Page 11 of Counting On You

PRESENT DAY

VICKY

“Are you fucking kidding me?” I mutter under my breath as soon as the bus pulls onto a potholed road. Looking out of the window, the only thing I can make out is a vast space of trees, sand, and water, and yet more water. It feels as if I’m part of another world even though that is impossible. We are as deep in North Carolina as one can get.

Throughout our drive, I spied a few shops, the Pea Island National Wildlife Refuge, and even caught a glimpse of the Fort Raleigh National Historic Site. It sure feels like we’re far away from civilization, fumes, and traffic, but the driver keeps assuring me we’re only “a stone’s throw” away from the buzzing nightlife.

I should have clarified his interpretation of the term “buzzing nightlife.”

Roanoke Island is beautiful. I’ve read tourists are all over this place, but right now it feels more like a death sentence than a blissful oasis. On top of the seclusion, the clouds are as dark and ominous as the feelings inside me and the dread of losing myself.

Okay. I’m not going to panic. I refuse to. I’m going to stay on this tiny island for only six weeks. Six weeks.

Forty-two days.

1008 hours.

It should be as easy as pie. Except, I have the feeling it won’t be.

It’s going to be a fucking disaster, that’s what it is.

“What are you in here for?” A voice disrupts my thoughts.

I turn my head.

A young woman is sitting behind me in the half-empty bus, her expensive fragrance wafting over. Apart from me and her, there are eight other women—all ranging from their mid-twenties to their forties, all of them miserable looking. Or maybe that’s just reflection, and I’m only seeing what I want to see.

Most of them are dressed in casual clothes, except for the one behind me. She’s wearing a short dress and high heels—I glimpsed at her attire when she asked the driver to stop several times. Something about her having a weak bladder. She’s the reason we’re late. In fact, very late, which has diminished my hope of figuring out how to file a complaint immediately upon our arrival.

I barely give her another glance as my attention focuses back on the scenery outside the window.

“To be honest, I still have no idea,” I mumble more to myself than to her.

That’s half the truth.

Theoretically, I know what I did was wrong when the judge court-ordered me to this place.

Theoretically, too, I know they were all exaggerating when they claimed I broke into Bruce’s home. What I did was most certainlynotbreaking and entering.

I lift my hand to the glass and draw an invisible heart, my mind wandering back to the person who’s responsible for this.

“I don’t belong here,” I find myself whispering. “It’s all a big misunderstanding.”

“That’s what everyone says before they hit rock bottom.” She lets out a knowing laugh a moment before she slides into the empty seat beside me. A pale hand moves past me, hovering in mid-air. “I’m Sylvie, by the way. Sylvie Holton.”

I shake her hand. “Just Vicky.”

“This place is going to be amazing,” the girl continues, oblivious to my wish to be left alone.

“How do you know?” I narrow my eyes to regard her closer. Her long, blonde hair looks like a cascade of bright sunshine over her naked shoulders. Her eyes, blue and wide, are staring at me, full of curiosity and something else: knowledge.

As though she’s been here before.

“I just know.” She lets out a laugh, and I instantly know she’s one of those people who seem to laugh and smile all the time. I’ve always admired optimists and their ability to see the positive in the aftermath of drama. That’s a skill I haven’t mastered yet. “That, and my research has dug up a few things.”

“Yeah?” I pull up my brows in interest.

“Yeah,” she replies matter-of-factly.

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