Unseen Messages

by Pepper Winters

  I wanted him. I feared I might be in love with him. But I wouldn’t let myself be any weaker than I already was. If I let him consume me, how would I survive if he died? How would I cope if he got sick and I couldn’t heal him? How would I continue living here (in the epitome of loneliness and seclusion) if something happened to him?

  No. It was too much. I had to remain a safe distance.

  Care for him.

  Love him.

  But not fall in love with him. Never give him my heart because it would destroy me.

  “Yes, you can. It’s easy.” He hobbled closer. “Nod for yes or shake your head for no.” His free hand went between his legs, cupping the long erection visible in his board-shorts. “Let me know if you want this...want me.” His jaw clenched as he thumbed the crown. “One little word, Estelle, and you have me. I’ll let you command me every damn day we’re on this godforsaken island and every day after. Just...say the word.”

  My breath vanished as if he’d stolen every inch from my lungs. I took a step back as he kept moving forward. Was he asking me to go out with him? Was that what this was? Was he expecting me to agree to a relationship with dates and anniversaries and...holy God, potential marriage? Or did he just want a screw-buddy to roll around in the sand until we were found or finally succumbed to death?

  It hurt that my heart leapt at the former option.

  I wanted commitment and someone to call my own. But not here where he would become everything and more to me. We would smother each other. We would fear our existence worse and worse the more we had to lose.

  “I can’t give you what you want.” I shook my head. “Besides, it doesn’t have to be that way.”

  “What way?”

  “Demands and ultimatums.”

  “Yes, it does. Don’t you get it? I can’t keep hoping that one night you’ll slip into my bed and kiss me again. I can’t stop dreaming about your lips on mine or my fingers in your body. I want you, Estelle. No, I need you. And until I know where I stand, I can’t turn the hope off.”

  He looked at me with such anger but also such a plea. He yelled but I held all the power because, unless I agreed, he couldn’t have what he wanted.

  He was pissed off that he had to give me the choice. I was surprised he didn’t ignore my protests and claim me anyway.

  I’d let him.

  I shuddered at the truth. I’d not only let him—in a way, I wanted him to. He’d take the responsibility from me, and I’d have no choice but to fall and fall and hand over my life forever.

  “I—I—”

  Do it. Stop fighting. You like him. You want him every second of every day. What the hell are you waiting for?

  Life was too short for nonsense. The fear of the children seeing us was inconsequential—they were old enough to understand. The terror that I’d give him my heart, only for him to die and leave me was unsustainable because that possibility existed in the biggest metropolis or on the tiniest island. And the idea that one day we’d be found, only to be broken-hearted if Galloway decided I was nothing more than a castaway fling wasn’t enough to refuse temporary happiness.

  We could be together.

  We could bring each other pleasure.

  We could have so much more in each other’s arms than we did apart.

  I took a step closer, my eyes locking onto his.

  His back straightened, feeding off me as my decision formed stronger and stronger.

  Yes, I wanted this.

  Yes, I wanted him.

  I wanted his kisses. His touch. His whispers. His caresses.

  I wanted his body inside me. I wanted to fall asleep in his arms. I wanted to scream with pleasure as I came. And I wanted to bask in lust knowing I could do the same for him. “Galloway...”

  He froze. “Yes or no, Estelle. If it’s yes, you’d better be ready to have me because I can’t stand another second.”

  We deleted another metre between us.

  Two more left.

  Barely anything at all.

  My tummy flipped in anticipation.

  “I—I want you.”

  His eyes snapped closed. “Thank hell for that.”

  He took another step. A single metre barricaded us.

  My skin came alive, begging for his touch.

  He would be happy with me. I’d give him safe harbour to relax and stop judging himself. He would find value in his worth by the way I held him, thanked him, and looked into his eyes as he slipped inside me.

  Our bodies would join.

  He’d thrust into me.

  And every time he orgasmed—

  I slammed to a stop.

  No.

  No, no, no.

  Galloway tensed. “Whatever you’re thinking, stop. You’d made up your mind. It was yes, Estelle. I saw it in your eyes. You were going to say yes.”

  I backed up. The one metre returned to two. “We can’t.”

  “Can’t?” He glowered. “Can’t or won’t?”

  “We can’t.” I hung my head. “You’ve been honest with me, so I’ll be honest with you. I want you. You know that. The thought of giving you everything that I am terrifies me, but I’d happily trade my stories for yours. I want your hands on my skin, your tongue in my mouth, and your body—”

  He groaned, “Then do it. You have me.” His hand stretched out, his fingers imploring me to take them. “Please...come here.”

  Looking at the sand, my voice slipped into sadness. “But none of that matters. I dream about having you, but that’s all it can ever be. A dream.”

  “What?” His face contorted with rage. “Why the hell can’t it be a reality if you want me as much as I want you?”

  Raising my eyes, I couldn’t believe how much I missed the modern world. How much I would’ve given to have a pharmacy close by or a doctor for prescriptions. But he didn’t get it.

  Orgasms meant combined pleasure.

  Cum meant combined DNA.

  Sex meant combined genetics.

  I could get pregnant.

  I might give birth on an island with no help.

  I could die delivering, or worse, whatever infant we created could perish.

  There were no safeguards. No fail safes. Eventually, no matter how careful we were...we’d slip and suffer the consequences.

  I wanted children...eventually.

  But not here. Not like this.

  Not when we’re so unprepared.

  Sex had gone from the most tantalizing promise to the most abhorrent curse.

  Tears trickled down my cheeks. “Let it go, Galloway. My answer is no. And it’s final. I’ll be your friend. But that’s all I can offer you.”

  I couldn’t stay for the repercussions.

  Clutching my notebook, I ran.

  .............................

  I didn’t run to my hidden patch of bamboo. I didn’t run to the beach to write by moonlight. I swam with guilt, overrun by emotions that wouldn’t stay imprisoned in mere words. Instead, I bolted into the woods, into the green maze that could give us so much more than what we let it.

  With tears running down my cheeks, I found the bush I’d marked XI.

  I looked over my shoulder.

  I cursed myself for denying what I wanted, refusing Galloway, running away from whatever happiness we might’ve had—all because I was too afraid.

  I was weak. I wasn’t worthy.

  I had to make up for what I’d done.

  And this was the only way I could think of.

  With shaking hands, I tore off a leaf and stuffed it into my mouth. I should’ve taken the tiniest of bites. Let my system solve the question if it was edible.

  But I didn’t.

  I couldn’t give him my heart, but I could keep him alive.

  I couldn’t sleep with him, but I could give him something to eat.

  I disobeyed his commands not to be reckless. I willingly went behind his back because I had no choice.

  I’d just broken something good between us.


  The least I could do was try to fix it.

  I chewed the leaf and swallowed.

  The bitter taste lingered on my tongue, warning me I wasn’t used to the flavour.

  My body wasn’t savvy on the nutritional value of such a thing.

  It could backfire. It could be painful. It could hurt.

  It doesn’t matter.

  Tearing off another, I ate quickly.

  I ate another.

  And then three more, ensuring my system had no choice but to accept the foreign food or expel it.

  Either way—be it sickness or good health—I’d done what I could to make up for the worst decision of my life.

  I’d said no to Galloway. No to him looking after me. No to hugs and kisses and love.

  I’d walked away from him and eaten what he’d told me not to.

  He would hate me now.

  And I’d live with the consequences.

  Alone.

  Chapter Thirty

  ...............................................

  G A L L O W A Y

  ......

  WHAT THE HELL?

  What the ever living goddamn hell?

  I let her go.

  I’d fought for her. I’d asked her to reconsider. And she’d shot me down. I wouldn’t chase after her like a damn Labrador. I’d tried to win her and failed. That was as far as I was willing to go in terms of handing over my balls to a woman who was so damn contrary she didn’t know what she wanted.

  She wanted me as a friend?

  Fine.

  I’d be her friend. I’d be her acquaintance. I’d be nice when spoken to. I’d be courteous when dealt with. But besides that, forget it.

  I’d had some stupid notion that Estelle would accept me. That she’d ignore my mistakes and flaws because of who she saw inside. I’d hoped I could finally find peace knowing whoever I’d been before no longer mattered because Estelle made me better.

  But I was wrong.

  She knew.

  She could tell.

  She’d guessed I was no good. Someone not to fall for. Definitely not someone to get physical with.

  She’d seen I was bad news. And I couldn’t bloody blame her for running.

  That’s it, then.

  No matter how long we lived on this island, at least, I knew my place.

  I was her friend.

  I would protect her, care for her, tend to her needs, and do my best for the kids and our future.

  But anything else, I couldn’t do.

  As of right now, every desire and trickle of lust would be shot down and destroyed.

  I refused to live a life trapped in paradise with a woman who didn’t want me.

  My heart couldn’t take it.

  My body couldn’t stand it.

  The hope I’d stupidly clutched onto was dead.

  Chapter Thirty-One

  ...............................................

  E S T E L L E

  ......

  Love is a complicated entity. Love is the worst affliction imaginable.

  I’m no longer myself. Love changed me.

  I’m no longer happy. Love ruined me.

  I’m no longer alive. Love killed me.

  I’m no longer breathing. Love consumed me.

  Taken from the notepad of E.E.

  ...

  SEVEN WEEKS

  I’D COUNTED EVERY minute of every day for two weeks—waiting, expecting, hoping Galloway would lose his courteous kindness and demand a different answer to his question.

  But he never did.

  My secret about eating the leaves hung on my soul like iron shackles. I wanted to tell him what I’d done. I wanted to share the good news that I’d had no adverse reactions. My digestive system had accepted the island salad, and we might have another source of nutrition.

  However, because an experiment had to be conducted over and over to ensure correct results (and because I didn’t trust the first success) I ate it again.

  And again.

  In between the days of physically eating the leaf, I did four more scratch tests with different foliage. Out of the four, only two had swollen. The allergies had been painful and burned rather than itched. The most recent came from a plant with large, lily-pad like leaves. I’d scratched myself with no reaction, but when I’d eaten the leaf, I’d been violently sick. The sharp tang of bitter iron stayed with me for days, and it was only because of a sudden bout of helpless anger that I attacked the plant, ripped it from the soil, and found the tubular crop below.

  It was familiar...like sweet potato or...

  Stroking the muddy root, a vague memory returned: taro. Instantly, I discounted it as I remembered it was poisonous if not cooked correctly. I wasn’t entirely sure on its preparation and was scared of the risks...but what if it turned out to be a staple like potatoes? The fibre and carbohydrates would be a godsend to our diet.

  I wanted to tell Galloway. I wanted to ask his opinion.

  But I couldn’t.

  I’d learned from the last scratch test not to let him see what I was doing and chose a different place to my forearm for further testing. My hipbones were a good selection. Thin skin, easy to irritate, and hidden away from view.

  I kept a t-shirt and shorts on over the course of the two days that a particular swelling took to disappear.

  I’d eaten another slightly denser leaf last week, testing the hypothesis from scratch to consuming. And apart from a small twinge in my gut, I’d been fine. However, that couldn’t be said for another sample just a few days ago. That had twisted my insides with agony, dispelling itself with overwhelming cramps.

  I’d been weak for a few days, doing my best to hide my affliction from the children and Galloway.

  Every day, we ate clams and coconuts washed down by rainwater, and every day, I wanted to bring out the approved leaves and taro and announce a new element to our menu.

  But something held me back.

  I wanted to try again and again to make sure it was safe. I wanted to use myself as the guinea pig so when I did reveal my findings, Galloway had no choice but to accept it was a good decision.

  I’d been terrified of returning to camp the night I left him with my final decision. I’d left it as long as I could before returning with my eyes downcast and guilt heavy on my spine.

  But he hadn’t pounced and made me reveal why I’d turned him down. He didn’t yell or shout. He’d merely smiled when I placed a log on the fire and slipped into bed. The children had already returned, and Pippa was fast asleep with my puffer jacket thrown over her shoulders.

  Conner had waved as I lay down, blowing me a kiss goodnight.

  I’d caught it, barricading my soul from clenching with pain.

  I didn’t dare look at Galloway, but as I lay staring at the stars, his voice whispered across the sand. “Friends, Estelle.”

  Instead of being relieved, my heart broke, and I sniffed back tears. “Friends, Galloway. For life.”

  Ever since that ceasefire, we’d gotten on with our lives. Conner had become better with his spear, and he’d managed to catch three fish over the course of two weeks. The first had been a bright parrotfish that barely fed the children with its bony flesh and tiny fillets. The second had been a silver thing with spines that’d made Galloway bleed as he gutted it. And the third had been the largest—a species of reef fish I didn’t know the name of, but tasted like the ocean and turned flaky when cooked.

  The past few nights, Conner hadn’t been successful, and we’d resorted to clams and coconuts (our version of rice and chicken). Meanwhile, I worked on another project to keep me busy.

  We still didn’t have shelter, and I’d reached my limit of sleeping on the cool sand. By day, our umbrella tree kept us safe from the sun, but at night, even the fire couldn’t turn damp grains into a comfortable bed.

  I’d tried to make a blanket a few weeks ago. After watching Galloway and Pippa plait metres of flax rope, I’d modified the idea and weave
d larger pieces together. However, the plant material had been too dense and unbendable. Not at all useable as a blanket.

  It wasn’t a complete loss.

  The stiffness of the weave meant it became a handy covering to sit on and we’d each taken turns to sleep on it to see if it would be better.

  However, after a sleepless night, we all agreed it was too rough with prickly edges.

  I hadn’t given up and a fresh idea came to me after glaring at the mat, wishing I had some wool or cotton. Every material I craved was natural with manmade manipulation, to turn it from its original state (sheep’s wool to decadent spun colours and silkworm cocoons into satiny dresses). I didn’t have sheep or silkworms, but I did have something I could weave together; I just had to figure out how to make it softer.

  “Whatcha doin’?” Pippa looked over my shoulder as I shredded more flax into the saltwater I’d gathered in a fuselage tray. I’d wedged the trough by the water’s edge where the sun beamed the hottest.

  “Hopefully making a blanket.”

  Pippa wrinkled her nose. “How?”

  “Not sure yet.” My pile grew bigger as I continued to shred. Once I had enough strips, I pressed on the plant matter, drowning it. My hands revelled in the feel of warm liquid after the sun had heated it. The ocean was bath-warm and did perfectly fine for washing every day, but I missed hot showers and instant electricity for boiling water.

  Coffee.

  God, I missed coffee.

  Caffeine in general.

  For a few weeks after the crash, I’d had a caffeine headache that had nothing to do with dehydration.

  I found it strange that I didn’t crave fast food, but I did mourn the ability to go to a store and buy ingredients for anything I wanted. I was a vegetarian, so eating meat was never my thing, but spices were. Cumin and paprika and cinnamon. We had salt now (thanks to our coconut shell of evaporated seawater) but nothing else. No mint or sage or coriander.

  No sugar.

  God, I missed sugar just as much as I missed coffee. I couldn’t deny I had a sweet tooth.

  I smiled, nudging Pippa’s shoulder with mine as she poked the drenched flax. “You’re allergic to cocoa but what about sweets like marshmallows and things? Do you miss them?”

  “Yes, I love gummy bears. Mummy rarely let me have them, though.”