by Monica James
I’m laying some leaves down for Harriet Pot Pie when Saint returns. He’s been gone all day. Not having an idea of time is horrible because the guessing is far worse than knowing the truth. The sun set hours ago. With no other choice, I was forced to make a fire. It took me hours, but I was impressed when the sparks came alive. My Girl Scout leader would be so proud.
I occupied my day by collecting branches, leaves—anything I could use to construct a coop. It took me all day, but when I placed all the pieces together, I was certain Harriet Pot Pie would love her new home.
She disagreed when she flapped her wings and flew over the wooden perimeter. Regardless, I decided to lay some leaves down and give her the option of returning if she ever changed her mind.
Saint carries a spear he’s carved from a tree branch over his shoulder. It seems he’s a good fisherman as he’s caught a few fish. When he sees the fire, he arches a brow. I wait for him to acknowledge it, but I get nothing.
The restlessness I’ve felt all day gets amped up.
Saint stands by the fire, peering around for what I assume are smaller sticks to roast our dinner on. I pass him two from Harriet Pot Pie’s coop, seeing as she isn’t using it. He accepts them with a nod.
This silence is killing me. I would even settle for him barking orders or telling me to kneel. I then realize he hasn’t called me ahгел lately. It bugs me. It shouldn’t, but it does.
“Do you want something to drink?” I ask, needing to fill the static. “I brought the bottled water down from the hut and stored it in the water like you said.” Oh, my god. I sound pathetic. Seeking praise.
Saint peers at the bottled water, which I’ve secured by his shirt to a tree stump protruding from the sand so it doesn’t float away. “I’ll have some rum.” When he stops stabbing the fishes onto the branches and makes a move for the drum, I dance to the left.
“I’ll get it.”
The tiny jerk to his brow is the only sign he gives that he’s impressed with my submission. But he continues spearing the fish onto the sticks and places them over the fire.
I make my way to the barrel, unsure why I have this desperate need to seek his approval. It hasn’t mattered in the past, but here, the dynamics have changed. Thankfully, there is a nozzle I can use to pour our drinks. Using the coconut shells as our cups, I carefully turn the tap, not wanting to waste a drop.
The strong smell of alcohol hits my nose, and my queasy stomach turns. I’m not a big drinker—how can I be when it’s done nothing but cause me pain—but for tonight, I decide to forget my reservations. Saint’s share is a lot more generous than mine, which is fine. I feel drunk from the smell alone.
Once I’m done, I make my way over to the fire where he’s cooking our dinner. “Here.”
He accepts the drink, pulling a face when he smells the strong liquor. “Thanks.”
Feeling ridiculous standing around, I sit down near the fire and sip my drink. The moment the bitterness hits my throat, I cough madly, thumping my chest to help swallow down the poison.
Saint peers at me over the fire. “There’s a lagoon a mile or so up the beach.”
Once I think I can talk without wheezing, I reply, “Did you see anything else?”
“No. Tomorrow I’ll venture farther inland to see if I can find anything. There might be more caves. I don’t know. It’s worth a try.” The terrain farther inland is rocky and dangerous. The hills are steep, and without proper supplies, Saint could end up hurt or, worse still, dead.
Once upon a time, that prospect wouldn’t bother me as much as it does now. If something happens to him, I will be stuck here, alone. My palms begin to sweat. “Okay. Maybe you can show me where the lagoon is, and I can catch some fish. Or rummage for crabs.”
He looks skeptical of my skills, which tips me over the edge.
“I know you think I’m some bimbo who can only make a living using my looks, but I’ll have you know I’m a lot more than that. I grew up on a ranch in Texas, and I’m not afraid to get my hands dirty. I used to get up with my father every morning at sunup and help him tend to the animals. I also rode a quad bike instead of a horse,” I add smartly, my Texan accent coming through, just as it does anytime I get mad. I don’t know why I told him this. I guess I somehow need to prove my badassness.
Once my rant is over, I feel better until a lopsided smirk tugs at Saint’s lips. “I don’t think you’re a bimbo.”
“Oh?” My cheeks turn a beet red. Well, this isn’t at all awkward.
“A pain in the ass, yes”—my mouth hinges open—“but a bimbo, no.”
This is the first time Saint has openly shared his feelings about me, and they weren’t as insulting as I thought they would be.
“So you grew up on a ranch?”
I don’t question his inquisitiveness as it feels nice to discuss everyday normal things when we are living anything but. “Yes. In a small town where everyone knew everyone else’s business. You can just imagine how my mom and I were the talk of the town when the wife of a Baptist minister was seen in the next town over, consorting with ungodly characters,” I mock with a deep Southern drawl.
“Thanks to my mom’s indiscretions, the town began to believe the apple didn’t fall from the tree. I was suddenly the most popular girl…but for all the wrong reasons. It sucked, and I was happy to get the fuck out of that town when I was almost sixteen.”
I don’t feel the need to share any more about Kenny or my mom because they don’t deserve a second of my time. Besides, I’ve already shared what happened with Kenny.
“Where did you grow up?” It’s out before I can stop myself.
I know absolutely nothing about Saint. Our circumstances bound us together unconventionally, but the fact we’re stuck here, with no idea if or when we will ever get off this island, means all we have is time. And what better way to kill time than by playing twenty questions.
His poker face is in play as he draws the fish toward him so he can take a closer look. Satisfied it’s cooked, he passes me the stick, freshly roasted fish attached. “Thank you.”
I’m disappointed he still won’t share anything with me, but I guess we’re not here on vacation. We’re here against our will.
Reaching for a palm leaf behind me, I place the fish on it, careful not to burn my hands. It smells delicious, but honestly, anything smells appetizing when you’re starving. Fanning it with my hand, I wait for it to cool down.
Saint sits across from me, the fire crackling between us.
I can hardly wait, and I dig into the flesh of the fish, blowing on my fingers because it’s damn hot. However, when I place a piece of the soft meat into my mouth, I forget about third-degree burns and shovel the chunks into my mouth.
It tastes unlike anything I’ve ever eaten before.
“This is good,” I say around a mouthful of food. Saint nods, sipping his drink with an indifferent expression. Uncaring I look like a caveman, I finish my dinner in minutes, thankful to be eating as it gives me something to do besides ask Saint questions he doesn’t want to answer.
My full belly sighs in happiness as I lean back on my hands. I didn’t realize how hungry I was because when I look up, I see that Saint’s fish is still partially intact. “Do you want more?” he asks, offering me his dinner.
“No, thank you. I’m full.” I drink my rum, cringing every time I swallow down a foul-tasting mouthful.
There isn’t a star in sight, and I wonder what that means for all the dreamers out there. Where do they send their wishes to? If I had a wish, what would it be? My question is soon answered.
“I grew up in Syracuse, New York.”
In what feels like slow motion, I lower my face from the heavens, meeting Saint’s gaze. He waits for my reaction. Waits for me to fire a million and one questions. But I don’t because, for now, this is enough.
“Oh, no…please don’t tell me you’re a Yankees fan. I can’t be stranded with someone who thinks tiny white pants on a guy is a good thing.
”
He blinks once as I’ve clearly caught him off guard. Then he bursts into husky laughter, shocking me. “I suppose you’re more of a rodeo girl then?”
This time, it’s my turn to laugh. “Please, I may be from Texas, but I live in LA now. The only sport I like is catfights on the runway.”
Saint raises his coconut in salute. “Looks like we have more in common than I thought.”
I raise my coconut and feign clinking glasses. “Cheers.” The ghastly rum now tastes like honey on my tongue because it’s a victory drink, and victory has never tasted this good.
As each day turns into night, my tie to reality seems to slip. Being here, it’s easy to forget that the outside world exists. I can close my eyes at night and forget what I am…and that’s thanks to her. But I can’t forget—it’s too dangerous if I do.
No matter how much I want to touch her, I need to remember she doesn’t belong to me…no matter how badly I want her to. I see the way she looks at me, but I have to be strong. Yet with each day, it’s getting harder and harder not to own her…mind, body, and soul.
Day 15
WE’VE BEEN STUCK on this island for five days, and during those five days, we’ve fallen into a routine. When I wake at sunrise, I stretch out my sore muscles. The hard floor of the hut isn’t any softer, no matter how many leaves I use as a buffer.
Scaling down the rope, I’m still a little shaky but getting more confident every day. I venture through the terrain confidently as I’m familiar with the twists and turns. I barely need the markers anymore, and I know it’ll only be a few more days until I know the route like the back of my hand.
When I reach the shore, I smile. Harriet Pot Pie eventually got used to her coop. She is usually waiting for me with an egg as my good morning greeting. Saint sleeps by the fire, refusing to sleep in the hut with me, which is sensible. It would be weird to snuggle up to him, I suppose, but I do get lonely at night.
He’s awake before me, ensuring a breakfast of coconuts and fish by the time I arrive. He asks how I slept, and I always reply with fine. I ask how his wound is. He mimics my response. Once we’re done, he takes off into the rocky terrain, looking for a way off this island. So far, he’s had no luck.
I bathe, and sometimes, I clean out the hut. I talk to Harriet Pot Pie a lot. I gather supplies in case Saint changes his mind, and we end up making an SOS sign. But as the days turn into nights, it’s clear that even if someone rescues us, where does that leave me?
Overall, the monotony of everything leaves me restless and desperate for change.
When night falls, Saint returns with fish and coconut, and sometimes berries. We eat and talk a little but nothing personal. It seems when he opened up about where he lived, that was a one night only sort of deal. We drink some rum before I go back to the hut. In a sense, I feel like a prisoner once again. I offer to hunt for food, but he warns me to stay away from the waters near the lagoon. I don’t know why.
This morning, I wake, hoping by some miracle that something will change. I make my way down the rope, walking on autopilot as I trek through the familiar terrain. Harriet Pot Pie is in her coop, clucking happily when she sees me.
I gather the egg before picking her up and carrying her to the beach with me. Saint sits by the fire with his legs stretched out in front of him as he does a sudoku puzzle. He must have bathed already as his hair is wet and he’s changed into his makeshift cargo shorts and a black shirt that he’s ripped the sleeves off.
He peers up at me when I arrive. “Morning. How’d you sleep?”
“Fine,” I reply, passing him the egg. I place Harriet Pot Pie onto the beach, allowing her to peck around while I sit on the sand, drawing my knees toward my chest.
I watch as he cracks the egg into the shell of a coconut and scrambles it with a stick over the fire. “I was thinking,” he starts, eyes focused on our breakfast. “I want to try to make a raft.”
“Out of what?” I ask, curious.
“Whoever was here before us built that hut. I’m pretty sure I can construct something that will keep us afloat until we find a ship or mainland.”
“And then what?” When he is silent, I shake my head, not liking this plan at all. “And then you call Popov?”
“I don’t have a choice. You know that,” he replies, finally meeting my eyes.
I was stupid to think that by some miracle he would change his mind. There is no happily ever after for me. The truth is, I’m safer here, shipwrecked on this island, than being rescued. How ironic is that?
I’m hurt. I don’t want to be, but after five days together, I thought he’d show some humanity. Clearly, I was wrong.
Standing abruptly, I wipe the sand from my legs. I need some space as I feel like I’m about to burst into tears.
“Where are you going?” He pauses from scrambling the egg.
“To get some fresh air,” I snap, furious at myself for thinking these past five days made a difference.
“What about breakfast?”
“I’ve suddenly lost my appetite,” I spit, turning on my heel.
“Don’t be childish,” he has the nerve to say. “You can be angry with me on a full stomach.”
“Fuck you and your food, Saint.” I storm off, infuriated beyond belief. I can’t believe nothing has changed. I feel betrayed and am angry with myself for thinking he transformed into a civil human being.
As I walk along the shore, I peer into the distance, wishing an answer would appear and solve my problem. Nothing does. I’m on my own—but that’s no different. I walk for what feels like forever, and when I reach the lagoon, which I’ve seen in passing when looking for Saint, his words of warning echo loudly.
“Stay away from the waters near the lagoon.”
I never really questioned it because I thought this was where Saint came when he needed some downtime. The hut was my hideaway, so I respected his request. But I’ve been stupid to show this man any respect because he sure as shit hasn’t shown the same to me.
I continue walking, anger fueling my every step. I can see why he likes it here. The bright coral comes to life underwater, a gateway into another world. The sun is already blistering, so I decide to take a swim and disobey everything he told me about staying away.
Stripping off my shorts and tank, I venture into the water, gasping as it’s a few degrees cooler than the water down the beach. Regardless, it feels incredible against my heated skin. I continue walking into deeper water, my anger fading, submerging with each step I take.
I want to believe that his small acts of kindness are his way of expressing he cares, but I’m an idiot. I dive into the water, swimming away from my stupidness because he doesn’t care. He never did. All I am, all I’ve ever been is a means to an end…my bad for forgetting that.
I don’t know how far I’ve swum, but it feels good to let go. I come up for air, bobbing in the water as I peer around me. I’m surrounded by nothing. As I’m treading water, a faint echo sounds. Disregarding it, I float on my back, peering up at the sun.
It’s beautiful out here. I wish I could enjoy it without this constant heaviness weighing me down. I close my eyes, sighing. However, a moment later, I am certain I can hear someone shouting. But that’s impossible.
I try to block it out, but it’s soon apparent that I’m not hearing things.
Saint is no doubt shooing me out of his sacred place as he evidently doesn’t want to share his special place with me. Springing up, I shield the sun from my eyes, ready to tell him what I think of his demands, but I must be seeing things because I’m certain I see Saint ripping off his shirt, then diving into the water.
He’s shouting something. I don’t know what. However, when he comes up for air and cups his mouth, screaming, “Swim…shark!” I realize I’m not seeing or hearing anything because when I turn over my shoulder, I see a gray fin in the distance.
Time stands still.
My entire body goes into hyperdrive, and I frantically swim to the shor
e. I’m a strong swimmer, but I’m a long way out, and there is no way I can outswim a shark. My muscles burn as I kick my legs. I tell myself not to look back and continue forward, but the shore is barely a speck in the distance.
Saint swims toward me, but we’re still miles apart. I’m waiting to be dragged under as a meal for yet another predator. That’s all I seem to be. But I won’t give up.
The adrenaline whooshes through my ears, my breathing heavy as I desperately attempt to fill my lungs with enough oxygen to save my life. I’m certain I’m on the verge of having a heart attack from punishing my body this way and from the fear of being eaten alive.
I focus on Saint and how he looks like an athlete as he closes the distance between us. But surely, he’s too late. Any moment now, it’s my time…but my time never comes.
“Swim, ahгел!”
That name sparks a fire in my belly, and I push with all my might. It gives me the strength to swim faster than I’ve ever swum before. Within moments, I reach Saint, who quickly turns to swim back to shore. He stays close to me, guarding me until we reach land. When I can touch the ocean floor, I breathlessly stand and run frantically toward safety.
Saint does the same.
The moment my feet touch sand, I flop to the ground, sobbing and breathing uncontrollably. Saint drops to his knees, brushing the wet hair from my cheeks, his eyes searching over every inch of me. “You’re okay,” he reassures me and also himself.
I’m too far gone to have any control over my emotions, and I throw my arms around his neck and bury my face in the crook of his neck. Being pressed this close brings home the fact I almost died, and I burst into fresh tears.
Saint surprises me when he wraps his arms around me cautiously before crushing me into his chest. “I told you to stay out of these waters. Why don’t you listen?”
“Wh-why didn’t y-you tell m-me?” I choke on my raspy breaths.
“Because I didn’t want to worry you,” he replies, pressing his lips to the top of my head as he drags me onto his lap.
“You’ve be-been fishing these waters?” I ask, but he doesn’t need to answer. He’s been risking his life so I could eat. Why? None of this makes any sense.