A Sudden Crush

by Camilla Isley

  Four hours later, I’m drenched in sweat and have managed to excavate a huge S in the sand. By the time I get back from the lake after a restorative bath, it’s already dinnertime. I eat in silence and go to bed right afterward. I want to have a good night’s sleep and start on my project early in the morning.

  When I wake up the next day, I immediately run to the “construction site,” only to see that the night tide has eroded the largest part of my S, making it undiscernible. I stare at it, deflated. I want to cry.

  “Don’t beat yourself up,” Connor says from behind me.

  He must have followed me here.

  “You chose the wrong spot, that’s all. You should’ve used that patch of sand over there,” he continues.

  “And why didn’t you tell me yesterday?” I spit acidly.

  “Because I still think it’s a waste of time—no one will be able to see it from a commercial plane. And we didn’t see any other plane flying by.”

  “Thank you for the morning cheer up!” I say, sarcastic. “You could still have said something instead of watching me slave away, saving a good laugh up your sleeve for this morning. Is it why you came here, to laugh at me?” I turn around to move away.

  “Hey.” He gently grabs my arm to stop me. “Look at it this way—you had a good workout. And even if you managed to dig your writing on the right patch of sand, the rain would have washed it away anyway.”

  “You think it’s going to rain?”

  “The sky is dark enough, and it has to rain sooner or later. The vegetation isn’t so green for no reason, and the lake needs to be fueled somehow. Rain is good.”

  “If you say so,” I comment, uncertain.

  As if on cue, a powerful thunderclap roars in the background and heavy, dark clouds gather above the horizon. A gust of wind blows on us, filling my nostrils with Connor’s manly scent. After so many days without a proper shower, the smell is a touch too strong for me and not exactly pleasant.

  “You should take a bath—you stink,” I say.

  He lets me go and roars with laughter. I take my chance to stomp away, still a bit ruffled about the SOS business.

  “I’m glad to see we’re back to a jokes-admitted relationship,” he yells after me.

  “I wasn’t joking,” I shout back, not bothering to turn around, while another drift of cooler air prompts me forward.

  In less than an hour, our summery paradise is gone and a tropical storm is attacking the island. For the first time since arriving here, I feel cold. We took shelter inside the hut and I’ve put my green sweater on, but I’m shivering nonetheless. After the first roll of thunder the sky turned black, and almost immediately heavy, fat drops of water started to pour down. We had to run inside, quickly taking our coconut saline with us, and we’ve been jammed in here ever since. Between me, Connor, Manny, and the coconuts, there isn’t much space left.

  I’m sitting at the edge of the floor hugging my knees to my chest, staring outside. If this island could get any more hideous, it just did. Literally, the only thing left to do is to watch the rain fall. It has made the beach look like lunar soil, with craters and ponds marring the usually smooth, sandy expanse. The rain has turned the sand from white to gray, transforming the beach into a zebra of damp soil and water rivulets that are snaking all the way from the forest to the sea. As for us, the only positive thing I can say is that we’re dry. Both the floor and the roof have managed to keep the water outside, but I’m not sure how long it will last.

  “Do you think it will pass soon?” I ask Connor hopefully.

  “Either that, or it’s going to stay like this for a couple of days,” he replies gloomily.

  “If you had to guess, what would you bet on?”

  “A three-day shower.”

  Of course, he would pick the worst scenario. Foolish of me to ask.

  “I hope you’re wrong.”

  “Me too, but I’m usually right!”

  I roll my eyes and stare at the sky, hoping to spot a clearing in the clouds.

  ***

  Unfortunately, Connor turns out to be precisely right. It rains for three days straight. Three days that make me feel lonelier and sadder than ever before. It’s as if the cold humidity soaked under my skin and clutched at my heart, chilling me to my core. The temperature has dropped drastically at night, making it especially difficult to sleep. I’ve been too busy clattering my teeth.

  For three entire days we sit here, staring at the atmospheric cascade. Without its regular sunbathing, my phone goes dead halfway through the first day, so I can’t even read. The only available distraction is conversation with Connor.

  Luckily, he is less grunt-y than usual and more in sharing mode. It takes some creative questioning on my part, but I manage to have him open up again. We talk about our childhoods, the schools we went to, and our families. We discuss books―and I’m surprised to learn he has a wide-spanned knowledge in different genres―then movies, and finally music. We chatter about the places around the world we’ve visited, and the ones we still want to see. Even if, to be perfectly honest, I’m not sure if after this particular trip I’ll be so eager to take a plane again any time soon, or ever. That is, if we get out of here at all.

  Connor also tells me some more stories about his ex-wife, as well as some outrageously funny first date fiascoes he had after she left him. I tell him about my college boyfriend Brian. But mostly I talk about Liam, my work, and share some funny stories about my best friends.

  However, after two days of talking about everything we can possibly think of, we run out of topics. So we spend the third day mostly in silence, staring at the dark, pouring sky. Another “nice” perk of the tropical rainstorm is that lighting a fire is out of the question. So we eat only cold fruit, and I even find myself missing the damn snappers. The only upside is that I don’t have to drink from the condoms. We parked some coconut shell halves outside the hut, and they serve as self-refilling glasses.

  As night comes again, I barely nip at our third cold dinner in a row and I shiver myself to sleep immediately afterward. I toss and turn in my sleep, having nightmares of growing old on this island and of the rain never stopping. When I open my eyes next, however, something seems different. I blink a couple of times to identify what it is, and it takes me a minute to realize that it’s the silence. The constant noise of the rain droplets tapping on the roof, sand, and seawater is gone. I poke my nose out of our shelter and gladly spot some timid sunrays filtering to the ground from in between the clouds. The sky, if not clear, is finally dry.

  I sigh with the relief, my optimism increasing as soon as I get outside, and my entire body is hit by a wave of suffocating sultriness. It may seem like a bad thing, but after three days of sheer coldness, I feel like a damp towel in a towel warmer. The beach, the jungle, and even the sea are covered by a clammy mist of evaporating water. It’s like being inside a natural Turkish bath. The heat slowly releases the knots in my neck and shoulders, and I feel the sensitivity return to my toes, fingertips, and lips.

  When I feel warmed enough, I take off my sweater. I throw it unceremoniously inside the hut and run toward the lake at top speed. I tie my belt to a tree just before the pond comes into view, my signal for Connor that he may not approach, and jump into the water fully dressed. I’ve stopped wearing shoes a long time ago.

  I peel off my clothes while in the water and set them to dry on a rock. I join them shortly afterward, lying my back on the flat stone surface and propping myself up on both elbows to enjoy the sun burning on my skin.

  The last few days, if utterly boring, have been another insight into Connor’s world. I just wish his being pleasant didn’t come as a direct consequence of horrible circumstances. Why can’t he be nice all the time? I’ve decided I prefer him that way. He has a bit of a rude outer shell, but all in all he’s ok. I’m surprised he’s still single…after all, he’s been divorced for what—six, seven years now? I chuckle, thinking about some of his dating anecdotes. Maybe I sho
uld introduce him to Ashlynn, my feistier friend. I giggle, thinking about the explosive match they would make. I lie back completely on the rock, using my arms as a cushion. Yeah, I should introduce them when we get back to civilization. Why not?

  15

  Day 47

  “Don’t move.”

  I suddenly wake up with Connor whispering in my ear, making the hair at the back of my nape stand up. I am lying face down on our cushion mattress, and he has my head pinned to the floor with one of his big hands while the other is caressing the skin on the small of my back.

  Wait, what? Is he trying something with me? And why is my body responding to his touch? I stir in protest. He strengthens the grip on my head and back and says, “Anna, trust me. Stay still, do not move a muscle. It will be over in a minute.”

  A minute? No wonder his wife left him. I feel him reaching under my shirt and pulling it up, leaving my entire torso exposed.

  “It will not hurt, I promise.”

  Hurt? Why should it hurt? And what is he planning to do that is going to not hurt?

  “You stay still and I will take care of everything,” he breathes down my neck.

  Mmm, interesting approach. I don’t necessarily agree, but I can see he might have a point. He slowly lifts his right hand from my head, and I feel his left pressing flat in the small of my back way too close to my derriere. Ok, this is taking it too far. I am about to object again when I see a flash of steel pass before my eyes and I feel a sharp, snappy slap in my back like a whip lash, only not that painful.

  I jerk to a sitting position only to find that Connor has nailed something black to the hut’s floor. I lean forward and see that the thing is huge, hairy, and has eight legs.

  “Was that monster on me?” I squeal, disgusted.

  “Yeah, but it’s fine now, taken care of…”

  He doesn’t have the time to finish whatever he was saying, as I’m already running outside. I jump up and down on the beach, swatting various body parts with my hands and arms, and jerking my head convulsively in this and that direction.

  “What are you doing?” Connor asks, eyeing me perplexedly.

  “I can feel them on me, they’re everywhere,” I scream.

  “Who exactly?”

  “The spiders. I can feel their hairy legs crawling on me.”

  “Listen.” He grabs me by the shoulders with both hands to steady me and stop my convulsions. “You had one spider walking on you—one—and I killed it. So you can stop fussing.”

  “You don’t understand…I have a phobia,” I answer, crazed and slightly lurching my head, which has remained the only part of my body free to move.

  “You’re ok,” Connor says, encircling my entire body in a strong hug and pressing my head to his chest while caressing my hair in soft, soothing strokes. I’m not sure if it’s a kind gesture or if he’s trying to emulate a straitjacket with his body. But it feels good and comforting, so I’m not complaining.

  After five or ten minutes of this treatment, I feel calm enough to let go. He looks at me, tucking a loose lock of hair behind my ear. I feel his mocha-brown eyes burn into mine. His gaze is different; it feels different. I recognize something flashing behind it. Does he like me? That so was an I-like-you stare, or at least an I-want-to-see-you-naked-and-I-don’t-care-about-the-hair-on-your-legs stare.

  I blush and pull farther away.

  “Um, I feel better now. Thank you,” I blabber awkwardly.

  “Anytime,” he says, still looking at me intensely.

  “I think I’m going to take a bath, just to calm my nerves and shake the imaginary spiders off. See ya later,” I add even more awkwardly, stumbling clumsily on the sand as I walk away.

  I don’t turn around to look at him, not once. But up until I reach the trees I feel his gaze burning between my shoulders. This stranded-on-a-desert-island-with-a-stranger thing is getting to both our heads. And we both need to be reminded that I’m a married woman! For a second there I thought he was going to kiss me. And the scariest part is I wanted him to. I need a cool bath to put everything into perspective.

  During the next few hours, I make it my life mission to blab nonstop about Liam. Liam this, Liam that. Liam here, Liam there. Connor appears to be unnerved by my behavior. I would be unnerved by me right now. He retires in his quietness and I finally shut up.

  “I’ve been thinking,” Connor says once our mid-day siesta time is over.

  “Mmm.” Oh boy! Are we going to have the talk? I don’t want to have the talk. I don’t know what to say.

  “What do you plan to do now?” he asks.

  Be faithful to my husband, not get caught in a fantasy, but most of all, not kiss you. Not that I’ve thought about it.

  “I don’t know,” I answer instead, trying to conceal my nervousness with sarcasm. “I’ll have to check my schedule to see if I have something planned.”

  “What I meant is that if you just plan on sitting under a tree reading…”

  Is he calling me lazy?

  “Are you calling me lazy?”

  “No, gosh, calm down. What’s wrong with you today?”

  “Nothing,” I say, between sulky and subdued.

  “I wanted to ask you if you think you could climb to the top of that hill—” He points at the closer peak. “—and go there to read.”

  “Why?” Mmm, that is not what I was expecting. What was I expecting? No idea.

  “I figure that even if the phone has no reception, if someone is trying to track you down you’d better be on higher ground at least for two or three hours every day.”

  “Makes sense,” I say, a little deflated. Why do I feel disappointed?

  “So you’re up to it?”

  “Sure,” I sulk. I’m getting angry with him and I don’t even understand why.

  “There’s a clear enough route that leads to the top—it’s not a real path, but it’s easy to follow,” he continues, oblivious to my shifting moods. “I went up there yesterday just to check. It’s a forty-five minute walk and it gets a bit steep towards the end. Do you think you can make it?”

  “I can do Jillian Michaels’ workouts level three. Of course I can make it,” I reply, offended.

  “There’s no need to get all worked up again,” Connor says, on the defensive. “You have your period or something?”

  Ah, the one thing never to ask an angry woman.

  “No. For your information, it is not the hormones that are making me crazy, it’s just you!”

  “Did I do something?” he asks, genuinely perplexed.

  “No, you didn’t do anything.”

  “So why are you mad?”

  “No reason,” I snap.

  He really doesn’t understand women.

  “I really don’t understand women,” he says, echoing my thoughts.

  Nope.

  “At least we agree on something.” I throw him a filthy look. He’s making me feel as if I imagined everything.

  “Listen, do you want to do this or not?”

  I grunt in the affirmative. Gruntarian is handy sometimes.

  “Come with me, then. I’ll show you where the path starts.”

  I follow him in silence, trying to keep my eyes from wandering toward his butt and failing miserably.

  “Here, just follow the trail and you shouldn’t get lost.” He stops at the base of the hill.

  “Okay, see you later.” I start my trek on the almost invisible path up the hill. I don’t even mind when he bosses me around anymore! It used to make me so mad.

  It takes me a little over an hour to get to the top, and when I get there I’m huffing and puffing like crazy and drenched in sweat. I will never admit to Connor how hard it was to get here. Manny gave up halfway and ran back to the camp. He tried to have me carry him, but I couldn’t have even if I wanted to.

  I sit on a rock to rest for a minute, and then I get up to explore my surroundings. The hilltop is rather flat, and offers a stunning view of the ocean on both sides of the i
sland. I select a tree near the brink of the hill, sit in its shade to rest, and begin my afternoon reading session.

  Since we “landed” here, I’ve read almost every book I had in my phone library—and, being an editor, believe me when I say I had a lot. I have read classic literature, modern fiction, and a bunch of unpublished manuscripts that were submitted directly to my inbox.

  Usually I delete unsolicited submissions without reading them. But in this forsaken place, these manuscripts were a blessing. I’ve read them—devoured them—and I have to say that my new favorite author is yet unpublished. I can’t wait to be back and tell Ada, my boss, of my discoveries. If only I hadn’t cleaned my email so often, I would have had so many more books to read now.

  However, right now I’m about six-hundred pages into reading one of my favorite classics, The Count of Monte Cristo. I haven’t read it in so long I had completely forgotten how good it was. And I have it with me only because we were planning on re-issuing a paperback as some Hollywood director is working on the umpteenth movie remake.

  I sit down and lose myself in the intrigues of a romantic nineteenth century Paris.

  ***

  When I reach the last page I feel sad. A great sense of melancholy invades me as I read the last few lines.

  “Look!” said Jacopo.

  The eyes of both were fixed upon the spot indicated by the sailor, and

  on the blue line separating the sky from the Mediterranean Sea, they

  perceived a large white sail. “Gone,” said Morrel; “gone!--adieu, my

  friend--adieu, my father!”

  I unconsciously lift my gaze from the phone’s screen and look in front of me at a very similar blue line. Only my sea is bare and empty. There are no sails there, or any yacht flybridge for that matter. Within my field of sight there is just a vast, blue expanse of water. I lower my eyes to the screen once more.