by Matayo, Amy
Dillon comes up on her elbow, a quizzical expression lining her brow.
“It’s okay. It’s just…your hand was on my…”
“I know where it was. I…I just…I wasn’t thinking.”
She smirks, the kind of sleepy smirk that is both confident and aware and entirely too bold because the brain hasn’t been awake long enough to know it should be cautious.
“I think you were thinking a little too much, actually.”
“Can we just not talk about it?”
It’s the opposite of what I mean. I want to talk about it. About possibilities and the future and my feelings…which is just stupid because I’m a guy and I’m not supposed to have feelings or want to talk about them, right? But everything’s different with Dillon. Or maybe it’s just that everything’s different with everything and the reality is all crashing together, but I don’t feel the same here. My survival instincts are on high alert and kicking all my other emotions up a thousand notches with it. There are so many things I feel right now all rolled into one. Powerless. Helpless. Depressed. On the verge of quitting. Alone. Turned on. Very, very alone.
Very, very turned on.
To talk about any of these things would be to try to alleviate them one by one.
The one thing I know for sure is that I absolutely can’t try to alleviate them all, especially not the one currently at the forefront of my mind. As long as rescue is still a possibility, I have to keep Dillon at arm’s length. It won’t be easy, but nothing is. Impossible seems to be my new way of life.
She’s been silent for a while, so I lock eyes with her. She looks away from me to hide the hurt that my sharp words inflicted.
“I’m sorry. It’s just that—”
“We don’t have to talk about it,” she says. “In fact, we don’t have to talk at all.” She stands abruptly and walks around me. “I’m going to the bathroom. You might want to make sure the fire doesn’t die. And next time you feel like putting your hand on my—just don’t.”
I watch her leave, then glance at the fire. She’s stubborn and irritated, but she’s right. I’m a jerk, and the fire has burned down to embers. Seeing as I don’t feel like having to reignite one later, I go in search of more leaves and branches. By the time I find enough, Dillon is at the water’s edge with a rock, working on breaking open another coconut. She’s hammering it with so much force, only an idiot wouldn’t know she’s picturing my head. I toss the leaves on the orangey ashes, poke a little until they catch and the fire flames to life, then walk down to join her.
“Want me to help?”
“No.” She whacks the coconut with the rock.
“I really don’t mind if—”
“I said no.” She picks up the coconut and slams it on top of the rock.
“You’re going to get hurt if you don’t—”
She whips her head up to face me. “I can do it myself.”
I stop protesting and just watch for a long moment as she beats the poor thing to death. My actual head starts to hurt with sympathy pains. She slams the coconut down again, then cries out in pain. She yanks up her thumb, a drop of blood rising to the surface of her thumb. I grow alarmed. As irrational as she’s being, I have no way to help her if she’s seriously hurt. I fall to my knees and take her hand in mine.
“Look what you made me do,” she says while I examine the cut. Only a small nick, but it will likely bruise. Hopefully she doesn’t lose the thumbnail.
“How in the world did I make you do that?” She pulls her thumb out of my grip and brings it to her mouth. I feel like an intruder on a very intimate scene and look away.
“Because you kissed me.” The words are an accusation, and my eyebrows shoot up. That logic makes no sense whatsoever.
“That’s what this is about? I kissed you so you take it out on our food? I didn’t realize I was that bad at it.” I wish it didn’t give me such a sucker punch in the gut, but it does.
“You’re not. That’s the problem.” My ego inflates a bit. Though I’m still at an absolute loss. She’s mad that I kissed her, but she’s telling me she liked it. Women are so contradictory. One minute they hate you, the next they’re wanting to make out. That could be just my own loose translation, but that’s the way I see it.
Or maybe I’m the one being contradictory with the mixed signals I’m sending. I grip the back of my neck and wish once again that things weren’t so complicated.
“When Teddy first invited me on the trip, I said no. I was not interested in spending a week with his huge family when he and Chad were the only two people I knew. Spring break is my only week off between Christmas and summer, and spending it with strangers wasn’t exactly my idea of fun.”
“Your point? This isn’t exactly making me feel better.” She speaks around her thumb, so the words sound a little weird. I understood the rough translation.
“Then I heard you were coming and changed my mind. The chance to spend a week with you made the idea worth it.”
She frowns. “Why? You’ve never even liked me that much. Ever since I made that dumb joke about lawyers at that party, you’ve pretty much hated me.”
I manage a small smile. She’s cute when she’s stupid.
“You were wearing an old yellow Bob Marley t-shirt and ripped jeans when I saw you at the grocery store. Your hair was still damp from the shower, and you wore lip gloss, but you looked like you had stepped out of the pages of a magazine. So pretty.” Her frown deepens. She’s remembering, so I keep talking. “You told me you were a Steelers fan, which I thought was absurd because clearly the Bears are the better team, but I was willing to overlook it in order to spend time with you. So, I asked you to coffee—”
Recognition is sometimes our own worst enemy. “That was you.” It isn’t a question, it’s a realization. Her mouth hangs open. She’s all but forgotten about the hurt thumb. “No wonder you looked so familiar at the party.”
I hold my palms up. “I knew right away you didn’t recognize me, but I sure recognized you.”
She looks hopeful and sick at the same time. “I couldn’t place you. I kept trying, but I couldn’t. And then you made that crack about shrinks, so I quit trying and just retaliated.”
This gives me pause. “What crack?”
“The one about shrinks needing to take their own advice…that most of us are crazy and overly medicated and should learn to take our own ill-gotten advice.”
I just look at her, waiting for the punch line. Nothing comes.
“That wasn’t me.”
She shakes her head. “It was you. And then you mentioned you were a lawyer, and I said—”
“That lawyers are crooked and underhanded. Yep, that was you. But the first thing…that wasn’t me.”
“Then who was it?”
“Pretty sure it was Teddy, because I remember the wink he gave me after he said it. He knew it would wind you up. The only other thing I remember is that your mother was busy questioning you about your lack of a date, and you spun around and dragged me into it for some reason. And for the record, all lawyers are not crooks. Only most of them. I’m the exception.”
I expect another crack. All I get is an dazed expression. “That was Teddy?”
“I’m afraid so.”
“So all this time…”
I don’t wait for her to finish. “Looks like it.”
“All this time, I could have gone out with you, and I wasted it because I was mad. And now we’re here and it’s too late because you kissed me and hated it. So here I am… on the losing end once again.”
The idea that she thinks I hated it makes me entirely too defensive.
“Who said I hated it?”
She just looks at me. “Well…you haven’t done it again, so obviously.” Her eyes are not the eyes of the girl I’ve come to know. They’re fiery and sad, wistful and full of uncertainty. So incredibly lonely, but not on my watch. I refuse to let the only other person in my life feel alone when I can do something about it.
I pull her thumb from her mouth and slowly bring it to my own lips, carefully watching her wide-eyed swallow.
“Your assumptions don’t seem to be working out that well for you so far, do they?” I whisper. “I wish you would stop making them. Assumptions are hardly ever correct.”
Her eyes close, but this time I don’t wrestle with myself. The water is smooth today, the calm after the storm when possibilities are endless and anything can happen. If we were onboard the ship, I would be sipping a beer, napping aimlessly with no immediate plans, dropping by the dessert bar and maybe visiting the casino, and at the end of the day call it perfect. Here though…the possibilities are small. We can be rescued or not. We can survive or not. We can eat or not. We can work or not. We can live our lives alone…or not.
Before I’m able to talk myself out of it, I lean forward and kiss her. Hard. My brother may hate me someday, but he isn’t here, and I’m not sure he ever will be. A wave of exhaustion hits me, so I press further into Dillon. It’s difficult living on this island, day in and day out. I want to see my brother again, I want to go back to life as I knew it, but all that wanting might be just wishful thinking by a mind left with too much idle time. I thread my hands through Dillon’s hair and lightly hold the sides of her head.
Am I using her? No. Am I falling into the idea that we may be here for the long term? Yes. Would I be kissing her if we were on the ship? No. I couldn’t. My brother would kill me.
But being without her now might kill me more. My soul. My spirit. My will to live.
I break away from her mouth and kiss behind her ear, down the side of her neck, her collarbone. Each kiss is a promise: We may be here, but you are not alone. You may be stuck with me, but I will protect you. This may not be the future you wanted, but I’ll give you a future anyway.
And if we’re rescued…I’ll worry about that later.
I lay her back on the sand and hover over her, aware that neither of us is wearing much but not caring enough to stop. The only thing I care about is wiping the doubt from her face and from her mind.
My fingers find the skin at her waist and twirl endless loops, going everywhere and not anywhere I want them to all at once. I’m unsure and more sure than I’ve ever been before, and feeling both at the same time is confusing and exhilarating. Using my arms for balance, I press a line of kisses down her throat, her chest, along the straps of her bikini top, wanting to go lower but keeping myself in check.
Her fingertips dance across my back. She kisses the skin on my chest. Both leave permanent impressions. Both are nearly my undoing.
“Liam?”
“What?” My response is choked and ragged, but I don’t want to talk. Talking is exhausting, and just this once I don’t want to feel tired.
“I know what you’re doing, and I’m not going to let you.”
I pull back to look at her, wondering what she’s talking about now. Her lips are swollen and pink, so sexy and inviting that I want to continue this conversation later and get back to what’s important right now. I try, pressing my lips to hers again. Talk is overrated and cheap.
“Liam, look at me.”
I do, but I resent it. Can’t she just let me do what I want?
“You’re right, we might be stuck here. We may never leave, and if that happens we will figure out what we’re going to do about it. But I’m not going to let you give up hope now. That’s what you’re doing, isn’t it? You’re kissing me even though it feels like a betrayal to your brother. You’re kissing me because you think if you don’t, I’ll give up. You’re kissing me because if you don’t, you’ll give up. And I’m not going to let you do that. A few minutes ago, all I wanted was for you to kiss me. But not like this.” She pushes against my chest, and I sit up. She climbs up beside me, her arms wrap around my waist, her chin rests against my back. “You can’t give up, Liam, not yet. Not ever. Okay?”
Five days alone together, and this woman is the first person in my life to call me out on my own thoughts. It makes me feel known and exposed, and strangely comforted. It’s nice to be known, though I wish it were under different circumstances.
“I won’t.”
Her lips press against my skin, and the desire to lay her back again nearly overwhelms me. It’s real and strong, but she’s right: it’s also a distraction from the real issue that we’re lost and may never be found.
“You promise?”
I nod. “I promise.”
We sit in silence for a few minutes, watching the waves roll in and out. They carry themselves with dignity and strength. I only wish they would also carry a boat or a raft…anything that might be construed as a rescue attempt.
Finally, Dillon sighs.
“Good.”
It surprises the heck out of me when she climbs onto my lap and takes my face into her hands. This time neither one of us resists.
CHAPTER 18
Day Five—afternoon
Dillon
I find another log on the other side of the island and add it to the pile of four already in my arms. Barring another storm, we have no plans to let this fire die, and I’ve made it my mission to keep it well stocked. So while Liam is fishing again, I’m gathering wood and dried leaves and anything else I can think of to burn. You never think about it in the real world, but it takes a lot of effort just to survive when you’re stripped of all conveniences.
It’s been only two weeks since I grumbled at work about the slow Wi-Fi and my inability to answer emails in a timely manner. Only thirteen days since my mother rudely knocked on my front door and informed me I was expected to attend a family reunion I didn’t want to go to. Only six days since I had to trudge back to my room for Sabrina’s People magazine, which seemed like the most inconvenient chore of my life. And now, as my family is arriving back in New Orleans to resume regular lives—albeit undoubtedly grief stricken without us—I’m retrieving fallen branches on an island in the middle of nowhere just to keep warm and eat another meal.
The same life, the smallest span of time. But the two worlds seem more separate from one another than living in different centuries. The girl from before lived life like watching a movie, participating but only from a distance. The girl from now has jumped in with both feet because she has no choice, full participation required by all parties involved just to survive.
I drop the logs on the sand next to the fire and shield my eyes to see Liam. He’s fifty, maybe sixty yards off shore, walking along the sand bar, one fish flopping from the end of the spear while he scans the water for another. He’s gotten really good at this in such a short time. My stomach growls in anticipation.
The sun sets behind him, giving him ten or fifteen minutes until he’ll need to swim back to shore. The water is dangerous at all times of day, but it’s worse at night. At night is when fins begin to circle; I’ve counted at least five every night since we arrived. I scan the water now but see none. Breathing a little easier, I sit on the sand to wait.
I pick up a stick and begin to write. First my name. Then Liam’s. Then the date. July twenty-third, if I’m counting right. I scrawl out my birthday. I draw a heart. A tic tac toe board so we can play later because this is what we’ve resorted to for entertainment. I glance up to check on Liam’s progress once again.
July twenty-third.
I’ll remember it, because it’s the date my heart stopped cold.
I wonder if it will ever start again.
I’m frozen in fear and hope and something that feels a lot like stage fright. Thousands of eyes are blinking my direction, and I don’t know what to do. Until all at once, the rush of adrenaline hits me and kicks starts me into action.
“Liam! Get out of the water!”
I scream his name again and again, the waves catch the words and blow them back in my face, all while I toss more logs on the fire. The flames grow and leap. I quickly throw on another log as insurance. My heart has never beat so hard or fast, not even when we were left in the ocean. I scream his
name again.
“Liam, come here! Hurry!”
He hears me and looks up, then turns away to where I’m pointing. His reaction is almost comical, but I’m too stunned to laugh as he jumps forward in a rush and starts swimming wildly toward the shore. I do the work for both of us, jumping up and down and waving as hard as I’m physically able. I watch as Liam stops, looks back again, and keeps swimming my way.
Hope. The best four-letter word in the English vocabulary.
And also the scariest.
It comes with potentially the worst consequences if it’s dashed. I know it. Liam knows it. But hope keeps coming back for us, even when we’ve reached the end of our rope and we’re ready to let go once and for all. Resignation is never final, though. Resignation just fills in a gaping hole until the next onslaught of hope shows its face again.
I’m jumping and waving and yelling. In seconds, Liam is beside me doing the same thing.
Hope is back, and it has four legs and two bodies.
“Is that what I think it is?”
“It’s a boat, Liam! A boat! Do you think they know we’re here?”
“Add another log to the fire,” he shouts. I can’t, because I’ve already added four and don’t have anymore. The fire is already nearly as tall as me with smoke rising even higher. If we aren’t spotted, there won’t be anything left to do. We’ve made ourselves as visible as we possibly can. We have no flares or whistles or fireworks or any other way to make our presence known.
Aside from the shouting.
So, we shout louder.
When I was nine years old, I auditioned for Annie at the local community theater. I wanted the lead role, so for weeks I sang my heart out in my bedroom. I memorized the lines of Tomorrow, Maybe, It’s A Hard Knock Life—each song on the list of requirements pre-posted to give each wanna-be child actress the same fair chance. My father tried over and over to cajole me into singing for him in the living room, but I refused. Each ‘no’ from me garnered me the same response from him—“Remember Dillon, there is a world of difference between singing in the privacy of your bedroom and singing in front of an audience. On audition day, you might wish you had practiced in front of someone else.”
