Page 51 of Hate Wrecked

But no rest comes. I hate the building, but I know it’s necessary to stay dry. Our tent sits in there, on top of mattresses close to the door, where we can see the fire a few feet in front of the building. A cozy home in the dark.

I go through the motions. Putting the fish away, putting our poles away.

After a half hour of trying to sleep, I get up.

With everything cleaned up, I go to the jungle to help Rowan find coconuts instead of doing one of the two things Rowan likely hoped I would do: rest or read my mother’s book.

I want to rest; the Pacific sun can be brutal, but I need to move—otherwise I’ll open the book and pour over the words. And I’m not ready yet.

The sun is a brutal beast above us, watching, turning my tan skin a darker shade, even making Rowan’s pale flesh a light tan, covered in freckles.

The cat, newly named Garfield, follows me into the jungle, probably thinking I have some fish scraps with me because I smell like them.Ugh.I need to make my way to the shower, but if I’m just going to get dirty again, it’s not worth it. And I’d rather help Rowan.

When I find him in the woods, he waves me off. So I head to the ocean for a swim, bringing a towel with me.

I don’t think nudity is a big deal, and I hate the thought of covering up out here. My breasts are small; they don’t need support. So I take my clothes off when I reach the shore, one less place for sand to pool. I fold both pieces of my tiny bikini up and lay them on the sand.

The sun feels good in the places that have been hidden. I step into the sun, and close my eyes to it. I didn’t weigh much before we left; that was against the rules of my life, but our diet of coconut and fish, is less than ideal. I reach down, counting my ribs, feeling the bones of my hips.

There is nothing sexy about a skeleton.

Rowan is always moving, creating, and building. His muscles look long and lean, defined. I watch him emerge from the jungle down the shore, see him catch sight of me. I shrug my shoulders and walk to the ocean, longing to feel it everywhere despite my abhorrence for the salt and the life-taking blue. It takes, and I come back, much like many people I have loved in this life.

I drop down below the waterline, scrubbing my body, knowing it won’t be clean, just… with new filth—the filth of the ocean.

When I turn around, I see Rowan coming up to my little pile of clothes.

And to my surprise, he strips down, too, walking to the water, eyes past me.

“How do you feel?” he asks when he gets close.

I stand up so he has to face my body, my exposed flesh. “Good,” I say before dropping back down. I creep toward the deeper area, and Rowan follows because he can’t resist—he has to take care of me.

I’m a very good swimmer, but the ocean is brutal.

The water is a clear blue, allowing us to see everything beneath. Farther out, the blue deepens into a darker hue. Our eyes remain alert, constantly wary of sharks. When Rowan swims nearby, I finally ask the question I have been meaning to ask. “How does it feel to be right?”

He moves his arms in the water, blue eyes on me. “About?”

“About this place being cursed?”

His eyes darken, and he moves away a little. “It haunts me every day, if you really want to know.”’

“I always want to know what you’re thinking,” I say, taking in a mouthful of seawater and spitting it out.

Just as I’m about to ask another smart-ass question, I feel something brush against my leg. I scream, and Rowan swims toward me. My flailing arms reach out and grab onto him. “What the fuck?” I cry, my legs wrapping around him.

Rowan spins me, looking into the water. A smile dances on his mouth, so close to me. “It’s seaweed,” he says, nodding in the direction of where I was swimming. I look into the water, seeing a green lump floating by.

I roll my eyes, hands still clutching him. He’s wearing me like a straitjacket, arms still moving, legs still pumping.

I rest my forehead on his shoulder, feeling him laugh. “God.”

“You always were dramatic,” he jokes, and I pull away slightly, splashing a handful of water at him. He closes his eyes to the splash, then quickly wipes his face, grazing my arm when he pulls it away. “Do you really want to do that?”

I think of the pool at my mother’s house, the night we played in it, tested each other, skirted boundaries. The night he made me come, left me alone in the dark.

“No, no. The ocean is scarier than the pool,” I say, tightening my legs around him.

---