From my mother:

They’re evacuating the dolphins from the Dolphinarium on Cayo Guillermo in Cuba. This same hurricane is headed straight toward you, and yet you’re not leaving. You think it’s safer for you than it is for the dolphins? Please, please, I’m begging you, let Caleb come get you.

I’ll admit that this last message gave me pause. I wasn’t sure what a dolphinarium was, but I was glad the sea life in it was going to be safe. What precautions was the Cuban government taking to make sure that the people who lived near the dolphinarium were safe as well?

I was looking this up—after having changed into the third of the outfits I was considering wearing to the party—when there was a knock on my front door. I could see through the iron grillwork that covered the Spanish-style door viewer that it was my next-door neighbors Patrick and Bill. I opened the door to find them standing on my front step with a tray of vodka Jell-O shots.

“Hurricane Preparedness Response Team,” Bill cried. “Blueberry or cherry?”

“You guys are crazy.” I laughed and helped myself to one of the little plastic cups containing a blue vodka Jell-O shot. “Want to come in?”

“Oh, well, we would,” Patrick said, “but someone looks like she’s got somewhere fancy to go.” The owner of Little Bridge’s Seam and Fabric Shoppe, Patrick, eyed the black sundress sprigged with tiny yellow flowers that I’d only just finished lacing myself into.

Since Patrick also performed on weekends as the island’s most popular drag queen, Lady Patricia, at one of the local bars, I put a lot of value on his fashion tips, so I looked down as I fingered the edge of my admittedly very short skirt.

“Do you think so?” I asked, uncertainly. “I’m only going to a hurricane party. I’ve never been to one before, so I didn’t know what people wear to those. You don’t think this is too much?”

“Not if your plan is to make every straight man there fall in love with you.” Bill, Patrick’s romantic partner of twenty years and the loan officer at Little Bridge State Bank, had leaned down and was trying to pry Gary off his foot. “Why is your cat so obsessed with me?”

“He does that to everyone. So do you think I should change?” I asked Patrick nervously. “Maybe shorts and a T-shirt would be more appropriate.”

“Don’t you change a thing.” Patrick leaned over to smooth one of my pink curls from my forehead. “Those yellow flowers bring out the brown in your eyes. And no one on this island bothers to dress up anymore unless they’re going to court. I’ve always considered that a crying shame. It’s refreshing to see someone actually looking like a lady. Now tell us why you’re still even here. I couldn’t believe it when I saw your lights on behind the shutters. I’d have thought you’d have evacuated hours ago.”

“I could say the same thing to you guys.” Why wasn’t I evacuating? What was wrong with me?

But the very idea of fleeing from this storm struck me as horribly wrong. Which was ridiculous, because only a few months ago, I’d run from my problems in New York without a second thought, barely considering where I was going, how long I was going to stay, or what I was going to do when I got there.

But then I’d arrived in Little Bridge, and suddenly I hadn’t felt the urge to run anymore. I wasn’t exactly sure where in the world I belonged, but at least I was done running . . . for now.

And despite what my mother said, I wasn’t being stubborn—or maybe I was being stubborn, for what felt like the first time in my life. I was standing up for myself, which meant running toward something. I didn’t know what, exactly . . . but maybe that’s why I was still here.

And maybe that’s why I couldn’t go anywhere else . . . for now.

“Where are we going to go?” Bill helped himself to one of his own shots, expertly running a pinkie around the edge of the Jell-O to loosen it before gulping it down. “We’d have to drive to Georgia to get out of the path of this thing. And even then, who knows? That might not be far enough.”

“Last time we evacked to a hotel in Tampa,” Patrick explained. “We took the babies”—Patrick and Bill had three pugs they called their “babies”—“and all of my couture and stayed in a La Quinta and it cost us three thousand dollars in travel expenses, and in the end the damn storm came there, too.”

“Oh dear,” I said, sympathetically, trying to imagine Patrick, Bill, all of Pat’s drag ensembles, plus the three pugs crammed into one room at a Tampa La Quinta. “But you can’t exactly stay here, either, because I hear this place floods—”

“Oh, honey,” Patrick said. “Don’t you worry about that. We booked a suite at the Cascabel.”

“The Cascabel?” I raised my eyebrows.

The Cascabel was one of Little Bridge’s most expensive hotels . . . and also one of its only buildings that had been allowed to waive the two-story height restriction because it had been constructed way back in the 1920s, before such restrictions became standard. A gracious five-story hotel built in the Spanish tradition, it had since been upgraded to withstand Category 5 winds while also offering luxury amenities such as a rooftop spa and wine bar.

“We’ve got a suite on the fourth floor,” Patrick went on. “We check in tomorrow morning. We’ve got it through the weekend. We’re going to ride this thing out like true queens.”

“We’re taking our George Foreman grill,” Bill, who loved to cook, informed me. “Because my uncle Rick just sent us a batch of Omaha steaks, and I’ll be damned if we’re going to let them sit here and spoil when the power goes out.”

“But.” I was confused. “You won’t be able to grill on the balcony if there’s a hurricane.”

“No, we’re going to grill them in the room. Because the Cascabel has a generator. So even if there’s no power on the rest of the island due to the storm, we’ll still be eating like civilized human beings.”

“Oh.” I tried to picture the two of them grilling Omaha steaks in a luxury hotel room during a hurricane. “I’m sure the Cascabel staff will be thrilled about that.”

“Oh, it’s going to be bougie as hell,” Patrick assured me, “but fabulous. And you’re going to be fabulous, too, because you’ll be coming with us, of course.”

“What?” I burst out laughing. “No, I’m not.”

“Girl, yes, you are. We couldn’t in good conscience enjoy our steaks knowing that you’re here, possibly drowning in disgusting harbor water. Of course you’re coming with us. We’ll have them set up an extra cot in the suite. And you’re bringing this bad boy.” Patrick stooped down and gave Gary a scratch under the chin. Gary let out a small mew in protest since he hadn’t finished marking their feet, but then allowed himself to be stroked, mostly because the area under his chin was his most sensitive spot, and any stroking there sent him into spasms of ecstasy, and Patrick knew it. “You know he gets along with the babies.”

It was true that Gary did, indeed, get along with Patrick and Bill’s three pugs.

“That is the nicest invitation.” I watched as Gary fell over onto his back, showing his round white belly, all four paws up in a gesture of complete surrender. “I just might take you up on it.”