The Reality of Everything - Rebecca Yarros Page 0,147

either. That was the demarcation line of our relationship. Text was fine. Voice was not.

Jackson: I don’t believe you.

A minute later, a picture came through of a giant red apple consuming her instruction space.

Jackson: I fail to see the problem.

Morgan: You. Are. Impossible.

Jackson: I. Am. In. Love. With. You.

Just like it always did after I dropped the L word, the conversation fell quiet. At least she wasn’t hot and cold. The woman made her choice and was sticking to her guns.

Jackson: Are you leaving for Washington tomorrow?

Morgan: Right now. I just stopped by to grab something.

My chest tightened. I couldn’t imagine how hard the next two days would be on her, and I wasn’t even there to hold her hand.

Jackson: I’m sorry I’m not there.

Morgan: Me, too.

It was the closest she’d come to admitting that she missed me.

Jackson: Eight more weeks.

We’d already been here seven.

She didn’t reply.

I grabbed chow, then headed to the op center for another fun day of briefings, workouts, and waiting to be needed.

“We saved you a seat, honey,” Sawyer said as he patted the office chair next to him at the long conference table.

“Thanks.” I slid in between him and Moreno, with Garrett just across the table. Every one of the twenty-two guys in this room was from our unit at Hatteras, and it was standing room only by the time the captain walked in.

“Good morning, ladies and gentlemen,” Patterson said as he stood at the head of the conference table. “Daily brief is as follows.”

He launched into the mundane and saved the important stuff for last, probably so we didn’t sneak out or fall asleep.

“Jerry continues to be our primary concern. Warren, you want to talk weather?”

The meteorologist stood and nodded, heading to the monitor. “Jerry is absolutely a concern. We’re predicting a category four landfall, but if he follows this model, he could pick up speed in the warm waters here and elevate to a five.”

Damn, if that thing came anywhere near us, it was going to level the place.

“I told you,” Garrett mouthed.

“Shut up,” Sawyer retorted.

“Either way, we’re looking at widespread destruction from here”—he pointed to a string of islands—“to here, which means we’ll need all hands on deck. We’re hoping this model is correct, and he’ll miss us, but you know how finicky storms can be.” He pushed his glasses up his nose. “Sir, would you like to—”

“Go ahead,” Patterson said, his voice tight.

“Though this storm”—he changed the monitor, and my stomach turned—“won’t affect us directly, it is cause for concern, as you can see why.”

“Holy shit,” Sawyer muttered.

“How the hell did that happen?” Garrett snapped, like Warren controlled the weather.

“To be honest, the projections were off,” Warren answered. “She went right around the Bahamas, picking up speed to a three, and we thought she might spin off into the Atlantic, but…well, early this morning her winds measured 113 knots.” His jaw ticked.

Captain Patterson took pity on the guy and grabbed the remote for the monitor. “These are only projections, and you all know how quickly the models can change. That being said…” He clicked the remote, and the monitor changed to show the projected path.

The entire room erupted with questions.

I had my phone to my ear before I’d even cleared the room, leaving the briefing before I’d been dismissed.

“Pick up. Pick up,” I muttered. Morgan was already on her way to Will’s ceremony.

“Jax?” Claire’s voice came through.

“You’ve got less than forty-eight hours. Get Finley and evacuate. Don’t wait.”

Chapter Twenty-Eight

Jackson

There was nothing quite as ironic as an SAR pilot watching helplessly as a hurricane headed straight for his home while he was a thousand miles away.

Evacuations had been ordered yesterday.

Finley and Claire had left earlier this evening. It was later than I’d wanted, but at least she’d gone. Vivian, however, was a die-hard. She’d weathered every hurricane—including Irma—from her home, and since Brie took a volunteer position at one of the shelters on the mainland, that left Vivian alone.

Alone, with a category four headed straight at her.

“I know this is killing you, especially those of you with families on Hatteras, but we just have to sit tight and see,” Patterson told those of us who sat in the conference room bleary-eyed, glued to the news coverage.

I wasn’t sure exactly what he thought would change. There weren’t a lot of models forecasting anything but a direct hit on Hatteras in the next twelve hours.

There was about an hour before my morning Finley call, and then I’d try to talk Vivian into getting the