Praying for Rain (Praying for Rain Trilogy, #1)(26)

“As much as I’d love to pick up where we left off, I think it’s about to rain. We’d better go.” He smacks me on the ass and walks off, giving me and my bright red face a much-needed moment to compose ourselves.

So … that happened, I think, staring down at the damage we did.

I wait for my next thought to come—for me to overanalyze every aspect of that interaction; for me to admire the way the shelves were spaced just far enough apart so that, if one fell, it wouldn’t cause a domino reaction; for me to freak out and find a way to make the whole awkward situation worse—but there’s nothing inside my head except for a warm, soft, fuzzy kind of glow. I wait and wait, blinking at our mess, smiling to myself, but still nothing comes.

I don’t know how long I stand there, admiring the emptiness in my mind, but it’s the closest thing to relief I’ve felt in weeks.

Wes managed to do what all the alcohol and painkillers in the world haven’t. With nothing more than his body and his attention, he made it all just go away. All the memories. All the loss. All the worthlessness and loneliness and hopelessness and fear. For a few minutes, I was free of it all.

God, I hope he does it again.

As I wander the aisles of Buck’s Hardware, I let my mind actually contemplate the possibility of survival. Maybe living a little longer wouldn’t be so bad … if I were with Wes. Maybe we could make each other happy in our bomb shelter built for two. Maybe, once we find it, we can do what we just did again but without clothes on.





Blurry, grainy images of Carter’s boyish face begin to tiptoe around the edges of my chemically induced bliss. He’s only been gone about a month, but I can hardly remember what he looked like anymore. What his voice sounded like. What it felt like when we’d sneak out and make love on a blanket under the stars, hidden by the waist-high grass in Old Man Crocker’s untended field.

It hadn’t felt like whatever Wes just did; I know that much.

Or had it? I can’t remember.

I walk two or three laps around the store in a daze before I spot Wes kneeling next to his dirt bike just outside the front door. He tucks his hair behind his ear as he fiddles with the tire, and I can’t help but admire his gorgeous profile. It’s crazy to think that somebody that beautiful came out of Franklin Springs. I’m glad he got out when he did. He doesn’t belong here. The people here are … simple. Or, at least, they were before the nightmares began. Now, most of them have left town, killed themselves, or gotten themselves killed.

Not that I’m one to judge. I was thinking about doing one of those three things myself—until Wes showed up.

I take another lap, actually paying attention to the merchandise this time, and discover that Buck’s Hardware does not carry metal detectors. My hope deflates like the tire on Wes’s bike. How am I supposed to tell him that we came all the way out here and got a flat for nothing? I can’t. I won’t. I just need to think. I close my eyes and try to concentrate, but nothing comes. It’s ironic. This whole time, all I’ve wanted to do was erase everything in my brain, and now that Wes and the painkillers have finally done it, I need the damn thing back.

I wander the store some more, and just when I’m about to admit defeat, I notice a few giant magnets, grouped together on a shelf near the door. They look like round metal weights with a hole in the middle, and the sign below them says they can lift up to ninety-five pounds.

“Thank you, Jesus,” I whisper, raising my palms to the drop-tile ceiling.

I find some yellow nylon rope on a different aisle and use a pair of gardening shears to cut off two six-foot-long lengths of it. I thread one through the hole in each magnet and tie it off, figuring that Wes and I can just drag the magnets behind us as we walk through the woods. If they can lift almost a hundred pounds, surely we’ll feel a tug if we pass over a big metal door beneath the pine needles. Right? It might work.

It has to work.

I run outside with the backpack and my makeshift magnets-on-a-rope, eager to show Wes my new invention. He looks up at me from where he’s reflating his newly patched tire with a hand pump, and all my excitement leaves me in a single breath. Just beyond the store’s covered entrance, the sky has gone from bright blue to slate gray. Sizzling yellow lightning bolts shoot out of the clouds in the distance, and big, fat raindrops are hitting the asphalt parking lot so hard it looks like it’s boiling.

“You were right about the rain,” I mumble, staring at what’s become of our beautiful spring afternoon.

A clap of thunder booms so loud and so close it rumbles a piece of glass loose from the broken door. I jump at the sound of it shattering on the concrete behind me.

Wes glances at me over his shoulder.

“Can we … can you drive that thing in the rain?”

He raises his eyebrows like that was the stupidest question ever asked. “It’s a dirt bike. A little mud ain’t gonna hurt it.”

I smile, hearing the country in his voice for the first time.

Guess he’s from Georgia after all.

“You afraid of a little rain? ’Cause I can take you home if—”

“No!” I blurt out before reclaiming my chill. “No, it’s fine. I don’t mind.”

Wes gives me the side-eye, then returns to pumping the tire. “The sooner we find that shelter, the better. I have a feeling the locals are about to burn this whole shitty town to the ground.”