Magnolia (18 page)

Y
ou want to do
what
?” Ryder asks, his voice laced with disbelief.

I take a deep breath before answering. “I want to go to film school next year. In New York City. Instead of Ole Miss,” I clarify, in case he doesn't get it.

His gaze meets mine, and I expect to see judgment there in his eyes. I brace for the criticism, for the rebuke that's sure to follow my declaration.

Instead, his eyes seem to light with something resembling . . . admiration? “Seriously, Jem? That's awesome,” he says, smiling now. His dimples flash, the fear seemingly vanished from his face.

“You really think so?” I ask hesitantly. “I mean, I know it seems a little crazy. I've never even been to New York before.”

“So?” He scoots closer, so close that I can smell his now-familiar scent—soap and cologne mixed with rain. “If anyone can take care of themselves, you can.” He rakes a hand through his dark hair. “Damn, Jemma, you just shot a cottonmouth clean through the head. New York will be a cakewalk after that.”

A smile tugs at the corners of my mouth. “Well . . . it's not exactly the same thing. I won't be . . . you know . . . shootin' stuff up there.” My tongue loosened, I launch into the whole spiel, telling him all about the program, about the campus and the cultural opportunities.

He just nods along, making approving noises, occasionally throwing out a “wow” or a “cool.” When I finally stop talking, he says, “That sounds
awesome
, Jemma. Seriously. You should go for it.”

I look at him skeptically, not quite expecting such overwhelming support—and from Ryder, of all people. “Well, it doesn't really matter because Mama and Daddy pretty much nixed the idea.”

“They won't even let you apply?”

“At first they promised to look over the materials and think about it. At least, Daddy did. But then . . . well, after we learned about Nan's tumor . . .” I trail off with a shrug.

“They said no?”

“Not exactly,” I say. “Just . . . you know . . . that it wasn't a good time, or something like that.”

“When's the application due?”

“November first for early decision. I'm almost done with the application portfolio—everything but the film project.”

His eyes flash with determination. “Let's do it, then.”

“What, now?” In case he's forgotten, we're right in the middle of a pretty epic storm. I hate to remind him, not wanting to see the terror creep back into his face.

“Yeah. Where's your camera? We should be documenting the storm.”

“The storm?” Huh, I guess he
didn't
forget, after all. “You don't think that's a little . . . I dunno . . . boring?”

“What else did you have in mind?”

“I was going to do something on the county—tying in the whole Faulkner thing, you know? I already shot most of the footage, but I never quite figured out the narrative. Here, you wanna see what I've got so far?”

“Sure,” he says.

I flip out my camera's screen, switch it into playback mode, and cue up the footage before hitting play. Ryder leans in, our shoulders touching as we watch the images sweep across the screen—the picturesque town square, the library building, the historical society headquarters, the courthouse, two covered bridges, the old Ames House, Flint Creek from several vantage points, a few different shots of Magnolia Landing and its surrounding property.

“That's real nice,” Ryder says when I hit the stop button and shut the screen.

Nice?
Isn't “nice” just the polite way of saying “lame”? “Anyway, it doesn't matter now,” I say with a shrug. “My parents said no, remember?”

“There's got to be something else—a more compelling layer.” He strokes his chin, looking thoughtful. “Strength,” he says after a beat. “In the face of a crisis. That should be your theme. You document the storm, with a narrative tied into strength and courage. I bet you can even work in some Faulkner quotes, if you want to. And you can still use that footage, with some before-and-after shots. Here, hand me your camera.”

A little bewildered by his enthusiasm, I hand it over. I mean, I know I should be annoyed that he's sort of hijacked my project, but truthfully, I didn't really have a firm idea where I was going with it, anyway. He's doing me a favor.

Rising, he walks over to the window, where rain and debris are pelting the glass, and hits a button. The camera beeps, indicating that he's filming. “It's about nine p.m. here in Magnolia Branch, Mississippi,” he narrates, the camera aimed at the dark sky beyond the glass. “Hurricane Paloma came ashore near Gulfport just a couple hours ago. We've been feeling the effects all day, even though we're six hours to the north. The tornado sirens keep going off, and the road to this house is completely
washed out. Earlier today, I almost got bit by a water moccasin, but Jemma here managed to kill it with a single shot to the head. She saved my life.”

He turns the camera on me. I wave it off, but he ignores me. “Jemma's one of the strongest, most courageous people I know.”

I am?
Since when?

“Deadly snakes, dangerous storms,” he continues. “She takes it all in stride. For now we're just hunkering down and getting ready to ride it out. I'll check in later and let y'all know how we're holding up as the conditions deteriorate. Ryder out.”

I can't help but snicker. “Oh my God, did you really just say ‘Ryder out'?”

He winces. “Is that too dorky?”

“Nah, it's funny.” You really can't go wrong with
Star Trek
references—at least, according to Daddy. “But it's too dark in here to film. You won't be able to see anything—it'll all be in shadows.”

“That's the point. Showing 'em exactly what we're experiencing here. You know, from our perspective.”

“I guess,” I concede. “It's not a bad idea, actually.”

His mouth widens into a grin. “We should set a timer. Do an update every couple of hours or something. What do you think?”

I let out a sigh of frustration. “I think my parents won't let me go, so what's the point?”

“It can't hurt to apply,” he says with a shrug. “Right? Besides, they might change their minds once you get accepted.”

“
If
I get accepted.”

“I'm willing to bet you will.”

“Wow, you've got a lot of confidence in someone you don't even like.”

A crash of thunder delays his reply. When it comes, it's unexpectedly quiet. “What makes you think I don't like you?”

Feeling suddenly vulnerable, I drag a pillow into my lap. “Gee, I don't know. Maybe because you've said so? Like, a million times.”

He shakes his head. “I've never said I don't like you.”

“I'm pretty sure you have. Remember that fight we had a couple of weeks ago? At Mama's party?”

“You said
you
hated
me
,” he argues.

My cell phone rings, making us both jump. “It's working!” I cry, reaching for it as it peals out Daddy's ringtone. Jimmy Buffett, of course. I motion for Ryder to switch off the radio.

“Daddy? Hello?” I hit speaker and hold the phone up in front of my mouth.

“Half-pint? You there?” He's breaking up, his voice cutting in and out. I can barely make out what he's saying.

“Yeah, I'm here,” I say. “Can you hear me?”

“Are you okay, hon? We heard . . . tornadoes . . . been trying . . . service out.”

“We're fine,” I yell, as if that's going to help. “Ryder's here, and we're okay. How's Nan?”

“Nan . . . okay . . . morning . . .”

“Daddy? You're breaking up.”

“Careful . . . tomorrow . . .”

I shake my head, unable to make out what he's saying. And then the phone beeps, indicating the call's been dropped.

“Well, at least they know we're okay,” Ryder says.

“
If
he heard me. Stupid phone.”

“We'll try again in the morning.”

I shake my head. “I don't think it's going to be any better then.”

“Hey, where's your optimism?”

I flop back on the bed, staring up at the ceiling. “I'm so tired. This day sucks.”

“You wanna try and get some sleep?”

“Maybe,” I say with a shrug. My eyelids feel heavy all of a sudden. I take a deep breath and let it out slowly. “You want to set an alarm?”

“Nah, I'm pretty sure I'll be awake. Want me to turn out the lamp?”

“Yeah, I guess. Do you mind?”

He rolls down the wick, extinguishing the flame, and the room is cast in darkness. I slip under the sheet and plump the pillow beneath my head, trying to get comfortable.

I hear Ryder moving around on the far side of the bed.

“You're not going anywhere, are you?” I ask him.

“Not unless you want me to.”

“I'm good,” I say, turning onto my side.

We both fall silent, listening to the storm raging around us. It's getting worse. The wind is a high-pitched whistle, constant now. Debris crashes into the house at regular intervals, tree branches slapping against the windows. It's going to be ugly out there in the morning, that's for sure.

I think about Lucy and Morgan—wonder what they're doing right now, how they're holding up. They've got their families, at least. I hope they're all safe, their homes not affected by the tornado that blew through earlier. More than anything, I wish I could call or text them and check in.

But I can't. I'm totally cut off from everyone—everyone but Ryder.

An ear-splitting crash outside makes me jump, my breath catching in my throat. “What was
that
?”

“I think that was a tree coming down.” Ryder's voice is a little shaky. “Maybe we should go back into the storage room.”

“Just . . . turn the radio back on. If we need to take shelter, they'll tell us.”

He does, and we listen quietly for a good half hour. There's nothing new, really. Just the storm slowing down as it tracks up the state, barreling toward us. Sounds like it will have
weakened considerably by then, but we'll still get tropical storm–force winds. And the slower track means a higher chance of flooding, especially around high tide in the morning. We've got a long way to go before it's over.

Ryder turns off the radio and reaches for my camera, pointing it at me in the dark. It beeps, and a red light indicates that he's filming. “Are you scared, Jemma?”

I prop my head up on one elbow. “Yeah, I'm scared,” I say, carefully weighing my words. “But . . . we'll be okay. This house has weathered plenty of storms through the years. It'll keep us safe.”

“I hope you're right.”

“Yeah, me too.”

I hear him swallow hard. “I'm glad I'm here with you.”

“I'm glad you are too,” I say automatically. But then . . . I realize with a start that it's true. I
am
glad he's here. I feel safe with him. More relaxed than I would be otherwise. He thinks
I'm
distracting
him
, making him forget his fears. But the truth is, he's helping me just as much. Maybe more. I'm pretty sure I'd be a blubbering mess right about now if I were alone.

“Thanks, Ryder,” I say, my voice thick.

“For what?”

“Everything.” I squeeze my eyes shut. “Turn off the camera, okay?”

He does, setting it aside before stretching out on the far
side of the bed, facing me. Our gazes meet, and my stomach flutters nervously. There's something there in his dark eyes, something I've never seen before. Vulnerability . . . mixed with a kind of dark, melty chocolate expression that I don't recognize.

Our hands are lying there on the bed between us, nearly touching. I lift my pinkie, brushing it against his. Chills race down my spine at the contact, my heart pounding against my ribs.

I hear his breath catch. Slowly, his hand moves over mine, his fingertips brushing my knuckles until his entire hand covers mine. His skin is hot, the pressure reassuring. A minute passes, maybe two. It's almost like he's waiting, watching to see if I pull my hand away.

I don't.

In one quick movement, he slides his hand under mine and threads our fingers together.

We lie like that for several minutes, arms outstretched, hands joined, eyes wide open. The storm continues to rage around us, but it's like we're locked in this safe, calm place where nothing can touch us.

My breathing slows; my limbs grow heavy. My lids flutter shut. I try to resist, but it's futile. I'm exhausted.

I drift off to sleep with a smile on my lips, Ryder holding me fast.