“He’s four!” I cried, and giggled.
My hair kept sliding forward into the glob of ketchup on my wrapper. I fished out a hairband from my purse and pulled it back.
“You didn’t even wipe the ends,” Erica pointed out.
“Doesn’t matter,” I replied dismissively, and took a huge chunk out of my burger.
“This is a new Bailey,” she observed.
“Not really,” I replied. “Just defeated at the moment.”
Erica eyed me. “So like I said, Nicki is a selfish bitch.”
I nodded.
“You knew all this, though, when you agreed to be her maid of honor,” Erica pointed out.
“I know that. But what was I supposed to say? I’m her sister,” I argued.
“We’re more like sisters than you and her,” Erica replied.
I smiled. “True dat. Doesn’t change the fact that I agreed.”
“You have a choice, Bailey, and if you’re gonna cry every time Nicki makes you feel badly for your disorder—”
“But that’s just it! She wasn’t trying to make me feel badly. She was trying to convince me how awesome it is so that I’d do up her boxes of truffles just right. The girl is a sociopath. What kind of person manipulates a debilitating condition into a positive? She’s twisted, that one.”
“Then why even help her? Just pull out. Let her toady BFF be maid of honor.”
“And risk the wrath of my mother? No, thank you. Isn’t worth it,” I said. “Plus, Dad would have to hear all about it, and that’s just not fair to him.”
“True,” Erica agreed. “I just worry that this wedding planning business will exacerbate your condition, and your job is to manage your compulsions.”
“I know.”
“I don’t wanna show up at your house one day and find you sorting and stacking and pulling your hair out strand by strand and counting them.”
“Cute.”
“I’m serious! And I definitely don’t want you going back to counting your peas,” Erica said.
“What is up with the peas today? Nicki mentioned it, too!”
“B, it was freakin’ weird, okay? You counted your peas, then divided them into even groups on your plate. And if there was an odd number, you’d give the leftovers to your sister.”
I finished my burger and balled the wrapper in my fist.
“I was seven.”
Erica threw up her hands. “I know. Just sayin’.”
“Don’t you dare tell Reece about the peas,” I hissed.
“Why the hell would I do that? I like this guy. I hope you marry him,” Erica replied.
My face lit up. “Really?”
“Sure. He’s sweet and funny. He’s smart, thank God. He’s got you relaxing.”
“I’ve stopped arriving to work at 7:58 A.M.”
Erica’s mouth dropped open.
“Oh, I didn’t mention that?” I asked nonchalantly.
“Give it up,” Erica ordered, holding her hand in the air. I slapped it. “I’ll go help him pick out a ring.”
I laughed, then turned around at the sound of Annie’s high-pitched screaming. Erica shot up and ran into the play area. I watched her pick up her daughter, ask her a few questions while she inspected her knee, then nuzzle her and rain kisses all over her tear-stained cheeks. I smiled.
“Just a little bump,” Erica said, carrying Annie back to our table. Little Noah followed behind.
“And what about you?” I asked him.
He grinned.
“Any bruises on you?”
He shook his head. “Nope.”
“Well, you better get to working on that. Your momma wants you scarred up by the time you hit high school.”
He stared at me, confused, and I reached out suddenly to grab him. He squealed and hid behind Erica.
“Little flirt,” I mumbled.
A hurricane was coming. Wrightsville Beach and Wilmington were due for one since it’d been three years since a storm of that magnitude touched down. It was late October—right outside the traditional hurricane season—so the storm surprised residents. It really just annoyed me because I thought we’d be spared another year. Nature’s trick. She’s a tricky bitch.
Hurricane Holly was her name, and I had a hard time taking her seriously. You see, I went to elementary school with a little girl named Holly who sold Girl Scout cookies and braided friendship bracelets. When we were all learning cuss words for the first time, she was still screaming, “Golly!” She landed herself one really obnoxious nickname: Golly Holly.
And I started calling the hurricane “Golly Holly” until Reece told me to have some respect. He’d recently learned that it had been reclassified as a Category 2, and experts predicted it may climb to a Category 3 status before reaching landfall. Reece was really into this hurricane. He watched The Weather Channel religiously, making predictions and asking me endless amounts of questions. This would be his first hurricane by the beach, and I was growing impatient with his enthusiasm.
“Calm down, or I’m putting you on a plane to Baltimore!” I said, standing outside his apartment.
“I just don’t know if we oughta board up your windows now? or wait a little later when we learn the hurricane’s exact trajectory.”
I rolled my eyes. “It’s a hurricane, Reece. It’s really fucking huge. I think it’ll hit my house either way.”
He laughed and poked my side. “Be nice. I can’t help I’m hopped up on all this. It’s exciting and scary as hell. I’ve never lived somewhere with hurricane evacuation signs all over town.”
I nodded.
“Should we get more milk?”
“Not yet.”
“You sure? I’ve been collecting bottled water, matches, batteries—”
“Just let me see your apartment already,” I interrupted.
“You’re a buzzkill, Bailey.”
“I promise to get hopped up on this hurricane with you as soon as you let me inside. I’ve been dying to see your place, Reece.”
“Fine, but you’re about to be majorly disappointed.”
I pushed past him through the door and into his living room. He wasn’t lying; it was bare. A couch. A coffee table. A TV. That’s it. I turned to the dining room, or what I thought was supposed to be the dining room. No table or chairs. I didn’t wait for permission and walked into his bedroom. A bed. A nightstand. And a fishing pole.