem a bit presumptuous, like he was thinking, What took you so long?
After all this time, he wouldn’t have to stop, wouldn’t have to tell himself, Don’t go there . . . don’t think about Vanessa like that . . .
He was waiting in a motel room while Vanessa . . . his wife . . . was on the other side of the closed bathroom door, taking a shower.
Hey.
A shower sounded kind of nice.
He sat on the bed, pulled off his worn tennis shoes, stuffing the socks inside. A prayer stuttered across his mind, seeming to keep pace with the pounding of his heart.
God, we did the right thing. . . I mean, Vanessa and I waited until we got married for this. And yeah, maybe we got married a little sooner than expected . . . but we’re eighteen. Adults.
What had his grandfather said? “You either get married young—and you grow up together. Or you get married when you’re older—and you still grow up together.”
And we didn’t do anything illegal, although I know our parents aren’t going to like it.
The prayer stalled.
Now was not the time to think about their parents. Somehow he’d stopped praying and started defending their actions.
Just help me, God, please? I don’t want to mess this up.
He knocked on the door.
“Logan?” Vanessa’s voice was muffled. “Is everything okay?”
“Yeah.” He eased the door open. Stepped inside the bathroom, the steam scented with Vanessa’s floral shampoo enticing him closer. “I, uh, just thought a shower sounded like a good idea.”
He held his breath, waiting for Vanessa to protest . . . to tell him she wanted to enjoy her shower in peace.
“Well, don’t let the cold air in.”
“Whatever you say, Mrs. Hollister.”
Her laughter from behind the plastic curtain eased the tightness in his chest. They’d figure out tonight . . . and tomorrow and the next day . . . together.
FOURTEEN
Don’t judge each day by the harvest you reap but by the seeds that you plant.
—ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON (1850–1894), SCOTTISH NOVELIST
Just moments ago Cressida had shaken the car like an invisible woman bent on preventing them from getting Christian to safety. Now the air stilled, wrapping them in an eerie calmness. Trees lining the highway had been caught in an hours-long wrestling match with an unseen, mighty foe. Some stood straight and tall, victors in the battle, while others bent, broken, stripped of branches and leaves.
“Is it over?” Tonya spoke in a whisper, as if afraid she might summon the hurricane again by speaking too loud.
“No.” Logan eased his grip on the steering wheel, flexing his fingers. “We’re in the eye of the storm.”
“What does that mean?”
Logan swallowed a quick gulp of coffee, setting the Styrofoam cup back in the holder in the dash. Hot and strong—perfect. “This your first hurricane?”
“My husband’s military. Air force. We moved here in August from Washington, D.C.”
“The eye is the calm part of the storm. It could last five minutes or twenty-five minutes, depending on where we’re located in the storm and how fast it’s moving.”
“In other words, enjoy it while it lasts.”
“Exactly.” Logan tossed her a quick smile. “And I need to make good time while I have a chance.”
Darkness was falling, but they were the only ones on the road at this point. They had a dangerously ill boy in the backseat—and pi
cking up speed would get them to the hospital sooner. Breathing a prayer, Logan accelerated.
Less than half a mile down the road, he slammed on the brakes, causing the car to fishtail on the wet road. Tonya screamed, grabbing the dash with both hands. Christian groaned. Only Vanessa stayed silent.
“No, no, no.” Logan fought for control, turning the steering wheel in the opposite direction of the skid and slowing the car down.
“What was that?” Vanessa’s voice was low.
“That.” Logan motioned to the battered upper part of a tree that lay a couple of feet in front of the car.
Tonya patted his arm. “We missed it. You missed it.”
“Yep.” The one word masked the energy coursing through his body and how he couldn’t release his grip on the steering wheel.
Calm down. They were all safe.
“What now?”
“I need to get out and move that thing. Be right back.”
Every second gave Cressida more of a chance to gain on them. A stupid tree part wasn’t going to delay them—he wasn’t going to stay out here any longer than needed.
The slam of a car door sounded behind him, but he focused on grasping the trunk of the tree, branches scraping his skin, and pulling it, inch by inch, out of the way.
“Need some help?”
Vanessa appeared beside him, reaching down and grabbing another section of the tree.
Logan gritted his teeth. “Get back . . . in the car.”
“I will not.” She tugged the tree in the same direction he did, her shoulder bumping against his. “Couldn’t we just go around the stupid thing by driving over the median?”
“And risk getting stuck?” Logan inhaled, the strong scent of rain-soaked air a refreshing relief after being locked in the car. “It’s been raining for hours now. That ground is nothing more than a bog.”
“You’re right.” She tried to mimic Logan’s movements. “Wouldn’t this work better . . . if we counted one, two, three?”
“It would work better . . . if you let me . . . do it.” Logan took another deep breath and prepared to haul the tree farther. “Go take care of Christian.”
“His mom is with him. And the most important thing . . . is to get him to the hospital as soon as possible.” Vanessa stopped. Rested a hand on his. “Let me help you.”
Logan closed his eyes. Swallowed against the longing building inside. He was trying to outrun a hurricane, and he still couldn’t handle Vanessa’s touch? “We don’t have to haul it all the way out of the road—just far enough out of the way so the car can get by.”
“Got it.”
“On three.”
“Count it out.”
A few moments later, they had moved the tree enough to clear the road. As they approached the car, Logan pulled a red bandanna out of his back pocket and put his hand on Vanessa’s shoulder, causing her to stop. He wiped a long streak of mud off her face.
“Sorry, you got a little dirty.”
“You should see your own face.” She brushed her fingers across his forehead.
What was he more afraid of? The hurricane or Vanessa’s touch? “What? No.”
“Oh, yeah. You’re a mess, Mr. Hollister.”
He tucked the bandanna back in his pocket. Mr. Hollister. Did she even remember how they used to call each other “Mr. Hollister” and “Mrs. Hollister”?
“I’ll clean up once we get to the hospital.”
The interior of the car reeked. Tonya sat beside her son, holding the bucket, tears streaming down her face. “He threw up again—and he keeps saying he’s hot.”
“You should have called for me, Tonya.”
“You had to help Logan—”
Wind whispered against Logan’s neck. An unwelcome I’m back from Cressida. “Let’s go, ladies. No time to argue about who should have done what.”
Logan adjusted his speed, slowing down as the eye passed over them and the hurricane returned. He seemed to be going both forward and backward—watching the scene moving past his window. He realized the military base was on his left and the entrance was only a mile or so away.
But the wind sped up again, throwing driving rain at them, as if taunting them, daring them to try to cross the finish line.
A gust of wind buffeted the car at the same time a flying tree branch hit the windshield. The car swerved as Logan jerked the steering wheel, but then he regained control.
Tonya covered her face with her hands and screamed—high, shrill—and didn’t stop.
Out of the corner of his eye, Logan glimpsed Vanessa reaching across from the backseat and gripping the other woman’s arm. “We’re going to make it, Tonya. We’re going to make it.”
Logan couldn’t risk taking another look at the two women.
He lowered his voice. “Tonya, please, you’re scaring your son.”
She covered her mouth with her hands, swallowing back her screams.
“It’s okay.” Vanessa rested one of her hands on Tonya’s shoulder. “Logan knows what he’s doing. He’ll get us there.”
“Vanessa—” Logan used the rearview mirror to make eye contact. “—you talked about praying—”
“I have been praying. I am praying.”
“I’ll pray, too.” Tonya’s shaky voice was muffled behind her hands.
Logan focused all his attention on navigating the car through the increasing velocity of the storm . . . past the gate at Eglin Air Force Base . . . not seeming to breathe until he pulled the car up underneath the awning protecting the ER entrance.
As people ran out of the hospital to help Christian, he leaned into the driver’s seat, his sweat-soaked shirt pressing against his back. After a few seconds, he peeled his hands off the steering wheel. Tonya stumbled from the car, as Christian was assisted into a wheelchair, one of the nurses taking the IV bag of antibiotics from Vanessa as she exited the car. Logan knew she’d tell the hospital staff everything they needed to know. She paused for a moment, glancing back.
Logan nodded for her to go on, her smile the catalyst for a slow burn in his chest.
She’s getting married. Remember that.
Logan closed his eyes, resting his forehead on the steering wheel.
A sharp one-two knock on the window jerked him upright.
“Sir, you need to park your car.”
The muffled command had his gaze connecting with that of the military policeman standing outside the car.
“No problem.”
“Just park it by the ambulances and get in here—the second eye wall of the hurricane has already passed over us.”
• • •
Adrenaline only lasted so long—and Vanessa was ready to admit her supply was tapped out.
The steamy shower in the hospital call room had rinsed the dirt and grit from her skin, but also left her wanting to do nothing else but crawl into one of the waiting hospital beds. The clean pair of black scrubs she’d been given could easily be a luxurious robe provided by a five-star hotel. She’d washed her hair but was too tired even to braid it, so the damp strands hung around her face and down past her shoulders.
Oh, well. She’d just played chase with a hurricane—she wasn’t a beauty pageant contestant.
She wadded her wet clothes up into a ball, shoving them into a plastic bag, the kind surgical patients used to stow their belongings. She set her brown boots at the foot of the bed, knowing they’d still be wet when she put them on again.
The hospital commander had promised them food, but she needed to text Ted. And her parents. Her phone was loaded down with unanswered messages—including ones from Mindy and her brother.
They’d all be watching the news, getting information about the progress of the hurricane from various updates by reporters paid to stand outside and take on storm surges. She’d texted them hours ago and told them she was evacuating to a shelter—that she was safe. For now, they didn’t need to know anything different—the real story in between the first “I’m safe” text and this “
I’m still safe” text.
The brief messages were sent with a series of soft pings. Now to slip on her soggy boots and find some food. But the thought of putting her warm, dry feet back into something wet and cold . . . she couldn’t do it. No one would notice if she walked the hospital hallways in bare feet, right?
Logan found her twenty minutes later, as she sat in the ER waiting room listening to the storm go one last round outside.
“Hungry?” Removing the magazines on the table beside her, he set down a plastic cafeteria tray loaded with containers obviously filled with food before taking the chair across from her.
“Where did you get all of this?”
“Well, there’s only a skeleton staff manning the hospital—but they’re eating well.” Logan began removing the lids from several plastic containers. “Let’s just say the field ration meals in a brown plastic bag—”
“MREs.”
“What?”
“They’re called MREs—for Meal, Ready to Eat.”
“Okay, whatever. They’re being ignored.”
“Homemade fruit salad . . . fried chicken . . . Oh, my gosh! Biscuits!” Vanessa ignored the paper plates and broke a biscuit in half, taking a bite that caused crumbs to dust the front of her scrub top.
“Almost makes it worth driving through the hurricane, doesn’t it?”
“Indeed. I know people like to pour gravy on these, but I think it’s sacrilegious. Biscuits, butter, and honey, and I’m happy—”
“Sorry. Just biscuits tonight.”
“No complaints.” She wiped her fingers on a paper napkin and reached for a piece of chicken.
“Be right back.” Logan jogged down the hallway to the ER, returning a few moments later with two plastic bottles of Coke. “Now the meal is perfect, right?”
“Almost. No lemon slices?” Vanessa knew her smile wavered as she accepted the soda from Logan. It was stupid—he’d handed her a carbonated drink. Nothing more.
“Sorry. Those I couldn’t find.” He settled into the chair facing her. “You okay?”