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I wonder how long we will ride tonight. Hopefully long enough for the rain to stop but not so long that anyone behind me has to pass us on his or her way out.

Good thing your wishes aren’t too complicated, Callie.

It doesn’t appear that the rain will be stopping for a while. Lightning and some cracks of thunder turn it into an all out storm. But it doesn’t matter. I’m content right here, in no rush to leave my spot.

{Ah…one more time.}

The bus lurches to a stop right by one of the dining halls on campus. As the doors creak open, some rain, going sideways now, pounds onto the inside steps. Guess that would have been helpful if they really had been as dirty as I imagined.

Seconds later, two rather bulky guys start to walk up those stairs to get on the bus. I realize that they will have to pass me, and my body stiffens. They are soaking wet and talking loudly. Apparently one of the guys just fell, and the other guy finds it hilarious.

“It will be okay, Callie.”

As one of the guys calls the other a “pansy ass” for falling in the rain, I feel myself being pulled, still standing, into the space in front of our would-be front row seats. He is still behind me, almost in the same position as before, but we are now standing sideways in front of the seats. I try to convince myself that I can just throw out my jeans, which are now rubbing against the lower seat cushions, when I see it.

The “pansy ass,” the one who just fell, is bleeding. His arm, which he is holding up like a freaking trophy, has a long open gash on it, and he has blood on the front of his Pierce t-shirt.

Dizziness comes upon me as I realize that he is only about two steps away from me. When he takes his next step, I start to taste salad dressing in the back of my throat, and my chest begins to heave. He must notice because in the second before the “pansy ass,” the gash, and the blood are right beside me, I am yanked down into a seated position on his lap. We are both sitting in the window seat, and his arms are somehow wrapped more tightly around me than before.

By the time I frantically look up, the two guys have already passed.
But it’s too late.
I feel my entire dinner rising in my throat, and I fight to stand up out of his hold.

“Don’t move the bus!” he yells as he helps me stand. I am torn between wanting to run for the door and needing to stay as far away from that area as possible (in case some blood dripped on the floor).

That very thought takes the decision out of my hands because I can’t hold back any longer. I throw up right there in the aisle of the bus and am overcome with a million separate noises that in no way blend into something comforting. Students are yelling and laughing, the music is still blaring, the bus driver is screaming for me to leave the bus since I’m clearly too drunk to be going out…

And him…repeatedly saying, “I’ve got you,” while squeezing my hand and trying to move me forward. It’s too much. I pull my hand from him as tears begin to fall out of my eyes. I feel everything welling up in the back of my throat again.

I try to move forward, but I’m not fast enough. Right beside the driver, right at the top of the stairs, I throw up another time. More yelling, more orders from the driver, and then a hand on my back guiding me around the mess, my mess, down the stairs, and off the bus.

We are both drenched within seconds, but we don’t move. The bus peels out of its spot, this time splashing us with dirty rainwater. I move forward, away from his hand on my back, and throw up one more time right there on the side of the street.

Home. I need to be home. In my shower. Now.

“Home,” I mouth the word, and he nods before reaching for my hand.

“I can’t,” I whisper, shaking my head emphatically.

Even though he looks crushed, he nods, moves his hand back to his side, and says he understands. I have no way to deal with his emotions right now so I keep my head down, shielding my eyes from the beating rain, and start walking toward home. He follows suit, walking right beside me in silence.

We make it the whole way to my house just like that—no talking, no touching, no more throwing up. When we get to my doorstep, he quietly asks if I want him to come in, if I want his help. I shake my head, even though I’m sure he already knows my answer. He tells me that he is sorry, and his tormented eyes meet mine.

I can’t fix that right now, and it makes me feel even worse. Throwing my hand over my mouth, I nod and run inside my house.

I’M STILL IN THE SHOWER. It’s been over an hour, but I can’t manage to get out yet.

This isn’t working. I really am trying, but I’m not getting any better, and I keep wounding him. I want to get better. I don’t want to lose him.

But how?
Dozens of little solutions, none of which will actually work, swim through my mind as I stand under the steady stream of hot water.

And then I hear thunder again. The storm seemed to be letting up when we got back to my house, but here it comes again.

Remembering all of my dad’s lectures about not bathing during storms, I shut off the water, step out, and wrap myself in a towel, hoping that the storm will end before it’s time for my next shower. I then lose myself in my night preparation routine, putting all of my energy and concentration into each task. Rigid, mindless activity for a couple of hours. Just what I need to settle my stomach a bit.

The storm tapers off around midnight. I make my next shower as quick as I can because I feel certain the thunder and lightning will resume at any moment.

I am right. As I’m putting my hair dryer away, the storm picks up in full force, and the house lights flicker.

Seriously?
This had to happen on a night when I’m already alone, completely vulnerable to the murderers?

Grabbing the emergency flashlight out of my nightstand, I continue my routine. The lights flicker some more while I put on lotion and get into my pajamas, and the power goes out completely about three minutes after I turn on the television and settle into bed.

Now what?

Neither the tree branches banging angrily on my windows nor the booms of thunder have much of a chance at lulling me to sleep. Neither do the occasional creaks in my house, noises that I can only assume mean that someone is sneaking up to my room to kidnap me.

Calling Mandy or Melanie would be futile; they are miles and miles away.

Unless…maybe that is my answer. Perhaps I should jump in my car and drive to Pittsburgh now. Hmm…but that would involve…driving through a storm, driving in the dark, and, well, driving in general. Not going to happen.

My body begins to overheat as though straining to hear each and every noise in the house involves strenuous physical exertion.

Throwing off my duvet, I feel less burdened by the covers as well as exposed to the murderers who must be pretty close to my room by now. I consider my options. I could get up and do my routine over, but I would have to do the whole thing with a flashlight in my hand. And if I accidentally drop it, where would that leave me?

I could try to play some of the songs on my iPhone, but that’s never worked before. Music alone has never turned into my white noise so I doubt it will miraculously happen tonight. Besides, playing music would eat the battery of my phone, and then I’d really be in trouble if I did need to call someone.

Little scenarios begin running through my mind. In one, I’m falling out of bed and cracking my head open. In the next, I’m having some sort of seizure or stroke in my bathroom. In another, the murderers are pounding on my bedroom door. In each little scene, music is playing from my iPhone, and when I grab the phone to make a 911 call, the battery dies.

Feeling chilled by my thoughts, I pull the covers back over my body. Okay. Definitely no music. Banging my head back into my pillow, I try to think of a better idea.

If I call Mandy or Melanie or Mom…or even Dad or Jared, I know that any one of them would drive to get me right now. But I can’t do that. First of all, it would be unbelievably inconsiderate and selfish, among other adjectives I can’t think of right now. More than that, though, it wouldn’t be safe. I can’t have them driving in the middle of the night in a thunderstorm—I can only imagine what would happen.

Left with no real options, I decide to pray over and over for the storm to end and for the power to come back on. Simultaneously, I seriously consider buying a generator tomorrow.

In the middle of my seventh round of prayers, my phone buzzes on my dresser. Might as well check it as I have nothing else to do. I throw off the covers, lower my legs out of the bed, and grab the phone.

One text message from Unknown Number.

One. Two. Three. Open.

Callie—I’m about to ring your doorbell. Please grab a flashlight and carefully come to let me in.

What? Now?
It’s so late. And I’m only wearing shorts and an extremely oversized t-shirt.

That thought makes me jump out of bed to begin a dark search through my dresser drawers. But it’s too late. The doorbell is ringing. I can’t make him stand out there in the storm…

Clutching my flashlight, I navigate down the stairs, through my house. Before opening the front door, I use the peephole to make sure it’s really him.

It is. He’s standing on my doorstep just like he was only a few hours ago. No roses this time. No collared shirt either. He does have an umbrella.

I fling open the door and am swept right up in his gaze. A lot anxious. A little sad. And still somewhat heated.

{Lionel Richie’s “Hello” st—}

“What would you like me to cook for you tonight?”

I think about my used up calories for the day and my empty refrigerator for a split second before realizing what he is really saying.

“Oh. Anything will do the trick. Hot dogs. Macaroni and cheese. A bowl of cereal.”

“Good.” He’s still standing outside in loose sweatpants and a t-shirt. Rain cascades over his umbrella.

“Come on in.” I say it without letting myself think about whether I should or about what it might mean.

Without moving his eyes from mine, he sets his umbrella on the porch and steps inside the house. Right beside me. I point my flashlight up between us so we can both see a little. Still gripping my eyes, he shuts the front door, locks it, and twists the handle three times. He then slips out of his shoes and asks me where he can put them. I point to the towel, my shoe towel, just beside the door, and he breaks our eye contact for a moment to place his sneakers there.

When he turns back around, his eyes take a quick detour, starting at my bare lower legs and sliding up to my exposed left shoulder before again meeting my gaze.

“Callie—I’m having trouble thinking like a doctor when I’m around you. To be honest, I’m having trouble thinking at all.” Pause. “Sometimes I just want to ditch this whole therapy thing so I don’t have to keep seeing you in so much pain. So I can stop feeling so guilty about being your doctor and wanting…”

He stops talking, but the look on his face finishes the sentence for him.

“And I keep breaking all therapy protocol, not discussing worst case scenarios, trying to do some routines for you, massaging your tension today before letting you try to breathe on your own. Kissing you…”

{Meredith Brooks’
“What Would Happen”
tak—}

“And none of this is your fault, and I shouldn’t be burdening you with all of it right now when you have plenty of other things to think about—especially after the day you’ve had.” Another pause. “I’m sorry. I haven’t shut up since I walked in. Do you want me to go?”

“No,” my lips whisper, my head shaking emphatically back and forth. Silently grabbing his hand, I use my flashlight to guide us back through the house, up the steps, and into my room. He follows me, clutching my hand and walking without saying a word. When we begin going up the stairs, I feel his hand on the lower part of my back. Protecting me. Burning me. I slow down my pace to eliminate almost all of the tiny space between us.

When we reach the top of the steps, I can only hear heavy breathing, but I’m not sure if it’s his or mine—or both. We finally make it into my bedroom, and I can’t hold back any longer. I turn myself around in his arms and raise my mouth to his. His impatient lips crash into mine while his hands run over my back. Just as I begin to tug him closer to the bed, he pulls back from our kiss.

“Callie—wait.”

No.
I shake my head, but he probably can’t see that so I move one of my hands, one of my fingers, up to his mouth to shush him. He traps my finger between his lips, caressing it with his teeth and tongue.

Yes.
Trying to keep a moment’s focus, I gently pull back my finger and slide my hand down to hold his. I take him over to my dresser where I click off the flashlight and put it down. Then we both turn toward the bed.

I sit down first and then pull him in to me. As we lie back, my lips find his neck while he begins trailing kisses all over my bare shoulder. Thunder crashes outside, but our bodies keep moving together. Entwining. Exploring. Kissing.

My restless hands find his hard chest underneath his t-shirt. Just as my mouth follows and my lips press against his chest, I feel his entire body tense.

“Callie. Callie. We have to stop, Callie.” He breathes out my name as a moan, his own body rejecting his words.

His hand finds my hair, and he presses my head down sideways to rest on his chest. He runs his fingers through my hair for quite some time before he speaks again.

“Callie, I can’t do this. I want to do this. More than I’ve ever…more than you know. But I can’t. We can’t.”

Lying on his chest, breathing in his magazine page cologne, I wait for him to say more. I don’t have to wait very long.

“It wouldn’t be fair to you. I know you haven’t…that you have fears that…”

He stops speaking, and his hand pauses to rest in my hair.