I run my hand through my sweat-soaked hair and gaze down at my son. “Wow,” I say, as I step back up to the mic. “First off, I want to thank the entire Fire organization and all the fans for believing in this team and standing by us.”
The audience erupts into more cheers. When they quiet down a little, I continue. “I gotta thank my parents and family too.” I stop and glance down at Rowan. “And this little guy. He has no idea, but I’ll always be his biggest fan.” Everyone cheers again as I speak of Rowan, who has become a staple around the field, and in the photographs they continue to snap of me.
“This entire weekend has been a dream come true, but I’m going to be honest with you, it’s missing something.” I ignore all of the confused faces until my eyes land on Alex. He’s right next to Ashtyn, where he’s supposed to be.
He places his hand beneath her elbow and guides her my way. She doesn’t go easy though. Oh no. Ashtyn wants nothing to do with this kind of spotlight and is dragging her feet and trying to turn around.
When he has her standing directly beside me, an uncomfortable smile on her face, I say, “I have an MVP trophy.”
Cheers.
“I have a championship ring.”
Louder cheers.
“But there’s one ring missing.”
That’s when Alex takes his nephew from my arms and slips the ring into my hand. I turn my gaze to the woman I love, the one who has stood beside me, and who hasn’t left me even when I leave the toilet seat up.
“Ashtyn,” I start, taking her hand. Her eyes are as round as hubcaps as she gazes up at me. “My love,” I add, taking a knee in front of her.
The crowd goes wild.
When I look up at her, everything else just falls away. “This ring is the most important piece of jewelry in my life. This one symbolizes my love for you. It’s endless. I thank God every day that you walked through your brother’s door that day because my life has been nothing but good ever since. I want to marry you, give Rowan brothers and sisters, and grow old with you standing beside me.”
Deep breath.
“Ashtyn Harris, will you marry me?”
She nods once. Then yells, “Yes!”
She’s in my arms a moment later, the ring I spent weeks picking out on her finger. “I love you, Ash.”
“I love you, Tate,” she beams at me, tears gathering in her eyes.
“Wow, Tate Steele, I don’t know how your night could get any better,” Stan says. “Congratulations to you and Ashtyn on your engagement.”
With her eyes locked on mine, Ashtyn smiles. “He’s a keeper.”
Spark by Nicole Blanchard
Chapter One
Avery
Wednesday—October 10, 2018
8:00 p.m.
A boom shakes the house and a whiplash of pure, primal fear invades the tiny spaces in my body. Sensing my unease, the little life in my arms lets out a disgruntled squeal as hot tears leak from her reddened, tired eyes—eyes a blue-gray, the same color of the stormy evening sky outside the window. Neither of us has gotten much sleep today. I expect we won’t get any tonight either. As if to confirm my thoughts, lightning flashes, turning the living room from night to day in one quick instant.
“Shh, shh, it’s okay. It’s going to be okay. I promise. It’s only a storm.” I wasn’t sure if she could hear me over the roaring wind and lashing of rain against the tin roof. “A really, really loud storm. We get them all the time.”
This isn’t any storm, but I can’t tell her that. At a couple months old, my words are to soothe myself more than her. All she knows is her mom is terrified. No doubt she can sense the sour tang of my fear coming off me in waves.
“That baby needs a bottle. Sounds like she’s starvin’.”
I close my eyes for a moment, then turn to my grandmother. She sits in her customary rocking chair, a green so worn it’s nearly gray. “She’s not hungry. She’s just scared, is all.”
Her and me both.
Grandma Rosie purses her lips and rocks more vigorously in her chair. I hold my baby closer and ignore her. Nearly eighty and suffering from dementia, Grandma Rosie has a habit of repeating herself and calling me by my mother’s name. She also has a tendency for bluntness—which most people would classify as straight meanness—but I know that’s the disease talking. Grandma Rosie raised me and before her brain started failing her, she’d been the sweetest woman alive.
That’s why I bite my tongue and turn away from the living room, moving deeper into the house. The baby wails so loud it almost drowns out the wind and rain. Almost.
Readjusting her little body against my shoulder, I cradle her head and pat her back as I rock her back to a sense of calm. Soothing her helps me, albeit only slightly. Once she settles a little, I reach for my phone in my back pocket to check the weather again. I’m praying for a miracle with every atom of my being, though the only miracle I’ve ever witnessed is finally sleeping in my arms.
Please, please shift. Shift away from here.
I close my eyes as the weather radar loads and my heart thuds like a hammer in my chest. The last thing I want is to condemn someone else to the horror of what’s to come, but at the selfish, human center of me, I’d rather it’d go somewhere else, anywhere else.
Please.
If I’d been stronger, I would have convinced Grandma Rosie to evacuate this morning. Dammit, I should have carried her out kicking and screaming if I had to, but she wouldn’t budge.
“I’ve lived here for fifty years and I’ll die here,” had been her litany all day despite my pleading. I couldn’t leave her to die all alone and confused. She didn’t have anyone else but me.
So I’d spent the entire day battening down the hatches. I’d boarded up the windows, done last-minute runs for emergency supplies. Grandpa Jim had kept an old weather radio that still worked if only by the grace of God alone, so I’d have something in case the power and cell service went out.
Most people thought the hurricane would weaken as it came closer to the gulf. Most hurricanes that hit our area of Northern Florida did—in fact it’s a running joke that most Floridians have hurricane parties to celebrate their landfall. But according to the radar and the Facebook Live from our local weatherman, Hurricane Michael hasn’t weakened. It’s grown stronger. It’s predicted to make landfall as a Category 5. One of the strongest to ever hit our area.
And it’s supposed to be heading right for us.
My phone wobbles in my hands as the weatherman’s words ring in my ears. A Category 5. You hear about them, sure, and we’ve gotten some bad storms throughout the years, but
nothing like this. A storm like this could obliterate everything. We are far inland, thankfully, so we won’t get the brunt of the storm surge or the worst of the winds. I try to take a seed of hope from that thought and immediately feel guilty. So many people on the coast like me haven’t evacuated.
The baby lets out a mewl of protest and I realize I’m squeezing her too close. I let out a shuddering breath and move from the kitchen to the room we share. Carefully so as not to wake her, I tuck her into her bassinet while I finish last-minute preparations. Really, I’m not sure what else I can do to save us, but I have to try.