Our First Storm

Chapter 2: Our First Storm (nine years ago)

Harley (13)

I’m not too thrilled to spend the next four years stuck at East Bridgewater High School with absolutely no friends whatsoever. The ones I made through elementary and middle school either moved, went to private school, or we grew apart. Luckily, one of my best friends, Alec, came to this miserable prison with me, so I’m not technically alone. Our first assignment for the year is a book report on the Civil War, and Alec and I got paired up for the project. I’m ecstatic about it, and I’m pretty sure he can tell.

“What are you doing after school, Har?” Alec asks all smooth and casual as we walk down the street toward our apartments.

“Hudson and I are going to the bookstore to find a book on the Civil War. You know, for the book report we have to do.”

I make the attitude in my voice known, hoping he’ll decide to cancel his plans and help me with the damn project. I know he has plans. That’s just the type of person Alec is. He’s popular, just like my twin brother, Hudson. Me, not so much, but I’m not an outcast either. He puts his hand on my shoulder, stops walking, and spins me so we’re facing each other. His hands cup my face, and he rubs the pads of his thumbs along my jawline. “Harley, Hudson, and I are going to football practice after we grab something to eat. Would you mind grabbing the book anyway, and I promise that tomorrow I’m all yours?”

I roll my eyes, but I can’t help the smile that curls playfully on my lips. I nod my head, yes, rolling my eyes as I do it. He grabs my face tighter and kisses my forehead before releasing me from his comforting hold.

“Yeah, I’ll grab the book, Alec, but you need to stop ditching me when we have homework to do.”

He grabs my hand and interlocks our fingers as we start walking again, just as a thick, gray cloud hovers above us, blocking the bright sun entirely. When hard, cold droplets of rain begin pelting us, Alec pulls my hand and begins to run, trying to get us home quicker.

After parting ways when we hit our street, instead of going home, I bypass my driveway and keep walking in the direction of the bookstore, enjoying the rain that soaks my body. I’ve always loved the rain and storms—any kind of storm, to be honest. I was born in the middle of a rainstorm on April 1st. My mother was somehow lying on my father’s Harley on the side of the road when my brother and I decided to make our grand entrance into the world. My father says we’re blessed because the day we were born, the rain poured down and baptized our souls immediately. Whatever that means.

I see the bookstore ahead of me, the neon light flickers each time a rumble of thunder booms, rattling the small town. It’s raining, therefore there shouldn’t be anyone inside, and I’ll get to bury my nose in every book they have.

As I open the door, I pause briefly with my senses on high alert. The baby hairs on the back of my neck and my arms rise stiffly as the feeling of being watched begins to invade my mind. The only person I see when I turn my head to scan around me, is a scruffy-looking man in his twenties, approaching the bookstore in clothes that cling to his sculpted body. I smile at him to ease the discomfort as I hold open the door for him and walk inside, taking shelter from the icy rain. He follows behind me and enters the store but ventures to the self-help area, disappearing behind an array of crowded shelves.

Mhm, who is he?...

Brixton (26)

The second I walk through the doors of High Point Rehab over in Brockton and I sniff in the putrid, fresh air, the urge to score a bag of dope smacks me in the chest like a fucking punch. Still, I carry on walking through the somewhat familiar city, headed right for the T. Since this rehab stint was court-ordered, I still have to check in with parole and attend NA meetings to stay out of prison. It's been six years since I’ve had my freedom, but I can already tell you that this little tease will be short-lived. I’ve been behind bars more than I’ve been in the real world. I just wasn’t fucking made for that specific population, I guess. Even though I’m from Southie, I got busted out here in Brockton for carjacking and grand theft auto, so all my legal shit is down here. Hence, I'm traveling to my PO’s office in good old Brockton, Massachusetts.

The ride on the T isn’t long at all, and I’m walking off the dingy platform before I fucking know it. Dark, gloomy clouds begin to consume the once-bright sky, hiding the sun from shining down on the city. Thunder rolls in the distance and silent claps of lightning strike vividly in the sky moments later.

“You must be Brixton Steele.” A pudgy woman with a bad perm and oversized glasses speaks over the brim of a coffee mug as she takes a sip and motions for me to sit down.

“Yeah, that’s me, unfortunately.” I tease as I take in my surroundings while she digs through a stack of files on her desk.

Cats and guns; there are pictures of her with cats and of her shooting and holding various weapons scattered neatly around her office, giving me a confusing picture of who she is.

“Ah, here you are. This is a thick one for sure, Brixton. Why don’t we see why you’re here, eh?”

I scoff, and my stomach tightens at the thought of her rambling off my twenty-page record.

“I can tell you why I’m here. I stole a car at gunpoint and ended up doing time for it. Then, while in prison, I got addicted to heroin and was sent to a rehab facility, which I was just released from today.”

She gives me a kind smile and sets my thick file down in front of her as she begins to explain the conditions of my parole.

Back on the T, I follow my PO’s directions written down on a Post-it note. She’s sending me to a dank bookstore in a small town about twenty minutes from Brockton in search of a specific book about the twelve-step program that I’ll need for my mandatory weekly meetings. I’ve gone through all of this shit before, and it never seemed to stick. There’s no use thinking this time will be any fucking different.

I spot the flickering “OPEN” sign hanging above the door to the bookstore, swaying in the heavy wind that whips the cold rain against my body, making me break out with a shiver that slowly travels along my spine.

And that’s when I see her. She’s fucking breathtaking, even with her dark hair matted in wet strands over her head. She opens the door and walks into the bookstore, safe from the torrential rain that’s drowning the small town.

And for the first time in my entire fucking life, I’m anxious and excited to venture into a fucking bookstore. All because of her.

Mhm, who the fuck is she?...