A Sudden Crush

by Camilla Isley

  When Mr. Ogre is done drinking he takes off his shirt, dips it in the water, and puts it back on. I pretend to ignore the sight of his toned chest and abs and concentrate on cuddling Manny. Who is now back on my shoulder dripping copiously on my clothes, but not unpleasantly so.

  I take another gulp of water from the waterfall. When we are all satiated and cool, Connor is the first to speak.

  “Did you find any bottles?” he asks, looking around as if he expected to spot some lying discarded on the grass.

  “No, no bottles.”

  Grunt.

  “Is that bad?” I ask.

  “Not as bad as it could have been. It figures you can’t rely on global pollution when you need it. We have to find something to transport the water back to our camp,” he explains. “We can’t walk here every time we need to drink.”

  “Oh, right. Do you want to see the other things I found?”

  “There’s more?”

  “Mainly just what was in my bag, but maybe you can repurpose something.”

  “Okay, let me have another drink.” He quaffs some more water. “You should too, and then we can go back and have a look at your stuff. We shouldn’t be doing anything else in this heat, at least not in the most burning hours of the day.”

  8

  Lost and Found

  As we enter our new house, I study its structure. The walls seem solid enough, and Connor has covered the floor with palm fronds, layering them with the same method he used for the roof. It must be some kind of special technique, because it feels well insulated from the humidity of the ground underneath.

  “You’re pretty outdoorsy, aren’t you?” I ask, taking off my bag and putting Manny down as I sit. The macaque explores the perimeter of the hut, carefully sniffing every corner. When he’s satisfied, he curls into a little ball in my lap and goes to sleep.

  “It comes with the territory, I guess.” Connor shrugs.

  “What territory?” I ask, curious.

  “I live on a ranch—own a farm.”

  “Oh, that must be cool. Do you have many animals?”

  “It’s mostly crops, but we do have some cattle.”

  I wonder who “we” is, but I don’t ask.

  “It’s just me and my old man,” he tells me all the same, assuming a worried scowl.

  “Are you worried about the business?”

  “More about my dad—he’s too old to handle everything alone. I mean, we have employees, but I supervise everything. I hope he won’t try to run things on his own. It wouldn’t be good for his health.”

  “I’m sorry,” I say, sympathetic. “It must be hard for you.”

  “Same as you,” he shrugs. “But nothing we can do about it. Let’s see what you have in that bag.” He jerks his chin toward it.

  “Yeah, right.” I fish inside, pull stuff out in no particular order, and set them in an orderly row on the palm floor. “I have a lip balm, sunglasses, my passport, some mints…”

  “Sunglasses are good,” he says, and nudges the case with a toe. “Are they intact?”

  Ew. Keep those feet away from my Tory Burch glasses.

  “I haven’t checked.” I reach for the case and open it. “Yep, intact.”

  I put them on. They’re a bit lopsided, but otherwise perfect. I place the glasses back in the case and put it down, careful to position it out of reach of his toes.

  “I think my sweater cushioned everything inside.” I take it out.

  It’s a cashmere sweater in a dark forest green—how appropriate—that I had taken off on the plane because it was too hot. I hang it on a protruding cane on the wall of the hut. I don’t think I’m ever going to need it. This island has a constant temperature of at least eighty-five or ninety degrees. Maybe I could roll it up and use it as a pillow.

  “Good, what else?” Connor asks.

  “Sanitary pads, tampons…”

  Grunt, embarrassed possibly.

  What is it with men and feminine hygiene products? Whatever, I hope I won’t have to use them here. My period just finished, and I’m sure we’ll be rescued by the time the next comes.

  “I also have a necklace, a sewing kit…”

  The necklace is the first item that really catches his attention; he picks it up and rolls it in his hands. I don’t know why Connor’s so interested in it. The necklace is pretty long and made of four simple plastic chains of beads: two turquoise and two coral-red ones. Each loop is a bit longer than the previous. I didn’t even remember I had it in my bag. Connor tugs at the necklace forcefully, as if he wants to break it. When it holds, he grunts and nods.

  Lately, besides Monkeyrian I’m also picking up Gruntarian, and a grunt followed by a nod are a sign of sheer approval. Connor’s next move is to reach for the sewing kit; he seems particularly interested in the needles.

  “Hand me the knife,” Mr. Ogre orders.

  I oblige him and watch in horror as he cuts the necklace open, sending the beads flying everywhere around the hut. He collects the majority of them, puts them into an empty coconut shell, and then separates the four plastic wires. He runs each through three beads―two turquoise and a red one―that he secures at the end of each wire with many tight knots.

  “What are you doing?” I ask, fascinated.

  “I’m making fishing lines.”

  “Oh.”

  “Take the sewing kit and pass me one needle at a time. We can curve them to make fishing hooks—this plastic is strong, and it should handle the weight of a fish.”

  “Why did you leave the beads on?” I take out the first needle.

  “Fish are stupid—they’re attracted to colors and moving things. You never went fishing as a kid?”

  “No.” Ew. Raw fish is gross.

  “Well, with these beads on we probably won’t need to use bait at all.”

  “Oh, good. I mean, I guess. I don’t like fish that much.”

  “Well, this ain’t no Michelin star restaurant, is it?”

  I shrug. I’m surprised he even knows what a Michelin star restaurant is.

  “What’s next?” he asks, keeping up his curving of needles and knotting of plastic wires.

  “I…uh…have some condoms.” My face goes on fire as I place them down on the floor.

  “Good. We can put them to good use…” His cocky eyebrow rises again. I am about to protest when he concludes his phrase. “As water tanks.” He looks at me and gives me a wink. The hint of a mischievous smile reaches his crinkly eyes.

  “Eew.” I go from red to scarlet and hide my face, pretending to be busy searching for the next thing in my bag. “I’m not drinking from a condom.”

  “Suit yourself. Anything else?”

  “I have a pack of lighters.”

  His response to this is an “ah” followed by a particularly loud grunt. This is a new degree of happiness.

  “Why do you have a four-pack of lighters in your bag? You don’t strike me as the smoking type.”

  “And I’m not,” I confirm. “I had a bunch of lanterns to light up for the wedding reception, and I’d read in some magazine that sometimes a whole event can turn into a disaster because of the smallest detail, like forgetting the lighter to light the candles. So I bought a whole pack.”

  “Of course you did! Not only can we fish now, but we can also cook. I thought we had to resort to primitive ways like friction between wood sticks to make fire.”

  My stomach grumbles in response.

  “Are you hungry?”

  “Yeah, I didn’t eat on the plane yesterday.”

  “As soon as the sun lowers a bit, I’ll test the lines and see if I can put dinner on the table tonight. In the meantime…” He turns around and reaches for a coconut, which he opens with a quick slash of the switchblade—a major improvement on his previous method. “You’ll have to stick to these.”

  “Thank you.” I drink the milk and then slice the pulp with my knife.

  The smell of coconut wakes Manny up and, as before, I share my
meal with him.

  “So we’re feeding the monkey now?” Connor asks disapprovingly.

  “His name is Manny and he’s earned his share, don’t you think? Haven’t you, baby?”

  “Hoo, hoo.”

  “Women,” Connor spits between gritted teeth.

  Cavemen, I reply in my head.

  “Is that all from your Mary Poppins bag?”

  “I guess, just my phone left,” I say casually, taking it out. “But there’s no reception.”

  “How much battery do you have left?”

  “Twelve percent.”

  “I hope someone is trying to track you, then. When that thing goes down, it’s bad news for us.”

  “But there’s no service!”

  “It doesn’t matter. The phone has a built-in GPS—it’s still sending some sort of signal. It won’t be accurate, but it’s better than nothing. At least for the next hour or so.”

  “I should recharge it if it’s so important,” I say in a practical tone.

  “And how do you plan to do it?” He raises an eyebrow questioningly.

  “Oh, I have a solar panel on the back of the cover,” I reply, unfazed.

  He does that wholehearted laugh again. “Let me tell you something, Anna. If I really had to get stuck on a desert island with a city girl, I’m glad it’s with you.”

  I wish I could say “me too”. I put the phone on the threshold of the hut facing downward, and go back inside.

  “I’m beat,” I say. “Do you mind if I take a nap?”

  “No, get some rest. You should recover your strength.”

  I retrieve the sweater from the wall and stuff my now empty bag with it to use as a pillow. I lie down on the floor, resting my head on top of it. It’s not exactly comfortable, but I’m too tired to notice.

  “Wake me up when the sun is lower, will you?” I ask Connor as he’s about to go outside.

  “Sure,” he replies curtly.

  I lie down, and I’m almost immediately asleep.

  9

  Wedding Night

  The next time I open my eyes, I stare at the roof of the hut in confusion for a few seconds. My mind tricks me again, and I imagine I’m on my honeymoon in a five star resort, but this time my brain is quicker in recollecting the events of the past day. The misery of the situation hits me with its full weight way too fast.

  “Hoo, hoo.”

  “Hey, you,” I say to Manny, who is still faithfully nestled beside me. “Don’t worry. I’m sure Daddy will come looking for us.”

  “Eek.”

  “No, not the troll outside. A much better male specimen, I assure you.”

  As I come to a sitting position, I notice a new furnishing element. The cushions from the plane seats have appeared on the other side of the “room”. They take up almost the entire floor, and look very much like a camp mattress. Connor must have used the knife to cut them off the plastic frame of the seats. Good, because sleeping on the hard floor wasn’t fun and my back is already sore. I’m not sure if it’s because of the crash, the floor sleeping, or both.

  I crawl outside the hut to see that the sun is already setting. Its red shape is halfway below the horizon, and the blue sky is brushed with uneven strokes of pink, indigo, and orange. This is beautiful! I stare at the spectacle in wonderment. I’m so engrossed by the view that I almost step onto an array of opened coconut shells organized in a very orderly fashion in a five by five matrix. I look inside and notice that they’re filled with water. I wonder what designs Connor has for them. Speaking of the devil, he has built a fire a few yards from our shelter. A lazy tendril of smoke is rising from it, and as it reaches me, I can smell the whiff of something being cooked. My stomach responds with an enthusiastic grumble.

  “What’s for dinner?” I ask, approaching.

  “Snappers.”

  “Mmm.” I could gag. “So the fishing gear works?”

  “It did wonders,” Connor replies with genuine enthusiasm.

  Bah, how can someone be excited about snappers?

  “That’s good, isn’t it?” I say. I mean, it’s good we can get food, even if it is slimy snappers.

  “Yeah, there’s some water there if you want it.”

  I follow his gaze to a weird scaffold structure with two inflated socks hanging from it.

  “Umm, from your socks?”

  “The socks are for protection. There are condoms inside.”

  “Ah, ‘cause that’s so much better. I think I’ll do the trip to the waterfall.”

  “Hurry up, the sun is about to go down,” he urges me. “There won’t be light for much longer, and dinner is almost ready.”

  “It’s not my fault. You didn’t wake me,” I protest.

  “You needed to sleep.”

  “Okay, I’ll be quick.”

  It takes me only twenty minutes to go, drink as much water as I can―I really don’t want to drink from a condom-in-a-sock tank―and come back to camp.

  “Here,” Connor greets me, handing me a large glossy-green leaf laid with two spit-roasted fish and a wood-carved fork with only two dents.

  “Thank you.” I say, impressed. “You kept busy, huh?”

  “With your knife I was able to do almost anything.” He sits in front of the fire.

  I imitate him and sit next to him, crossing my legs and laying my leaf tray on my lap. I stare at the snappers, uncertain. I almost never eat fish, and definitely not in a form that still has skin, spines, and a head, for that matter.

  I tentatively poke one fish with my wooden fork, and decide the best tactic to eat this thing is to remove the skin first. So I grab one fish by the tail and try to scrape the skin off with the fork. It’s a bit cumbersome, but I manage to peel off one small chunk at a time.

  “You’re helpless,” Connor assesses. “Here, let’s switch.” He gives me his leaf and takes mine in exchange.

  I stare down at my lap and note that in the time it took me to scrape a square inch of skin, he has managed to skin, gut, and de-spine both fish, creating two little mounds on his leaf, one for pulp and one for scraps. Admittedly, he was using the Spanish switchblade, but still…I’m impressed.

  “Thank you.” I take my first bite. “It’s good,” I lie.

  He grunts in the affirmative, I assume. He’s not grand on dialogue; I’ll have to prod him a little.

  “So, Connor, what’s your story?” I ask to distract myself from the joys of this culinary experience.

  “What do you mean?”

  “I don’t know, tell me something about yourself…what you do, what you like, that kind of stuff.”

  “Is this a job interview?” He eyes me sideways with his signature raised eyebrow.

  “No, it’s not a job interview. It’s called conversation.”

  “What do you want to know? Ask some questions and I’ll answer them.”

  “Fair enough. How old are you?” I force myself to swallow another mouthful of fish and wince involuntarily when I taste the sea in my mouth. I know it doesn’t sound that bad, but believe me, it is.

  Connor notices my expression. “Don’t worry, I’m working on procuring salt. Tomorrow it’ll be better.”

  “Salt, how?”

  “I have the seawater in the coconuts over there—when it evaporates, it will leave the salt at the bottom. We’ll have to do many stages of evaporation to get a decent amount, but we should get there in two or three days at the most in this heat.”

  “Oh, I wondered about that,” I say, looking over at the matrix and dearly hoping salt can make this thing taste any better.

  “I’m thirty-three,” he says.

  It takes me a second to realize he’s answering my question. “Oh, ok.”

  He doesn’t add anything else, so after a while I prompt him again. “You know, the next step would be for you to ask me how old I am.” Conversation 101 by Joanna Price.

  “I thought women preferred not to say.”

  “That’s such a stereotype. You have too many
, you know?”

  “You’re starting to sound a lot like my ex-wife,” he growls.

  “Oh, you were married?” I ask, surprised.

  Grunt, slightly more passionate than usual. He’s probably trying to convey more than a simple yes.

  “What happened?” I press him.

  “I don’t know. One day she dumped some crap on me, saying I didn’t care enough about her, and left me to go get married to some city fop.”

  Can’t say I’d blame her. “How long were you married?”

  “Three years.”

  “Any kids?”

  “No.”

  “So are you single now?” That came out wrong. I blush and stare at my dinner.

  “Are you interested?” I don’t need to look at him to know that his flirty eyebrow is up.

  “No…I, that’s not…”

  “Relax, I’m joking.”

  I’m too unnerved to say anything else, so he asks the next question. “So how old are you?”

  “Twenty-eight. Twenty-nine in a couple of months.”

  “If we get to it,” he comments cynically.

  “Oh, that’s cheery,” I chide. “Do you honestly think they won’t find us?”

  “That cell phone of yours could be our salvation—with that they can find us. That is, if someone’s looking.”

  “I’m positive Liam will not give up on me,” I say, sure of myself.

  “Do you have someone else who might be looking for you?”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “I’m just checking our odds. So, any other family?”

  “Only my parents and my older brother. What about you?”

  “Just my old man, but I doubt he’ll hop on a plane and come looking for me here. He always says that if you can’t go somewhere on horseback, then you shouldn’t go at all. Are your parents more adventurous?”

  “Adventurous, no, but they won’t give up on me either. And my brother will do anything that’s humanly possible to find me.”

  “This brother, is he smart?”