Page 4 of True Abandon

Turning on my heel, I go down the hall of our small apartment and get the red and black toolbox from the top shelf of my closet. Manhattan has seen everything from September eleventh terrorist attacks to Super Storm Sandy. One can never be too prepared.

“What the hell is that?” she asks when I return.

“Our survival kit.” I flip open the lid. Inside are my flashlight, more batteries, first aid kit, whistle, moist towelettes, and my battery-powered radio.

“It’s just a little rain.” She glares out the window and back to me. “Besides, what can happen to us all the way up here?”

Her question makes the hair on the back of my neck stand at attention. “The power could go out for days. We’d be stuck here with no food, water, or supplies.”

Kelli saunters into the kitchen and opens one of the cabinets where I’ve stocked more water, cans, and boxed food. She’s giving me a questioning glare.

I continue, “The water might get turned off, meaning sanitary conditions can get pretty rancid.”

She twists her face. “That’s beyond gross.”'

“Looting. Flooding. We could be here for days. Two girls on their own…” I jolt, and start to make my way back to my room. “That reminds me. I have a Swiss Army knife under my bed—”

“Trish!” she cuts me off and I freeze. “Calm down. You’re doing that thing again.”

“What thing?”

“Man, I knew you had issues, but I didn’t realize you were so uptight,” Vince chimes in as he moves from the couch to the kitchen. “Must be a red-head thing. You’re all a little crazy,” he jokes as he picks up the small chainsaw and duct tape I placed on the counter. “You’re also a little kinky.”

He takes me in with beady, little eyes that are trying to see what’s beneath my afghan. I pull the blanket tighter around my chest, and my stomach rolls at the same time my toes start dancing inside my sock.

Kelli looks down at my foot and then turns to Vince. “Hey, why don’t you head down to the party? Trish and I’ll meet you there.”

Vince’s eyes rake me in, and then dart to Kelli before shrugging. “Yeah, whatever. I’ll see you down there. And Trish, wear one of your schoolgirl skirts. Your legs look killer in those.”

If I could vomit, I would.

Kelli escorts him out. No sooner is the door closed than her back is to it, leaning on it like she’s posing. “He’s harmless.”

“He’s a pig,” I retort, throwing the afghan on the couch.

“You hate all men,” she says as she pushes off the door.

“Just the undeserving ones.” I dump the rest of my supplies on the counter and continue to put them away. “Did you charge your laptop?”

She gives me a cute little smile and walks toward the television. “Yes, mom. And my phone just as you requested.”

Kelli and I have been friends since I moved from Wyndham, Virginia, to Cheshire, Connecticut. I was sixteen and in a dark place at the time. I became aware my life was shit when my parents had to uproot our entire family and move to a different state so I could start over. I didn’t want any friends–I just needed to keep my head low and graduate high school. Yet somehow, Kelli weaseled her way in, and we became friends. It wasn’t until sometime in college when we roomed together at Eastern that she finally got me to confess.

About Wyndham.

About Jackson.

About the video.

“Shit, this storm is going to be a motherfucker,” Kelli exclaims, raising volume with the remote.

“Told you. Everyone said it was going out to sea except for the European model. It’s the only weather tracker that predicted this.”

“Freaking meteorologists. They have one job to do, and that’s to tell the weather. They can’t even do that right.”

“Well, it’s a bit more complicated than that.”

“At least I won’t have to worry about hurricanes when I move to Hawaii.” She tosses the remote on the coffee table and falls to the couch behind her.