he temperamental weather lasts for the rest of the day. We hole up in my bedroom under the covers, talking about anything and everything. There's never an awkward silence, and snuggled away in the dark like this, with the roar of the wind here to carry away our deepest confessions, it's easier to get personal.

"Biggest fear," Jordan says, but the way he peeks at me through the covers makes it clear he knows the answer. I'm about to tell him something superficial, like being afraid of jellyfish, but something passes between us, something raw and scary and vulnerable. My walls are down, as are his, and I can either run or let him in.

"People I love leaving," I say. "Not because I'm afraid of being alone, but because living a life without the people I love just seems pointless. What about you?"

He breaks our gaze, then thinks better of it. "My mom getting worse. It's manageable more or less at the moment, but she has a lot of relapses. She stays positive, but it's hard for me to see her in pain like that."

Eyes closed, I pull him in closer like maybe I can shield him from the world. "Is there a cure or anything?"

"No," he says. "Not yet, anyway." The tiniest tear gathers in the corner of one eye. He bows his head and rubs it like there's something in his eye. When he looks back up, the slight glimmer of a tear is gone.

Sensing he needs a subject change, I ask, "How long was your last relationship?"

It seems strange that he knows all about Ryan, but his past is mostly this big question mark. "Not long," he says, playing with my fingers. "I had to work around the clock at my construction company while trying to help my mom out. It didn't leave much time for anything else. She got fed up, I guess."

"Were you in love?"

The corner of his lip lifts. "No. I don't think I ever really let her get close enough for me to go there. What about you, were you in love with Ryan?"

There's this moment where he looks at me, and my heart melts. It's different from the feeling I'd get around Ryan. Stronger, somehow. Exciting. "I think so. I mean, at one point I was pretty sure we'd be together forever. He used to promise me all the time we'd never break up; I guess I never thought to question it."

Jordan pulls me closer, pressing his mouth to my neck. "His loss."

I shrug. "Maybe he was wrong to promise me that, but I shouldn't have held him to those promises. I'm starting to learn that people change, what they want in life changes, and–" I take a deep breath, surprised these words are about to leave my mouth, "–maybe that's okay."

Jordan grows quiet. It's hard to see his face through the dark, but I can tell he's conflicted. "Sometimes I try and see things from my dad's point of view," he says. "I keep telling myself it's a big deal dedicating your life to caring for someone. It's not the picture-perfect family he envisioned when he married my mom twenty years ago." He shakes his head and pulls me closer, burying his face in my neck. "But no matter how hard I try, I don't get it, Evvy, because there's no way I could walk out on the people I loved like that."

I believe him, too. I hadn't given it much thought in the beginning what with me trying to save the cafe, but in all of this, Jordan is the selfless one. The hero. He came down here to sell the cafe to help his family, and a part of me feels terrible for making things so difficult.

"I'm sorry," I say. "For all my attempts at sabotaging you, I mean. You were just doing what you needed to do to help your family."

He frowns a little. "Maybe your methods were a little questionable, but you were doing what you needed to do, too."

Smiling, I settle into the groove in his shoulder. It's a relief, in a way, to get this all out. It's nice to know there is no lingering resentment after everything that's happened; it's like a new beginning.

When Jordan's phone pings, he pulls it out and replies to a message from his Mom. "Can I see what she looks like?" I ask. In my head, I'm imagining a female version of Jordan, and I'm more or less right. He pulls up his pictures and shows me a picture of a beautiful lady with the same dark hair and gray eyes. She looks tired, worn, but pulling at her lips is the biggest, brightest smile I've ever seen.

"She's beautiful." Without warning, I unfurl myself from Jordan's arms and open up my wardrobe, pulling out my mother's box. I've never shown anyone these things, not even Ryan, but somehow it feels right with Jordan. I pull out a picture of us first outside of the cafe, sun beaming down on our smiling faces. Mom's mid-laugh, as usual, so her face is slightly blurred and happy, the way I remember her.

Next, I pull out her apron from the cafe, her wedding ring, and last but not least, the note in the bottle we'd found on the beach together. I explain the story to Jordan and hand him the bottle, where he carefully tips out the note before reading it.

"A smooth sea never made for a skillful sailor." He looks over now, grinning, and I can't help but laugh.

"It kind of became our life motto whenever anything would go wrong. It's got me through some hard times." My throat feels thick as I add, "It's strange to think someone's whole life can fit into a few boxes."

"Yeah," he says, "it is."

"You know, she loved storms."

"The complete opposite of me, then."

I laugh. "Well, she didn't love storms. In fact, she was always terrified someone would get hurt. It's more that she loved what they symbolized. When a storm passed, it meant a new beginning."

He tucks my hair back. "Your mom sounds likes an amazing woman."

"She was," I say, and I snuggle into his side again, resting my head on his chest. I've never been this honest with anyone, not even myself; it's liberating.

***

y late afternoon, the storm has eased, the hurricane passing further north. We tiptoe into the kitchen and peek out of the back door to see the street has slowly started to stir.

The next part is my favorite. Maybe it's morbid to enjoy anything about a hurricane, but it is. People begin to leave their houses, hugging one another, seeking comfort in familiar faces. Some bring food to the neighbors without any and others start cleaning up their lawns.

After getting changed, we head to Mr. Roberts first to make sure he and his dog are okay. As soon as the door opens, his dog bypasses me and jumps on Jordan, like he remembers being rescued by him. Jordan laughs and affectionately rubs Woolfie's ears.

"I'm just glad you found him," Mr. Roberts says as he ushers us inside. "I for sure thought he was a goner. It felt like my world imploded the moment he escaped out the door. I never would've forgiven myself if something happened to him."

His eyes start to water, and Jordan puts a firm hand on his shoulder. "Well, you can rest easy. He's safe now."

"Thanks to you," Mr. Roberts says. He reaches into his pocket and pulls out some money. "Here, take this. I've got to show my appreciation in some way."

Jordan backs away with his hands up. "That really isn't necessary. I'd rather you spend it on Woolfie."

Mr. Roberts hesitates. "Well, at least let me make you both a sandwich and some tea."

Jordan and I take a seat at the old wooden breakfast table. Mr. Roberts lives in one of those small houses that look as though they haven't been updated since the fifties. The walls are sunshine yellow, covered with old family photographs that appear to date back to the thirties. I glance at the one closest, an old, peeling photo of Mr. Roberts and who I presume was his wife. I don't know much about his past, but I know he lost his wife to cancer a while back.

"That was Doria." Mr. Roberts smiles, his eyes crinkling at the sides. "She was English. Taught me all I needed to know about making a good cuppa."

Jordan and I share a smile as Mr. Roberts places the tea set between us. I take a sip, not expecting much. The rare times I've drank tea have always been unpleasant, but Mr. Roberts is right; this is a good cuppa.

We spend the next thirty minutes chatting away. It's hard to believe that I've been neighbors with Mr. Roberts for so long and know nothing about his history, so I lap up every word as Jordan holds my hand beneath the table.

At one point, as Mr. Roberts is cleaning out the teapot, my phone rings. I pull it from my pocket, expecting it to be Dad, who's been messaging non-stop throughout the day, but it's Kali.

"You survived then," I say, expecting him to laugh, but instead he sounds breathless.

"Are you with Jordan?" he asks.

"Yeah," I say. "Why?"

Kali speaks fast as Jordan watches on, nervous. As soon as I hang up, he says, "What is it? Is everything okay?"

I shake my head as I slip my phone into my pocket, suddenly feeling sick. "It's the cafe," I say, sinking onto my chair. "It didn't survive the storm."

❤️