by Monica James
“Can you hear me?” I ask gently, brushing the hair back from his face. He looks so weak and vulnerable.
His shallow breaths are a welcomed sound because a few days ago, I didn’t even know if I’d hear them again.
“Zoey?” he mumbles; his eyes are still squeezed shut.
“No, it’s me. Willow,” I whisper, continuing to stroke his hair.
“I’m sorry I didn’t protect you,” he says sluggishly.
“Shh, it’s okay.” I don’t want him thinking like that. I just want him to focus on getting better.
“I should have come sooner. I’m sorry, Zoey.”
My stomach drops because he thinks he’s talking to Zoey and not me. I can’t hide my disappointment, but I disregard it quickly.
“But I’ll fix it,” he slurs while I hold my breath. What is he about to confess? “I’m going to make it right, and then you can come back home, and everything will go back to normal.”
Fix what?
“I’ve got what Popov wants.”
My stomach drops. Is he, is he talking about me?
Saint has succumbed to sleep, but I’m wide-awake, stunned by his admission. I don’t want to believe I’m involved in Saint’s plans, but deep down, I know that I am. My attention drifts to his journal. The answers I seek are no doubt buried within those pages, but the question is, when I uncover what he has planned for me, will I turn into him? A murderer? Because if I’m proven wrong, and he is the bad guy, then I have no other choice but to fight.
It’s survival of the fittest, and right now, Saint’s survival depends on me.
Sighing, I lean my head back against the rocky wall and close my eyes. He is my foe, so why do I keep treating him like my friend?
Day 21
THREE WEEKS HAVE passed since I was kidnapped. How my life has changed since that day. I’m beginning to forget the small comforts like TV, toilet paper, and running water because being out here in the wilderness is slowly becoming my norm.
Saint seems to be getting better, but his constant cries for Zoey cement that once he wakes, we will go back to the way things were. His journal still lays untouched because I’m frightened to know what’s inside.
I don’t want to believe that he’s the monster he claims to be because if it’s so, what does that say about me? I allowed him to touch me, and I…liked it. And even now, I know nursing him back to health will ultimately lead to my demise. But I can’t let him die.
I know that makes me a fool, but I couldn’t live with myself if I took someone else’s life. My subconscious never fails to remind me that Saint has no issues whatsoever doing so.
Shaking my head, I continue gathering coconuts because after working all day, I’m tired and hungry.
The SOS is finished. I was expecting to feel some sense of accomplishment, but the moment I laid the last stone, it hit home that for the past eleven days, I haven’t seen a single soul. No passing planes or ships. It’s like we were forgotten.
But I can’t sit around, twiddling my thumbs. I need to at least try. In the back of my mind, I wonder what would happen if we were rescued. I would have to tell my rescuers everything, which would lead to Saint getting into serious trouble.
What would that mean for him? And Zoey?
My mind has been stuck on a loop these past two days because no matter how badly I want to get off this island, going back home will prove to be harder than being stuck here. Being lost seems simple compared to the shitstorm of being rescued.
How messed up is that?
Trudging back up to the cave, I look forward to passing out for a few hours because I am beyond exhausted. Harriet Pot Pie is grazing near the entrance. She’s really proven to be good company because, without her, I would be talking to myself.
The fire crackles, illuminating Saint. He hasn’t moved from when I left him this morning. I changed his dressing, and I was happy to see his wound looked less infected.
Dropping to a squat, I gather the coconuts and the molokhia, which has been his diet for the past couple of days. I go to work, breaking up the molokhia and mixing it with the coconut juice. I grind up some Tylenol and add it to the mix.
Just like always, I settle his head onto my thigh after I sit down. “Okay, are you going to make this easy for me today? Or will you continue to be a giant pain in my ass?” Placing the coconut shell to his lips, I slowly feed him the concoction.
I’ve learned to do it gradually as it allows more of it down his throat. “You need to shave,” I say to his comatose form, brushing my fingers through his thick beard. “You also need a bath.” I’ve tried my best to wash what parts of him I can, but I draw the line at a sponge bath.
Yawning, I feel my eyes grow heavy, but I continue feeding him. “I’d give my right arm for a pepperoni pizza right now.” My stomach grumbles at the thought of eating anything but fish. “If we ever get off this island, I am going to eat for a week. I’ll start at Dot’s, where they make the best homemade butter pecan ice cream in all of LA.” My mouth practically waters at the thought.
I’m lost in visions of velvety ice cream and completely unaware of my surroundings. So when I hear a winded, “I’m…more of a rocky road fan,” I scream, as it sounds alien to hear another voice other than my own.
“S-Saint?” I gasp, blinking quickly to ensure I’m not seeing things. But when those chartreuse eyes focus on mine, I know that I haven’t slipped into a food coma. “Oh, my god, you’re awake!”
I know I’m stating the obvious, but I didn’t know if I’d ever look into those eyes ever again.
I immediately remove the coconut shell from his lips and help him into a half sitting position because he can’t do it on his own. He blinks once as if attempting to gather his bearings. “How long was I out?” he asks, his voice hoarse.
“Five days,” I reply, while his mouth hinges open.
“You’re fucking with me, right?”
I shake my head slowly, pulling a face.
“How is that possible?” He grips his side, wincing as he shuffles backward to lean against the wall.
“The night of the storm, a tree fell and knocked you out cold. I dragged you up here and thought you’d be okay once you woke up, but you had a fever. I didn’t know why, but your stab wound, it was infected, hence the fever,” I explain, biting my lip.
He nods slowly, appearing to process everything I’ve just said.
“I fed you the molokhia and bathed your wound in it. You said it helped speed up the healing process.” When he cocks a brow, I smile. “I do listen every so often.”
“It appears so,” he replies, flinching. He’s still in a lot of pain. “You must be hungry. Let me catch my breath, and I’ll find us something to eat.”
When he attempts to push off the wall, I place my arm over his chest to stop him. He peers down at the barricade deliberately. As much as I appreciate the sentiment, it’s not necessary. “I’ve got it.”
His attention drifts to the coconuts and the fish I cooked earlier this morning.
I don’t want to gloat, but goddamn, the surprised look on his face has me wanting to break out into a victory dance. “I fished. I finished the SOS signal. I looked after you. That’s what the past five days have consisted of.”
He’s at a loss for words because he’s not used to being helpless and not in control. I’m expecting a thank you, or even a pat on the back, but I don’t get anything warm and fuzzy. “I need to wash.”
I can’t hide my disappointment.
He methodically removes my arm and comes to a slow stand. He’s unsteady on his feet, but he uses the wall to keep upright. I peer up at him, anger rising. Nice to know me saving his life has softened him up—not.
“Do we have any soap or toothpaste left?”
I gesture with my head to where it sits, which just happens to be near his journal. His head snaps my way, but I smirk. “Don’t worry, I didn’t read it. I didn’t have to,” I reveal. “I already know what a heartless bastard yo
u are.”
I shoot up, needing to put some space between us. I don’t know why I’m so angry. I guess I was expecting at least some form of acknowledgment for not leaving him to die. But even skating with death doesn’t seem to trouble the calloused Saint.
He doesn’t bite back, but instead, he hobbles toward the exit.
I refuse to stay holed up in here, so I push past him and take three deep breaths as I step outside. My temper is raging because I am angry with myself for giving two shits about him. I think about the sorrow I felt at the thought of losing him because he doesn’t seem to care either way.
The sun scorches me, adding to the heat coursing through me. I decide to go for a swim as there isn’t anything else to do on this fucking island. As I’m halfway down the hill, I hear a pained grunt.
Do not turn around, I repeat over and over, but it falls on deaf ears when I peer over my shoulder to see Saint bent in half, clutching his side.
Good. The sight of him in pain should give me satisfaction. It doesn’t.
“Goddammit,” I curse to myself as I turn around and march the way I came.
The closer I get to him, the more evident it is that he’s in severe pain. His breathing is labored, and he looks a ghastly shade of white. When he sees me pacing toward him, he attempts to stand upright but only manages a stooped stance.
I don’t bother talking. Instead, I wrap my arm around his waist, hinting for him to lean on me. When he struggles, I tighten my hold on him with an annoyed sigh. “Stop being such a stubborn son of a bitch and let me help you.”
My tone reveals this isn’t negotiable. He finally caves and sags against me.
My knees almost buckle because he is so heavy, but I loop his arm around my shoulder so I have a better grip on him. We then commence our slow stagger down the hill. We both remain quiet. Even though I’m helping him, it doesn’t mean I want to talk to him.
Once we arrive at the pond, I release my hold on him slowly. He is shaky on his feet, but he stays standing, leaning against the tree trunk, catching his breath. He drops his clean clothes on the ground and unfastens the button on his pants.
That’s my cue to leave. “Don’t drown,” I quip, turning to leave. But I’m stopped in my tracks.
“Where are you going?”
I clear my throat, trying to mask my embarrassment. “You’re dreaming if you think I’m going to scrub your back.”
A smirk tugs at his lips. My insides do a little happy dance at the sight. “Just don’t go too far away, okay?”
An eyebrow raises higher than the other. “Why not? I’ve survived just fine without you. I don’t need you telling me what to do.”
Saint groans in annoyance. The sound is music to my ears.
I don’t bother waiting around for him to bark any more orders and turn around, leaving him to wash in private. I can’t shake the winner’s grin as I make my way toward the beach.
Stripping out of my shorts and tank, I venture into the water, sighing as the temperature is perfect. My anger simmers, and I enjoy the quiet as I swim into the depths.
Now that Saint is awake, I wonder what happens now.
We are days away from depleting the medical and toiletry supplies. Not to mention our diet needs something more than fish and coconuts. I wonder how long someone could survive stranded on an island.
Our fresh water is almost out, and I have no idea when we will get another downpour to replenish our supply. Not to mention Saint is still in a lot of pain. He’s susceptible to other illnesses now that his immune system is so weak. And what about sepsis? Surely, he’s at risk of this as well.
Getting off this island is even more imperative. But how?
My body, it appears, is in tune with Saint because when my skin prickles in awareness, I know that he’s standing by the shore. I wish I could say I despise this awareness, but I don’t. Being lost in the wilderness, it feels nice to be connected to someone, even if that someone is an irritating son of a bitch.
Swimming back, I don’t bother concealing my near nakedness when I emerge from the water. My bra is barely modest, and my white underwear are completely transparent. But what do I have to hide? Saint has seen me bare. The thought has my cheeks flushing.
Wringing out my hair, I lock eyes with Saint who is still glistening wet. His tousled hair is tied back, and his ripped shorts sit low on his narrow waist. We both play the role of castaways perfectly.
“Did the hut survive the storm?” he asks, snapping me from gawking at his muscled chest.
“Yes. That thing was built to last.”
“Did you sleep in it when I was out cold?”
I bite my lip, embarrassed. “No, I stayed with you.” I know how ridiculous that sounds, but I was scared to leave him alone.
He thankfully doesn’t touch on the topic. “Good, so you’ll be okay with me tearing it down?”
“What?” I ask, surprised.
“We need to get off this fucking island. And I’m not going to sit around, dick in hand, waiting for that to happen.”
“But the SOS—”
“Forget the SOS. We haven’t seen anyone in almost two weeks. No one is coming.” He doesn’t seem too upset over that fact. I wonder why. “I want to make a raft. It’s our best chance.”
The unspoken lingers. And then what?
“I could use your help.” He clutches at his side, hinting at the lingering pain.
Questions are long forgotten. I almost fall over my feet when I hear him asking for help. I playfully wiggle my finger in my ear while he rolls his eyes.
“Or you can stay here. I don’t care either way.”
All playfulness subsides.
Narrowing my eyes, I nod. “Fine. I’m in.”
I’m presuming he wants to start immediately, so I step into my shorts and tank. When I’m dressed, I meet his eyes to see a deep desire in his. I remember the last time I saw it—when his mouth was coaxing me to the point of no return.
I swiftly put such thoughts out of my mind, but when Saint scans down my body quickly, I wonder if he remembers too. However, it doesn’t matter either way because his admission of him leaving, with or without me, rings loudly.
“Ready?” he asks, snapping me from my thoughts.
“Yes,” I reply. “Let’s get the fuck off this hellhole.”
The future remains unclear, but the present is certain—it’s time to go home.
We need to get off this island. The longer we stay, the greater risk she’s, no, the greater risk they’re both in.
Day 25
THE HUT WHICH I once called my sanctuary is no longer. But I suppose if what Saint proposes works, then it’ll be a savior in a different sense. We’ve worked for the past four days solid, dismantling the hut and transporting the wood to the beach.
Saint is on the mend, but he’s still sore. This has delayed our raft building because as strong as I’d like to think I am, we both need to carry one piece of wood at a time, which is taking forever.
He has thankfully allowed me to dress his wound, which definitely looks better. But I know it still hurts. He constantly needs to catch his breath, and I catch him every so often flinching when he twists the wrong way.
But he doesn’t complain. He seems focused on getting off the island and sooner rather than later.
As I stand staring at our materials, I know that was the easy part. Now the hard part is finding something strong enough to tie the wood together with. It seems hopeless, but I’m trying to remain positive.
It’s night, and although I’m gauging how many days have passed by counting the sunsets and sunrises, all days now merge into one. I’m roasting fish over the fire, waiting for Saint to return. He’s adamant he will find something to bind the wood, but hope’s dwindling.
He emerges from the trees empty-handed, looking more than infuriated. I don’t say a word while I serve up our dinner in the coconut shells acting as our makeshift plates.
“Do you want some rum?” he asks.
We’ve been limiting how much we drink because god knows it’s been our only saving grace at night. If we run out, I’m afraid to think of facing the nights here without a rum buzz. “Thanks.”
We go about our usual routine, which is scary to think we’ve been forced into having one at all. When he passes me the coconut shell, I arch a brow. This is a little fuller than usual.
“I have searched high and low, and I can’t find a fucking thing.” This explains the binge drinking.
I lower my fatigued body onto the sand and am surprised when he sits near me. He usually sits across from me. We eat in silence. After two mouthfuls of fish, I push the shell away from me, unable to stomach another bite.
“I’m so sick of fish,” I confess, placing my hands against my gurgling belly.
“You have to eat. You’re so skinny.”
He’s right. I’ve lost weight since this ordeal started. I have always been small framed with curves, but now, I just look gaunt. “I can’t believe we haven’t seen anyone. How is that even possible?”
“The world is a big place,” he counters.
Usually, I sip my rum, but tonight, I just want to forget where I am. Whether I’m sipping or shooting, the rum tastes horrible, but when a comfortable buzz overtakes me, I want more.
Saint is in the middle of taking a sip when I steal his shell. I can’t help but laugh at his speechless expression. When I finish his as well in one long gulp, I offer him both shells. “Next round’s on me.”
He doesn’t argue and stands to refill our drinks.
The alcohol goes straight to my head, which is what I wanted. I watch the way his angel wings come to life under the moon. They really are beautiful. And when he turns back around, I can’t deny that so is he.
“It means…angel.”
Usually, I would avert my gaze, but the liquor gives me the confidence to lock eyes with him. Something crackles between us. I instantly feel faint, and it has nothing to do with the rum.
“How long do you think we’d survive out here?” I ask, needing to distract myself.
He raises his broad shoulders. “A human can last about three weeks without food.” I blanch at that thought because surely, that can’t be right. “But can only last about three to four days without water.”