Gillian's Island
Page 6
“I'd be a photographer for National Geographic, traveling the world,” I tell Ivy softly, giving voice to my lifelong dream, the dream that I forced myself to stop thinking about a few years ago, when I realized that it would probably never happen. “I'd...I'd be fearless about everything,” I continue, more quietly. “Well, I'd learn how to swim,” I say, with a rueful smile.
Ivy chuckles, still watching me carefully.
And then I find myself telling her the absolute truth: “And...I...I wouldn't be alone.” I can feel my cheeks reddening in the dark, but I make myself say the words: “I'd have someone by my side. A partner in crime. A...partner.” My voice fades out; I sigh again, bowing my head as I'm crushed by the weight of my own loneliness, a weight that I ignore, that I never permit myself to feel.
Ivy holds her silence for a long moment, and my embarrassment begins to grow, but then she asks me a surprising question. “You aren't in a relationship with anybody now?” she murmurs. Her voice sounds casual, but her eyes are bright.
“No.” I shake my head. “No. I haven't been for...a long time.” I inhale deeply, steeling myself. Coming out is never easy. But I'm being honest here, and the darkness and the closeness makes the atmosphere feel intimate, safe. “I haven't dated anyone since my last girlfriend cheated on me,” I tell Ivy all in a rush. “It happened about a year ago.”
She meets my gaze. My face is burning up; my whole body is hot, despite the cold rain seeping beneath the overhang. I brace myself, and I wait. I wait for her to tell me that she understands. I wait for her to tell me that she doesn't understand “people like me.” I wait for any sort of reaction, from terrible to best-case-scenario, but Ivy remains damnably silent. She says nothing.
“What about you?” I whisper hoarsely, desperate to fill the hush, to change the subject.
“Me?” asks Ivy, her voice carefully controlled, light. She glances away from me, fingering the hem of her shirt. “No, I'm not in a relationship. I...I don't really do relationships,” she finishes hesitantly, with a frown and a small shrug.
“Oh.” I'm disappointed that she's closed herself off to me, and that disappointment drains away my blush. I smile a little in the dark, forcing my tone, too, to be airy, nonchalant. “Just like you don't do compromise, right?”
Ivy laughs softly, peering out into the stormy black night. “Yeah,” she says, her mouth smiling. But there's something wistful in her tone.
Okay. She didn't offer anything positive about my revelation that I'm gay, but she didn't respond negatively, either. Shrugging to myself, I soldier ahead. “So,” I begin, straightening up a little, my shoulder pressing against hers, “would you start over, if you could?”
Ivy continues to stare off thoughtfully, placing her chin in her hand as she seems to mull over my question.
“My life's all right,” she finally says noncommittally. “I love my boat—well, I loved my boat, may she rest in pieces,” she says, with a sigh and a grimace. “But something's just...off, I guess. Something's missing. So, yeah, I would start over. I'd...buy a bigger boat. I'd buy myself an island,” she laughs. “And I'd travel, see things. I'm tired of treading water.” She glances at me. “My dad used to have this saying. I think he read it on a bumper sticker, but it really meant a lot to me.”
“What was it?” I ask her, wrapping my arms a little tighter around my knees.
She whispers the words softly into the dark between us, her husky voice gentle: “Ships are safe in harbor, but that's not what ships are for.”
I stare at her for a long moment, my heart beating faster inside of my chest.
Because those words punched me right in the gut.
Ship are safe in harbor, but that's not what ships are for.
God...
I bow my head, remembering that, once upon a time, I was so idealistic. I was fully convinced that I would make this incredible adventure of my life.
But I've stayed in the “harbor.” I've made all of the safe decisions. I've never tried, really tried to push myself outside of my comfort zone. I never really tried with any of the women I dated or slept with. I thought life was just supposed to be full of disappointment, full of those moments where you chisel away at your dream, trying to shape it into something else, something more practical, more adult, knowing full well that you're trading integral pieces of yourself every single day in order to be safe.
I don't want my job.
I don't want a life devoid of love or adventure.
As I lift my eyes to confront the torrential downpour, hyperaware of Ivy's softness and her heat, I draw in a deep breath.
And I realize something I should have realized from the moment I woke up on this island: I'm having an adventure now.
Ivy pushes her sodden blonde hair out of her eyes and sighs a little, regarding me with a soft, rueful smile. “This is much harder than I expected it would be,” she says, her voice gravelly, and that's when I realize that she's holding back tears. “My Dad was the first captain of the Swan Song, you know. We—Rusty and I—inherited the boat after...after Dad died.”
I reach out and touch her arm gently. “I'm so sorry, Ivy.”
Our eyes meet; our mouths are close, nearly touching. Heat thrums through me as Ivy makes herself vulnerable to me, opening her heart to me, whispering, “Gillian, if I lose Rusty, I don't know what I'll—”
But then the intimacy of the moment is broken apart.
There's shouting down at the beach, voices strong enough to rise above the thrum of the rain and the boom of the thunder.
Voices I think I recognize...
Chapter Four
Through the sheets of rain pouring down, I can make out three hazy figures staggering toward us, slogging over the beach. Their steps are slow, and their heads are bowed. It looks like a scene out of a horror movie, frankly, and my overactive imagination immediately conjures up the word “zombies.” Thanks for that, imagination. Admittedly, though, I'm sleep deprived, and my brain is a little addled from, you know, almost drowning.
Someone yells in the distance: “Dude!”
And I stand up so quickly that I almost hit my head on the rocky outcropping, only narrowly avoiding gashing my head. I stare down at the beach, mouth open, counting again, just to make sure: three figures.
Somehow, impossibly, Rusty, Brendan and Brian are alive. And making their way toward us, across the beach.
I gape, stunned. They're alive.
Ivy, too, has sprung to her feet, and before I have the chance to say anything to her, she's running down the beach toward them, and within a heartbeat, she's hurling herself at her brother, hugging him so tightly, he probably can't breathe. I feel tears sting my eyes as I watch the two of them embracing. As an only child, I've often felt alone in the world, and I'm so glad that Rusty is okay, that Ivy and Rusty have one another to lean on. That's priceless.
I can't help smiling as I watch them break away, Ivy tousling Rusty's wet head, talking with him, her husky laughter rising up over the staccato of the hammering rain.
I head out from beneath the rock; the downpour soaks me to the bone as I aim for Ivy and Rusty...
And Brendan and Brian.
I'm glad they're alive, seriously—even when Brendan greets me by slapping me on the back of the shoulder and bellowing, “Scully!” Surprisingly, his hair gel didn't survive the near-drowning intact, so he looks just as drenched and unkempt as the rest of us. “Glad to see you up and at 'em!” he tells me, and he sounds like he genuinely means it.
I manage a smile for him. “Hey, Brendan. You, too.”
“Did Charity make it?” he asks, and—again—he sounds truly concerned. Well, will wonders never cease? Maybe almost-dying changed him a little, too.
“Yeah,” I say, motioning over my shoulder. “She's just sleeping back there, under the rock.”
Brendan's eyes go wide in the dark, and he yells over the pouring rain, “Whoo, Charity sleeping under a rock! That's a sight I never thought I'd see.”
Brendan rakes a hand back through his wet, flattened hair and puts his hands on his hips resolutely.
And then I realize that things haven't changed much, after all.
“Never fear, ladies,” says Brendan, striking what he must assume is a valiant, superhero-esque pose. In actuality, he just looks like a little kid imitating Spider-man. “The men are here,” he says, puffing up his chest a little. “We'll build you shelters to keep you dry and warm,” he promises grandly.
Hmm.
Pretty sure this guy's watched one too many sexist adventure movies.
“Uh...” Ivy glances at me, her arm still tightly wrapped around her brother's shoulders. Her brows lift as she tosses me an “Are you kidding me?” glance. “Thanks, men,” she says with a smirk, “but how's about we build those shelters together? Ten hands are better than six.”
Brian counts for a moment. “Don't you mean twelve hands?”
“No.” Ivy shakes her head, squinting toward Charity, who still lies fast asleep in the small cave under the rock. “Let Sleeping Beauty rest for a while longer. That means no kissing for you, twin of mine,” she warns Rusty. Despite the rain, I can tell that he's blushing, and I love that about him. He seems like a really nice guy. And Charity deserves a really nice guy.
Ivy goes on, narrowing her brows, “But first, where the hell have you been?” Her voice is raised, but her eyes are affectionate as she looks to Rusty.
“We just washed up this morning. We've been walking on the beach all day looking for you, because I knew you were still alive,” says Rusty, sounding triumphant.
“Yeah, dude was like, 'They're around here somewhere. I can feel it.' And I was like, 'Hey, they're a bunch of chicks. Survey says they're probably dead,'” Brendan explains, with a grin and a shrug. “You surprised me, ladies! Bravo!”
“Mm. We won't let it go to our heads,” Ivy says dryly, visibly seething. But of course Brendan doesn't notice that he's offended her. All subtleties (and sarcasm) are lost on him. “Are you all right?” asks Ivy then, lowering her voice as she peers at her brother.
Rusty nods emphatically. “I can't believe it... We all escaped with our lives, fit as fiddles.”
“Maybe it is lucky to have a redhead on board.” Ivy casts another glance in my direction, her lips curving upward softly.
And, unexpectedly, I find myself blushing again. Rusty grins, nodding his head in agreement.
“Well...” Ivy lifts her chin, as if preparing herself to face down a challenge. “No time like the present to set up shelter, now that we have these extra warm bodies to help. It's muddy, slippery, and pretty damn cold, but now's as good a time as any to do some home construction, right? Let's start by gathering whatever fallen branches we can find.”
I'm wet, cold, tired, but the adrenaline and joy of finding Rusty (oh, okay—and Brendan and Brian) alive propels me into action, and the five of us begin to collect wood from the island. As we work, the rain lets up, and then the clouds roll back from the gigantic moon overhead, shining light down on us that's almost as bright as day.
After some consideration, Ivy and Rusty decide that the best and quickest method for building shelter with the supplies we gathered is to create tepee-like structures around three of the larger palm trees a little further inland. We can do this by propping long branches against the trunks of the trees, tying them together at the tops with the belts that Rusty, Brendan and Brian are wearing.
Brendan isn't thrilled about donating his expensive leather belt to the cause, but when the shelters are complete, they're roomy and serviceable, and if it begins raining again, we can probably cover the branches with palm leaves and escape another drenching.
Charity, conveniently, wakes up after the shelters are complete. She struggles upright and climbs out from under the rock outcropping, dusting off her bottom—which doesn't help. She, like the rest of us, is still soaked through. But she's staring at Rusty with a slow smile spreading across her tired face, and he smiles broadly at her in return.
With a curious expression, Charity regards our handiwork; then she offers up a slow clap. “Not exactly a penthouse suite at a Coyne Hotel,” she says with a playful smile, “but it'll do for now, right? Anyway,” she says, all in a rush, “I'm sharing with Rusty.” Charity makes this statement resolutely, grabbing a surprised Rusty's hand and pulling him into one of the tepees with her. It all happens within seconds, leaving the four of us standing, blinking, in the woods.
With a sly, supposed-to-be-seductive look, Brian sidles up to me. He smells like salty aftershave and salty cologne. I have to admit—it's an improvement. “What do you say you and me—” he begins, and I backpedal so fast, I almost fall over backwards.
“Wanna be roommates, Ivy?” I blurt out quickly, shooting Ivy a desperate glance. She regards me with wide eyes for a moment, but then she's nodding, hooking her thumbs onto her belt loops.
“Yeah. Yeah. Totally,” she says, cocking her head to the side. “Gotta warn you, though—I snore.”
“That's okay,” I smile at her weakly, removing Brian's clutching fingers from my arm with a little shudder.
I duck into the tepee next to Charity's and let out an exasperated, exhausted sigh as I fold my legs and sit down heavily. I'm glad that Brendan and Brian are alive; I'm not going to begrudge anyone surviving a shipwreck. But I suppose it was kind of silly to imagine that those guys would have experienced a change of heart after a brush with death.
“Don't be so quick to judge,” I mutter to myself.
Ivy follows me into the tepee soon afterward, glancing down at me with a small smile. The moonlight outside shines brightly, and I can see the fullness of her mouth curling up. My heart flutters inside of me as I gaze at her.
“You said five days, right?” I ask ruefully. “A week, max? Then we'll be rescued?”
“Sure. Probably. I mean, I can't promise anything for certain, but—hey. Are you okay?” she asks, concern making her voice soft.
I shake my head, picking up a fallen leaf from the sandy earth beneath me and twirling its stem in my fingers. “I'm fine,” I tell her, glancing up.
Ivy folds herself gracefully beside me and holds my gaze, her head angled to the side again. Her green eyes are so intense, so piercing that I lose myself in them; I'm suddenly flustered, awkward, nervous.
“Sure about that?” she asks huskily.
“Um,” I begin, drawing in a deep breath. “I don't know. It's all...all of this...it's overwhelming. Too much to process, you know?”
“I know,” says Ivy gently, a smile teasing her lips. “No one ever expects to star in their very own disaster movie.”
“Yeah. This was supposed to be a vacation.” I laugh a little, feeling edgy, unsettled. I shake my head and gesture to the view outside of our shelter. “It was supposed to be a chance for me to get some nice shots for my portfolio. To relax. But—” I trail off, shake my head again. “But,” I mutter, “everything's gone wrong.”
“Listen.” Ivy leans toward me and places a hand on my shoulder, her warm fingers curving over my skin. I remember Brendan's somewhat-painful slap on the same shoulder a little while ago and reflect, cheeks reddening, that I prefer Ivy's hand infinitely more.
Maybe...too much more.
My breathing grows a little shallow as I imagine Ivy's hand sliding down my arm, beneath my wet, ragged shirt...
“Did you ever play Let's Pretend when you were a kid?” she asks me, her voice low and delicious as she smiles at me.
I find myself swallowing. Let's Pretend? Where is this going? “Yeah, I guess,” I murmur uncertainly.
“Well,” says Ivy, drawing out the word, “let's pretend. Sure, we don't have a boat anymore—or any way to communicate with t
he outside world. Or food. Or clothing. Or, you know, toilet paper.”
I cringe, laughing.
“But,” Ivy goes on, “this situation isn't really that different from what was supposed to happen here. Look,” she says, gesturing to my camera bag, protectively wrapped around my body since this morning. “You've still got your camera. You can still take photos for your portfolio. Hell, you can still relax, even,” she says, gesturing down to the beach, visible through the thin layer of trees between us and the shore. “Lay out on the beach, catch some rays, drink from a coconut.”
I laugh hoarsely, watching her in the dark. The angle of her jaw, the tilt of her head when she smiles... I feel myself unraveling, gaping open...
“Let's just pretend,” says Ivy, inclining her head toward me, “that the shipwreck never happened.” Ivy catches my gaze, her face shadowed by the branches surrounding us. “And that, in a few days' time, we'll be safely on our way home. Because we will be. We just have to sit tight and...make the best of things. Can you do that, Gillian?”
I gaze into Ivy's earnest sea-green eyes. Her long blonde hair is wet, hanging in loose waves over her shoulders. She looks more like a mermaid than ever before. She looks mythic, too beautiful to be true...
I feel my heart beat harder in my chest, pummeling a rhythm against my rib cage, making my blood hot as it rushes through my veins. I clear my throat, try to draw in a deep breath. “Yeah,” I whisper. “I can do that. I can...make the best of things,” I tell her softly, my eyes glancing over Ivy's full, parted lips. In the cool light from the moon, her lips look wet, as if she just licked them.
I want to kiss them. I want to kiss them desperately.
“Good. Okay. Um...” Ivy rakes her fingers back through her hair and clears her throat again, her shoulders rising and falling in an uncharacteristic moment of awkwardness. Did she see me staring at her mouth? I lean back a little, my heart still pounding, pounding...