Counting Storms

By Cassia Hameline

One

thing you learn as a girl is how to count storms.

Two

things to wait for: the lightning, and the thunder. Your grandfather holds you on his lap when you are six and scared. Just count, he says, the more seconds in between, the farther away the storm. He wants to give you something to hold on to, a way to feel safe no matter what’s going on around you.

Three

years into college, the Boy from Whitman Hall tells you he loves you. For years you’ll remember three things about that night: the warmth of his hands on your face, the rain hammering the roof, and the flash of lightning catching the old oak tree outside his window just before thunder rolled low in the distance.

Four

years later, rain lashes the earth and the sky splinters as the Boy from Whitman Hall slams his fists against your locked door. Thunder rattles the floorboards, and you know about the nights he spent in other girls’ beds. Squeeze your eyes shut and start counting, even if you don’t know what you’re more afraid of: the thunder or him.

Five

hours after you pack up your first apartment in upstate New York, put the mix compact disc your best friend made into the stereo and turn the volume all the way up. Drive faster than you should down winding backcountry roads, windows down, your left arm carving through the wind. Feel the freedom of being twenty-two and alone for the first time in four years.

Six

cities later you’ll wonder why you didn’t leave sooner.

Seven

hundred miles will get you to Chicago. Once there, order a dirty martini at the hotel bar. Ask how long it takes to walk to the nearest club. Pull on jeans, a tank top, a pair of heels you haven’t worn since college. Remember that your body doesn’t belong to the boy you left behind.

Eight

blocks away, show your identification to the bouncer. He’ll wave you in without looking. You’re all good, sweetie. At the bar, a man with coffee brown hair smiles from three stools down. Smile back. When your favorite song starts to play, pull him onto the dance floor because you want to. Let his hands move to your hips, then your back. When he cradles your face, don’t think about the way it mirrors your old dorm room. Run your fingers through your hair, then his. Let the heat move from chest to belly to between your legs. Don’t count the beat. Don’t count the seconds. You don’t always need to be afraid of what’s coming next.

Nine

o’clock rounds and you miss a call from the Boy from Whitman Hall. In the middle of the dance floor, in a dark Chicago bar, you’ll start to spiral. Because you still want him and his touch and his broken love, even though you’ll never understand it.

Nine and ½

months later you might believe you’ve moved on, but you’ll still think about that time he pulled over on the side of a backcountry road on your way to New Hampshire without saying a word. When he turned to look in your eyes, grabbed your face, pulled it into his. The windows cracked open as steam slipped into the autumn air.

Ten

minutes is all it takes, alone in the shower. You can do it in less.

Eleven

days after you leave New York you’ll land in Colorado. First Boulder, then Broomfield, eventually a small mountain town five hours deep. Find a job (three), and work until you can barely stand. Go out until you’re drunk, or high, or until the sun comes up. Forget how much it hurts to be alone by forgetting your nights. Then your days. Look for men at the bar with beards and bright eyes, work boots crusted with dirt but hands that slide down your body like slick oil.

Twelve

hour shifts pass faster when you stop counting the clock. Your phone used to ring with just one name, but a new one helps more than the bottles you’ve been stacking. Don’t be afraid that he reminds you of the past—his side eye wrinkles from years of laughter; dark hair that’s kept short but curls when let free; the warmth of his fingers interlaced in your own.

Thirteen

nights won’t feel like enough when this new name cradles your face and tells you he loves you. You’ve heard this before. You’ll want to run. But when he asks to stay the night, let him. Don’t tell him to leave. Don’t go out the next night looking for another name with a beard and boots and silence where his love should be. Don’t let someone good walk out the door because someone bad made you lock it before.

Fourteen

weeks later, winter breaks. You’ll be out of a job, and the second man to love you will ask what comes next.

Fifteen

photos taped to your wall. Five from New York. Three from Colorado. Six from the roads in between. One of the last beers you shared out of the trunk of your car with the man who almost got you to open up again. In a year you’ll lose touch. In two he’ll find someone new. And you’ll hope a decade will be long enough to forget the time you lost count.

About the Author

Cassia Hameline is an essayist and poet with a PhD. in Creative Writing from the University of North Texas. Originally from northern New York, she is now an Assistant Professor of English at Montana State University and calls Livingston, Montana home. Her work can be found in Capsule Stories, The Fix, and Cosmonauts Avenue, among others. When she is not writing or reading, you’ll find her exploring mountainsides and riverbanks with her dog, Moby.