Weather the storm
...
It's storming, you've discovered the hard way your left shoe has a hole in the sole, and now your sock is uncomfortably wet. Not to mention the umbrella you actually thought to bring isn't the expandable 'fit in your purse' style you thought it was but is actually a children's umbrella from when your niece and nephew visited last week. That creepy one-eyed Minion is cheerfully mocking you as it does sweet fuck all to protect you from the battering rain. You're mostly holding it out of spite by this stage.
You're wet, uncomfortable, and soggy, but you're on a mission that not even the Commander could keep you from completing. You've got a list of things to buy from the corner store, (chocolate, ice cream, and a small bucket of wine) and then you're going straight back home to eat and drink your spoils. You have a solid plan to get those things, and while you're in the store trying to dry off and read labels while pretending you aren't there just for those three things, you will silently pray and/or beg whatever god exists - whether it's the regular kind or the Super kind, you don't care as long as someone does something - for the rain to stop. Your only goal after that is to get home without destroying the paper bags your precious goods will be held in. From what you can tell of the darkening sky overhead, that goal is so far from achievable, it might as well be in space. But that's a problem for future you to deal with.
You finally look up and as you realise what's ahead, you falter in your stride. In fact, you almost stop, turn, and go straight back home, screw the chocolate and ice cream and wine. It's not Jetstream and the Commander - they wouldn't be caught dead in this weather - nor is it the latest villain of the week. Oh, no, it's far worse: it's a Greenpeace activist.
Considering the superheroes (and super-eco-terrorists) that exist, it's weird that Greenpeace even exists, really. The atmosphere has been fixed by weather and sky-related supers (it's a thing, don't ask), companies pay good money to have their toxic fumes turned into breathable oxygen by mad scientists, and there's even animal related supers that go around to schools and workplaces to promote clean eating (zoolingualists, shifters, and even the telepaths get in on the action, though you think the latter just like guilting people and you're probably right). You're fairly sure that Meatless Mondays is a federal law now, or at least it's heavily advertised. It's not like anyone physically stops you from eating meat on a Monday, it's just frowned upon in polite society, but the only reason you care is because it's the one day of the week that Jerry doesn't reheat his fish in the office microwave. Fucking Jerry.
You've still got a good ten metres before you reach the activist. You can pretend not to have seen them (in a bright neon vest? They're the brightest thing out here), or you can run inside and just straight up ignore them entirely and then add another prayer that they've left by the time you want to leave, or your third option is to stand out in the rain and make small talk with a soggy sock which really doesn't sound pleasant even if this had been a better day. It's not even an okay day.
You're so caught up in your thoughts that you don't realise you've stepped in a puddle until it's already reached your ankle. There goes the other sock. You do stop then, and look down at your feet - one looks dry but isn't and the other definitely isn't - and wonder if you've done something to piss someone off. Is there a bad luck super out there? Maybe you've got powers, after all? All of that wishing and hoping as a kid finally paid off, except now as a fully grown adult, you've got the power of bad luck and shitty timing? Worst superpower ever, and if you ever get the chance to go back in time, you're going to berate your childhood self for not being more specific about their wish.
"Are you all right?"
Out of all of your options, you didn't think of this one: the Greenpeace activist approaching you. You still had a good five metres left, and they don't usually come this close, like they're worried they'll be hit with a Minion umbrella or something. You look up and see the activist is a redheaded woman, who's still looking hesitant, but also concerned. You've been staring at your feet for too long, and maybe she thinks you're homeless or in trouble, since you're out in the rain with a hole in your shoe and a tiny umbrella held stubbornly above your head.
"No. I'm not."
Looks like small talk wins. Some part of you is relieved because while she looks surprised at your response, she doesn't turn and run like you'd almost convinced yourself to do, so that's one good thing you've got going in your favour, right?
"Oh, I'm sorry to hear that. Would you like to talk about it? I've got a thermos with some hot soup inside, and I'm so warm, I had to take off my hoodie. Here, why don't you wear it? It should be warmer than your... uh, clothes."
Oh, and just to top it off, you'd thought your quick run to the store could be done in a pyjama shirt that says 'super fucking sexy' without anyone seeing it under your - you guessed it - white pullover that's worn thin and shouldn't be seen beyond your letterbox. You are far beyond your letterbox now, the white pullover has practically disintegrated under the rain, and it's too late to go back.
"Thank you." You take the offered hoodie, but realise you can't hold the umbrella and put the hoodie on - not with whatever dignity still remains, at least - and the Greenpeace activist smiles.
"I can hold it for you? There's a little nook just over here; it'll protect you from the rain while you put it on," she says and leads you over before you can respond.
You don't bother to protest. Being warm sounds better than your grocery list right now. She holds the umbrella above you carefully and you tug the hoodie over the top of your damp clothes. The material's warm enough to make your body tingle at the contact, and you feel tension leaking out of your shoulders as you suddenly realise just how freezing cold the rain was.
"Are you sure you're all going to be warm enough in that tee?" you ask, nodding to the Greenpeace activist's shirt and yellow vest.
Now that you're up close, you can see the Greenpeace shirt is almost as old as your pullover; it's worn and there's odd patches of the original colour, like pins and badges have been removed after far too long in the sun.
"Oh, don't you worry about me. Here, have some soup to warm your insides, too. It's vegan, dairy, and gluten free. Do you have any allergies?"
"No, but I can't eat your food. It's yours."
"You can and you will. I have more. Please, I insist," she says and presses the thermos into your hands.
It's warm in your grip and it smells delicious. Your mouth waters and you can't stop yourself from sipping. Warmth fills you but it's the taste that hits you. It tastes just like the soups your grandma used to make when you were little, and for an instant, you're six years old sitting in her musty home again, kicking your legs under the table as your grandma offers you another bowl. You blink and you're back in the pouring rain. You force yourself to stop drinking this poor woman's soup, and swap the thermos for the umbrella.
"Thank you."
"You're most welcome. Would you like to talk about it?"
You frown. "About what?" you ask, your mind still playing on that visceral memory of your grandma.
She smiles at you and shrugs. "Whatever brought you out in this weather. It's not the kind of weather that makes people want to be outside."
"You're outside," you say, almost petulantly.
She laughs. "I only came outside because I saw you walking in the rain. My store's in there, see?"
There's a cheerful 'back in 5 mins!' sign stuck to a door with a flower smiley face sticker.
"In fact, why don't we go inside? It's definitely warmer there, and this rain's only going to get worse," she says like she knows what the weather's going to do.
Again, you don't protest as she leads you into the building and over to her shop. It's brightly lit inside and the building's doors are soundproof as well, making the dark and stormy weather outside seem like a distant dream or a movie or something. You look at it for a moment, swallowing hard as you well and truly realise that you just walked through that damn weather. A tree's almost parallel to the ground, for fuck's sakes!
"Here we go. I've got a heater somewhere, let me just find it," she says, bringing a chair out from behind her store's counter, and guides you to sit.
It doesn't take much, your legs going weak, and you're trembling again for a different reason than the rain and weather. You wonder if it would be weird to take your shoes off. Wet socks are the worst.
You don't get a chance to ask as she disappears behind a door. In the foyer, the lights flicker as thunder rolls overhead and lightning strikes in the movie theatre of the front doors. It must be close if you can hear it through soundproof glass. You swallow hard but can't look away.
"I didn't find a heater, but there was a UV lamp, and that's - oh. Oh, no, are you all right?" she asks.
You're sobbing into your hands and you try to cover it, make it seem like you were just trying to dry your face or hair or something, but it doesn't work.
"Of course you're not. You've already said that, and here I am going on about lamps. Please, have some more soup. I'll heat up some water while you finish that, and we'll have coffee or tea, okay?"
You accept the thermos once more, if only to delay talking because this is a complete damned stranger and you have no idea what possessed you to even say you weren't all right in the first place. You always just say you're good or fine, and move on, even if you're not. Fucking hell, this woman was probably locking up to go home and you're bothering her and what if she's got kids or pets that are scared of the storm or something?
"Here we are. Hot water, three kinds of milk, and you can make yourself a cup of tea or coffee. Oh, wait! I have something even better," she says, eager and bright, and leaves before you can even put the empty thermos down.
She returns a moment later, holding a jar like it's full of precious jewels or something, and sets it down proudly between the tea bags and instant coffee tin. You look at the jar, frown, and then look at her.
"Homemade hot chocolate," she says proudly.
You haven't had hot chocolate since you were a kid, but figure it would be rude to not to try it since she seems so proud of it, and prepare a mug for yourself. She makes one for herself and sets it on the counter carefully before noisily dragging another chair over. She curls up on the chair, that kind of classy and effortless look with a leg curled under her that would only look staged or uncomfortable (or both) on you. You drink the hot chocolate and you're surprised it tastes so good, and hope it doesn't show on your face.
"Now, what happened to make you brave a storm like that? I hope you had a destination in mind, at the very least," she says with a brief smile, her tone laced with concern.
"I was going to the corner store. I needed... well, it doesn't matter. It was a bad day, and I thought I'd reach the store and get home before the storm hit. I was wrong, and too stubborn to turn back. I didn't want to go back," you add. You sip at your hot chocolate to cover the bitter taste of the truth on your tongue.
"Running away from home?" she asks, a smile quirking at her lips.
"Something like that," you say with a sigh. Maybe it's the warmth of the store - surrounded by art sculpted from wood, plants of every size and colour sitting in glass and metal vases in weird shapes, and then more plants, every part of it feels welcoming and warm - or perhaps it's the soup or the hot chocolate, or the kindness and decency this complete stranger's shown you on one of the shittiest days of your life, but you find yourself telling her the truth. "My girlfriend broke up with me this morning. I ate my way through my pantry and fridge, and I decided that I needed chocolate, ice cream, and alcohol. Not necessarily in that order," you add wryly.
"Ahh," she says, sipping at her drink. She doesn't say anything else, and you don't know if she's figuring out a response or waiting for you to continue.
You figure you're in for a penny, in for a pound, and continue, "We'd been together for eight years. I thought... well, I thought she was the one, y'know? And I mean, we weren't always great, but we were always in it or against it together, and that was all that mattered. I thought it was enough. I thought I was enough. Super fucking Jesus, why would I think that? I mean, look at me," you snap, suddenly so utterly angry at yourself.
You're dressed in threadbare clothes and pyjamas, couldn't even bother to replace your worn shoes, haven't showered since yesterday or even looked in the mirror since this morning when you were halfway through your makeup routine and she'd said 'she couldn't do this anymore' and left her engagement ring by the door as she left with a suitcase in her hands. You'd wallowed, and eaten, and then wallowed some more. Now, you're angry, and sad, and it's mostly directed at yourself. Why hadn't you seen the signs sooner? Was she always unhappy? Did she say something and you missed it? Were you not paying attention or did you stop being curious and wanting to know the answer beyond 'good' and 'fine' when you asked her how her day was? She could have talked to you, but would you have listened? She should have tried, but then, so should you.
You're sobbing again, and there's no pretending about it this time. There's a crinkle of paper and then a pressed and embroidered set of handkerchiefs are sitting by your mug. Who uses handkerchiefs anymore? You grab one and dab at your eyes - one side comes away with mascara and the other doesn't, and Super God, you must look like a one-eyed racoon. Or a goth one-eyed Minion, you think hysterically - and then blow your nose loudly. There's a crack of lightning and a roll of thunder that's quieter than your nose.
"Hippie, are you - ah, I didn't know you had a guest. I'll come back later."
"It's all right, Warren. This is my new friend. Uh, I didn't get your name."
You dab at your nose and try to look presentable for this newcomer, even as you introduce yourself. Warren offers a smile but not his hand - he's wearing gloves, so he's either cold or a super, and who knows in this kind of weather? - and leans down to kiss his girlfriend, fiancee, wife's? cheek. It's done without a care of their audience, and simply because he wants to, and your heart aches as you realise you haven't been kissed just because in far too long. It was always in front of people to put on a show or in private as a lead up to sex, and certainly not as chaste as a kiss on the cheek.
"The storm's almost gone. Another fifteen minutes, according to WET," Warren says.
You should have checked the Weather and Environmental Trends site before leaving home, but you didn't, and you feel even more foolish for it.
"Nice to meet you. I'll keep dinner warm for you, hippie," he says with a smile as warm as the shop and the soup.
Damn it, you knew it! You are bothering her.
"I should go. I'm sorry. I... I..." You can't find the right words to say, just like you didn't that morning, and you're halfway to standing when Warren is beside you and gently rests a hand on your shoulder.
Suddenly, you feel warm from the inside out - even your socks feel drier than they had a second ago - and you sink back down onto the chair.
"It's all right. Stay and talk. Take your time," he adds in a way that eases your guilt and you don't even know how.
He's gone before you can do more than sink back onto the chair. Across from you, the Greenpeace activist smiles like she knows exactly how you're feeling.
"He's a sweetheart, isn't he?" she asks, like it's a private joke between you and her.
"Yeah. I... what was I saying?"
"Your girlfriend of eight years left you this morning, and you needed comfort food this afternoon."
It's such a simplistic rendition of everything that's happened that you pause for a moment. Can your day - your life - really be as simple as that? Life-altering decisions and eight years reduced down to two simple sentences. She left me, and then I left the house. Was that really everything? You've done more than that, clearly - crying and eating, at the very least - but they seem distant and inconsequential. Crying was an emotional response to grief and eating was a necessity to life. Your day really has been the result of nothing but those two sentences.
"Right. Then I walked through the storm to get to the corner store, and... now I'm here."
"Well, I'm glad you're here. After eight years, I can't imagine your home would be a healthy space for you mentally, if it's filled with both of your belongings and memories, would it?"
You nod; you'd closed the fridge to see a photo strip from five years ago, suddenly couldn't remember the last time you'd laughed or smiled that much, and promptly decided that ice cream had to be added to your list of two items.
"I know this sounds sudden, but would you like to stay here for the night? I live in the building with Warren, and we have a spare room. I know the WET site said the storm would be over soon, but I'd be so worried about you walking back home. There's no telling what sort of damage has been done out there," she adds, looking out the building doors to the street where the trees were just starting to right themselves once more. "We can drive you home in the morning, if you'd like, or just let you go if you don't want us knowing where you live, which I totally understand. Like I said, it's sudden," she says, putting up her hands in a gesture of peace. "But we do have ice cream and chocolate. No wine, but there's more hot chocolate and soup," she adds with a smile.
You can't help but think of Frozen, when Anna agrees to marry Hans after knowing him for a few hours. You'd had to keep your thoughts to yourself since your niece and nephew hated your movie commentary even more than their mother, but the thoughts you'd had about that sad and desperate girl weren't pleasant or kind, and you'd snorted so hard when Kristoff basically agreed with your thoughts that both kids had glared.
"I'd like that," you say.
If Anna was sad and desperate, what in Super Hell does that make you? You don't even know this woman's name, for Super God's sakes!
You look around the shop for a distraction from your heartbreak, and see the plants again, numerous and vibrant, and you can't help but think of your ex. "It's weird, but all I can think about is how she refused to go with me to look after my sister's plants," you blurt out.
She blinks in response, clearly confused.
"My sister can be very, uh, specific, and she loves her plants almost as much as her kids, so she writes instructions on when to water which plants and which ones need sunlight, that sort of thing. I don't mind it, 'cause I don't remember that stuff off the top of my head, but I can follow directions, y'know? So I always agree to keep an eye on her plants, check the mail, that sort of thing whenever she goes on holiday with her kids. And even though I didn't ask my ex to do anything with the plants, I'd always ask her to come with me, just keep me company while I watered and moved plants into or out of the sun or whatever. Every single time, she always refused to go, and... I don't know," you trail off and sigh, running a hand through your hair. "It's one of those things I find weird now, y'know? Shouldn't she have wanted to be with me at least once? I think our lives were going in such different directions, even back then, and I just kept clinging to the thought that we were changing but it was okay because we were still together and in love, and that's all it took, right?" You can't stop your sniffle, and wind and rain batters at the doors, the world outside blurring behind a wall of water against glass.
"Why don't we continue this conversation upstairs? I'll find some warm clothes for you and we can eat while we talk," she offers, and since you've already agreed to stay the night, you don't bother finding a reason to refuse.
...
"Do you think she knows?" Warren asks Layla quietly, after their guest has gone to bed.
Layla tilts her head, the noise of her electric toothbrush against her teeth making it harder to hear Warren's question. "Hmm? Oh, that her emotions affect the weather?"
"Yeah," Warren says, tilting a cap of mouthwash into his mouth.
"I doubt it; she didn't seem aware that she was making the storm worse, even when she was walking through it," Layla murmurs, rinsing and spitting into the sink.
He finishes gargling, spits out the foamy mess, and runs his tongue over his teeth as Layla uses the last of her water to rinse out the sink. "It was a good idea to invite her over and keep her calm. That storm even freaked Wendy out. Who knows what we could've woken up to in the morning?" Warren shudders at the thought.
"Thank you. It was mostly for that reason, but also because I couldn't bear to see her so upset like that. It couldn't have been pleasant being dumped after eight years together," Layla admits as they head from the ensuite into their bedroom.
"I can't imagine it, and I don't want to," Warren says, shaking his head before climbing into bed with her.
Layla smiles at him, leans over, and kisses him, just because she can. "Neither do I."
"Good night, hippie."
"Good night, hottie."
...
You wake in the morning and you're surprised that you feel better than you expected. You don't feel great - overeating, the end of an eight-year relationship, and walking in a storm will do that - but you're alive, you don't feel like crawling under the bed to escape the world, and you can sit up without the room spinning. It's a better start to today than you anticipated.
Layla (who'd finally introduced herself after realising she hadn't when you were a third of the way through a pint of Ben & Jerry's) and Warren are both so damn sweet and nice; they offer you food, coffee, and a ride back home. You agree to the food and coffee but reject the latter offer. You're not worried about them knowing where you live - Super Hell, you'd probably hand them your driver's licence if they asked for it at this point - but you want to walk home in the fresh air. You look worse than you feel - your goth Minion reflection in the hallway mirror makes you jump - but you're determined to go home on your own anyway.
After a long, long, long discussion into the early hours of the morning with Layla and Warren, you finally determined that your relationship with your ex won't get better, even if she does come back. Proposing marriage was a bandaid and it clearly didn't work for either of you. It didn't even get you to to the damn altar, which is probably something you shouldn't feel so grateful for, but it was going to be an expensive wedding just from the plans you'd both been making up until now, like throwing more and more money at this one day and event in your life would fill all of the cracks in your relationship. Now you can use that money for something else instead. A holiday to relax and regroup, give the house a fresh coat of paint, buy yourself some new pyjamas? Who cares as long as it's something you've decided on yourself, and it's something that you actually, finally, genuinely want?
Today's weather is a direct contrast to yesterday, and it almost seems like the storm never happened. The sun is shining, birds are chirping, your socks and shoes are dry, and there's a spring in your step that makes you feel you could do anything, even while wearing your 'super fucking sexy' pyjama shirt.
You arrive home to find your ex's key beside their engagement ring and their belongings already gone. Even the photo strip from the fridge is gone. There's no note, nor a text message or missed call on your phone, and the last thread of tension between your shoulder blades unwinds at the realisation. Yes, your relationship is over, your ex didn't seem to care enough about you to see where you were during the worst storm that Maxville's ever seen, but you've got the whole day to do what you want now. You don't have to wait for your ex to come back to get their things, you don't have to try to awkwardly stand there or watch in an uncomfortable silence: it's already done, and the day - and every day hereafter - is yours.
Even if you have a bad day again - it's bound to happen, with or without your ex - you know how to weather the storm now and it's not about walking through it alone and stubborn. It's about taking care of yourself in whatever way, form, or shape you can, and staying as safe and as dry as possible. It's about talking to people or even yourself so you don't bottle up your emotions again. It's about building up better support systems to protect you from the storm until you can't even hear the thunder or the rain outside because you know you'll get through it. One day you might even be able to look out at the storm and appreciate it for the beauty and destructive force it possesses. For now, you know that you can get through a single stormy day, then another, and then another, and continue on that way until the storm has passed and the sun is shining once more. Storms don't last forever, after all.
...
The end.
Thanks for reading! I hope you liked it.