The Storm We Can't Outrun

The sky felt too still, like it was holding its breath. Barbara adjusted the porch swing's cushion, listening to the creak of the old chains as she settled in. She stared out across the fields that stretched from her family’s farmhouse, the corn stalks unnaturally stiff, their rustling silenced by the oppressive weight of the air.

It wasn’t just the weather that felt heavy.

“You can feel it coming,” she said, not really to him, but just to break the silence. The wind had stopped altogether. Not even the cicadas dared to sing.

Les's eyes flicked to hers, but he didn’t respond.

Barbara sighed and let her gaze drift to the horizon where a line of dark clouds crouched low, like some massive beast ready to pounce. She’d grown up on this farm, knew the land’s moods better than most people knew their own. And today, it felt… wrong.

“You’re leaving, aren’t you?” she finally said, her voice quieter than she intended.

The muscles in Les's jaw worked for a second before he nodded. “Yeah.”

She expected that. Had known it in her bones for weeks, maybe even months. But hearing it out loud felt like the first drop of rain after a long drought. Inevitable, and still somehow surprising.

“When?”

“Tonight. Before the storm hits.”

Of course.

The porch light flickered even though it wasn’t dark yet. Another bad sign.

Barbara stood, brushing imaginary dust from her jeans. “You should’ve told me sooner.”

Les didn’t move. “Would it have changed anything?”

She opened her mouth, ready to snap something back — something sharp about how selfish he was being — but the words died on her tongue. He was right. It wouldn’t have changed a damn thing.

Instead, she turned her attention back to the horizon. The clouds were closer now, bloated and angry. She could feel the first low rumble of thunder vibrating up from the soles of her boots.

“Storm’s gonna be bad,” she muttered.

“Yeah.”

They both fell silent again, but this time it was different. Heavy, like the air. Like the storm.

Barbara remembered when silence between them had been comfortable, easy even. Long summer nights spent under this very porch, staring at the stars, saying nothing because they didn’t have to. Everything they needed to say was in the space between them. But now, the space was too wide. Too cold.

The first gust of wind hit, sudden and sharp, sending the swing rocking beneath her. She grabbed the chain to steady it, feeling the electric charge in the air spark against her skin.

“You should wait till morning,” she said without looking at him. “Storm like this, you don’t wanna be on the road.”

“I can handle it.”

That made her laugh, bitter and short. “Yeah. You always think you can handle everything, don’t you?”

Les pushed off the post, stepping down from the porch and into the yard. The wind whipped at his shirt, plastering it against his back. He paused, his back to her.

“I’m not running away, Barb.”

She hated when he called her that. Or maybe she loved it. She wasn’t sure anymore.

“Could’ve fooled me,” she shot back, but her voice lacked bite.

Les turned to face her, his eyes softer now, but sad. “I just can’t stay here. You know that.”

She did. God, she did. This town, this farm — it was suffocating him. It always had been. She saw it in the way he stared out at the horizon like it was calling his name. But knowing didn’t make it any easier.

Another crack of thunder rolled across the fields, closer this time. The sky had darkened so much it felt like twilight, though it was barely past noon.

“Where will you go?” she asked, voice barely audible over the rising wind.

Les shrugged. “West, maybe. See what’s out there.”

She nodded, more to herself than to him. She imagined him out there, chasing sunsets and freedom, while she stayed here, rooted in this old, creaking house with its peeling paint and ghost stories.

The first fat drops of rain began to fall, splattering against the porch steps and sending up tiny puffs of dust.

Les took a step closer, his eyes searching hers. “Come with me.”

Barbara's heart skipped. Just for a second, she let herself picture it — leaving everything behind, the thrill of the open road, no responsibilities, no ghosts. Just Les and the horizon.

But then she looked past him, out at the fields her family had worked for generations. The farmhouse that had raised her. The memories buried deep in the soil.

“I can’t.”

Les nodded like he’d expected that answer. Maybe he had.

The rain fell harder now, drumming against the tin roof, drowning out anything else they might have said.

Without another word, Les turned and walked toward his truck parked at the edge of the drive. Barbara stayed on the porch, watching him go. Watching the storm swallow him whole.

The truck’s engine roared to life, headlights cutting through the sheets of rain. He paused at the end of the drive, and for a moment she thought he might turn back. But then he was gone, the taillights vanishing into the gray.

Barbara stood there long after the truck disappeared, letting the rain soak through her clothes, feeling the weight of everything she hadn’t said settle deep in her chest.

The storm broke over the farmhouse in full force, wind howling through the trees, lightning splitting the sky in jagged, angry lines. But Barbara didn’t flinch. She’d weathered worse storms.

And she’d weather this one too.

The storm raged through the night, hammering the farmhouse with wind and rain, rattling the old windows in their frames. But inside, Barbara sat by the kitchen table, a lukewarm cup of coffee cradled between her hands, staring at the door as if Les might walk back through it.

He didn’t.

When morning finally clawed its way through the clouds, the world outside was unrecognizable. The fields were flooded, the dirt roads turned to rivers of mud. The storm had left its mark, tearing shingles from the roof, snapping the old oak in the front yard like a brittle matchstick.

But the house still stood. So did she.

Barbara pushed herself up from the table, her legs stiff from sitting too long. The coffee had gone cold, but she drank it anyway, the bitter taste grounding her in the moment. She had chores to do. The storm hadn’t washed away the responsibilities of the farm.

She pulled on her boots, the leather still damp from the night before, and stepped outside. The air smelled fresh, scrubbed clean by the rain, but there was an undercurrent of something else — loss, maybe.

The porch swing was twisted in its chains, groaning softly as it swayed in the light breeze. She straightened it out, her fingers lingering on the cold metal where Les had leaned just yesterday.

But yesterday felt like a lifetime ago.

She walked the perimeter of the house first, assessing the damage. A few broken shutters, the gutter hanging loose. The barn had fared worse; one of the doors had been torn off, lying half-buried in the mud like a fallen soldier. She’d fix it. She always did.

Barbara was halfway through repairing the barn door when she heard the sound of tires crunching on gravel. Her heart stuttered. For a split second, she let herself believe it was Les — that he’d changed his mind, turned around, come back to her.

But when she stepped out into the yard, it wasn’t Les old truck.

It was the sheriff’s cruiser.

Sheriff Chris Harper climbed out, his hat pulled low against the drizzle that still lingered in the air. He was a big man, all broad shoulders and weathered lines etched deep into his face. He’d known Barbara since she was a kid, used to sneak her peppermint sticks from his pocket when her dad wasn’t looking.

But he wasn’t here for pleasantries.

“Morning, Barb,” he said, his voice softer than usual.

Her stomach tightened. “What’s going on, Chris?”

He rubbed a hand over his jaw, hesitant. That wasn’t like him. “There was an accident last night. Out on Route 17.”

Her heart sank. She didn’t need him to say it. She already knew.

“Les?” The word felt like broken glass in her throat.

Chris nodded slowly. “Truck went off the road. Must’ve hit a patch of water. Rolled into the ditch.” He paused, his eyes heavy with sympathy. “I’m sorry, Barb.”

The world tilted beneath her feet. She braced herself against the barn wall, the rough wood biting into her palm.

“No,” she whispered, shaking her head. “No, he was — he was fine. He knew how to drive in this weather. He—”

But the words crumbled before they could form into anything solid.

Chris took a step closer, but she held up a hand to stop him. She didn’t want his comfort. Not now. Not ever.

“Where is he?” she asked, her voice flat, emotionless.

Chris hesitated again, then said, “Morgantown General.”

She nodded, the movement jerky, mechanical.

“I need to see him,” she said.

Chris opened his mouth like he wanted to argue, but something in her eyes must’ve stopped him. He simply nodded and said, “I’ll drive you.”

The ride into town was a blur. The landscape slid past the window in shades of gray and brown, the aftermath of the storm leaving everything looking bruised and battered.

When they arrived at the hospital, the fluorescent lights felt too bright, the antiseptic smell sharp and sterile. A nurse led her down a long hallway, the sound of her boots echoing against the linoleum.

When they finally reached the room, Barbara hesitated at the door. She wasn’t ready. She’d never be ready.

But she pushed it open anyway.

Les lay still on the narrow hospital bed, a thin sheet pulled up to his chest. His face was pale, too pale, but peaceful. Like he was just sleeping. Like he could wake up any second and flash that crooked grin of his, the one that had always made her heart skip.

But he wouldn’t.

Barbara sank into the chair beside the bed, her fingers trembling as she reached out to touch his hand. It was cold.

The tears came then, hot and fast, blurring her vision. She let them.

“I told you to wait,” she whispered through the sobs. “I told you.”

But it was too late.

Hours passed, maybe more. She wasn’t sure. The sun dipped low in the sky, casting long shadows across the room. But she didn’t move. She couldn’t.

Finally, when the weight of the day threatened to crush her completely, she stood. She pressed a soft kiss to Les's forehead, her tears mingling with the coolness of his skin.

“Goodbye,” she whispered.

And then she left.

The drive back to the farm was lonelier than she’d ever imagined. The house felt emptier, the fields more vast. But life didn’t stop. It never did.

In the days that followed, Barbara threw herself into the work. Fixing the barn, mending fences, tending the crops. The routine was a lifeline, something to hold onto when the grief threatened to pull her under.

But at night, when the world went quiet and the shadows crept in, she’d sit on the porch swing, staring out at the horizon.

Waiting.

Hoping.

But Les never came back.

And the storm never really left.