The Storm

Naya

It was supposed to be just for the summer.

Mum said I’d be safe with Uncle Nate. “He’s quiet, keeps to himself. He’ll leave you be.”

But Uncle Nate wasn’t quiet.

Not with the way he watched me over the rim of his coffee mug every morning. Not with the way his hand brushed my lower back when I passed him in the kitchen. Not with the way I felt his gaze on my thighs when I wore shorts.

I should’ve left when the thunderstorm knocked the power out that first week.

Instead, I lit candles. And when he offered me a drink “to take the edge off,” I said yes.