The Rest of the Story(114)

Hearing his voice as he said this—low, calm, invested—I felt a lump rise in my own throat. We Paynes were a safe people, for sure. And my dad had lots of experience: he could take care of anyone.

Everyone else left to check damage then, leaving just Roo and me on the couch in the dimness of the living room. Distantly, I could hear a siren, as well as someone’s phone ringing. But as I turned to face him, his hand still in mine, I blocked that all out. All I could think of were the moments the wind had wailed, the house literally shaking, and we held hands so tightly I could feel both his pulse and mine.

I looked up at him. All those pictures I’d seen of him, from the group shot until the very last one, by the pumps at the Station, and yet this was what I knew I would remember best. This moment, uncaptured, but just as real.

“You okay, storm buddy?” he asked.

I smiled. Then, instead of replying, I leaned in and kissed him. Lightly at first, trying it out, before going deeper, pulling him closer. His lips were so soft as he smoothed a hand over my head, gazing steadily into my eyes while I reached up to touch his face, every bit of us fitting neatly together. It was so perfect—the world falling away, just how I thought a real first kiss should feel—I knew I didn’t need a picture, that I would remember it always. Even now, when I thought of it, my heart jumped.

Since then, we’d just sort of slipped easily, wordlessly, into being a couple. A few days later, as we sat on Mimi’s steps, he told me he had something for me, picking up the bag he’d brought with him.

“What is it?” I asked.

He handed it over. “Look and see.”

It was a photo album, a new one, with a red cover and stiff pages. At first I was confused, until I opened it up to see that same first picture, his dad in his duck pajamas, at the very top.

“Is this—”

“Yep,” he said. His leg was warm, pressing against mine. I just felt better with him close by. “Same pictures, same order. I made copies.”

“This is incredible,” I said, flipping pages.

“I thought you deserved your own album,” he told me. “Since the stories are yours, too.”

I turned a couple more pages: they were all there. The shot of my mom, somber at day camp. Her dyeing Chris Price’s hair. That ill-fated middle school dance. Then Roo and me as kids. Each picture another step toward here, where we were now. I wouldn’t be leaving everything behind. Now, I could take the lake with me.

But when I got to the last page, and that final shot of him with his mom and the Christmas tree, I noticed something. “Wait. Are there more pages?”

He grinned. “Look and see.”

I turned past the final photo, and sure enough, instead of the back cover, another page was there, with more behind it. Empty slots, waiting to be filled with the rest of the stories I would tell. I was so touched, moving through them, that at first I almost missed the single picture he’d already included.

It was the two of us, at our makeshift prom, a shot I hadn’t even realized was being taken. I was in my dress, barefoot, him holding a hand to spin me out as we danced. I was laughing, my head thrown back, someone blurry and in motion behind me. Like the moment was already passing, even as whoever took the shot captured it.

“This is incredible,” I said, barely even able to speak.

“The big photo album in the sky,” he replied. “It’s like good storm windows. Everyone should have one.”

I turned to face him, moving my leg between his. “You are the best.”

“I am not,” he replied, sliding his arms around my waist. “But I will take the compliment anyway.”

I leaned in then, kissing him as the wind blew over us, ruffling the nearby gardenia bushes. I wanted it to last forever, but then I heard Gordon tittering, the way she did when she caught us like this together, and she always caught us like this together.

“Gordon,” Roo said, pulling away but keeping his eyes on me. “Don’t you have a closet to get into or something?”

“It wasn’t a closet!” she shot back as she did every time he said this, which was equally as often. “It was a shed and I was fine.”

“Fine.” Roo snorted. “You were by the water with a hurricane coming in and no one could find you.”

“Except my dad,” I pointed out. I looked at Gordon. “Lucky he knew that place, huh?”

She nodded, solemn. “Lucky.”

But it wasn’t, not really. I’d assumed he’d found her that day by process of elimination, hunting around the dock until he discovered the small shed built into the side of the motel where, after Trinity had yelled at her, she’d gone to barricade herself with her book. It was only later, when I’d finally had a chance to sit down with my dad, that I found out the real story.

It was a few days after the storm and we were at Mimi’s table, having breakfast. Tracy and Nana had gone back over to the Tides to collect our things, so it was my dad and me and my Bly County News, where I was reading the obits (Ellis Murdock, 67, died at home with his family around him) while he stared out the window. When Gordon emerged from the motel office, we both watched her walk down to the dock, carrying her book, then take a seat with her legs dangling in the water.

“You saved her life,” I said as he nibbled some toast.

“Oh, I don’t know about that,” he said. “That shed is pretty tough. That’s why your mom liked it.”