Page 52 of Hate Wrecked

Rowan glares at me, aware of what I’m doing. My nakedness presses against his. He continues to swim, keeping us afloat as he looks beneath the water.

“I think the seaweed threat is gone,” he says, reaching down to disentangle me from him. I push away, swimming a little closer to shore. “Race you to the shore?” I ask, trying to lighten the mood. Rowan smirks and nods, taking off. He has always been a good swimmer. I convinced him to do laps with me when he was home alone with me; the moon illuminating his body. Now, it’s the sun that does, and when we reach the shallows, stepping out of the froth and salt, I turn to the ocean, opening my arms wide. I let the sun dry my body. I’m naked, but I don’t feel exposed to Rowan. It’s just a body, and he knows more. He knows what’s inside me.

After a moment, I step out of the water. When we reach our clothes, Rowan grabs his, but I leave mine behind. I lie on my blanket, close my eyes, and lean back. “Join me?” I ask.

Rowan doesn’t answer, taking a moment to walk away.

And I know his eyes are greedy.

* * *

As the evening sun begins its descent, a warm glow illuminates the deserted shoreline where Rowan and I gather around the crackling fire. The day has been a mix of labor and leisure, with Rowan leaving the water earlier while I lingered a little longer, savoring the cool embrace of the ocean.

Now, as the flames dance before us, casting shadows on the sand, a sense of quiet settles over me and our small corner of the island. The rhythmic lapping of the waves almost lulls me to sleep. I yawn and then look at Rowan. “What will this place look like when they take over?” I muse, my gaze drifting toward the horizon where the sky meets the sea. Despite the challenges we've faced since our arrival, there's a strange allure to the sparseness of our surroundings—the remnants of war mingling with the vast expanse of beach—untouched.

Rowan considers my question, his expression thoughtful as he gazes into the fire. "Hard to say," he replies finally, his voice low. “I imagine they’ll build a few buildings. Maybe take down what’s there.” He motions to the buildings we have taken over.

“I like them,” I say. While I don’t feel comfortable staying in Gerald’s space, I enjoy our haven in the tent on the mattresses. I enjoy looking through the relics of the past. And I’m grateful for the supplies left behind.

“Yeah, but they’ll want a fresh slate. I imagine a few bunks. The captain said they’ll likely be ten or so people out here at a time at first, after the building.”

“What will they do?” It’s nice to hear Rowan talk, to listen to the gentle cadence of his voice.

“The palms aren’t native to the island. They crowd out the other plants. It’s not good for the ecosystem. And they’ll want to address the issue of the rats…”

I cringe, remembering the one that crawled over my foot in the jungle.

“I’d hope so.”

“It’s not an easy task,” Rowan continues. “You can’t keep a single one alive. A single mother rat will repopulate the island in two years. It’ll be overrun again.”

Suddenly, I feel sad for them. The image of a mother rat invades my mind, only to be replaced by a picture of my mother with me in her belly on the cover of a magazine.

I was on the cover of a magazine before I was born.

I cringe and look out at the water. I like it here, where there are no camera flashes, where no moment is immortalized and blown up for me to cringe at.

I can be awkward and weird—myself—with only Rowan to roll his eyes. I like it more than I hate it.

“How did they get here? The rats?” I ask.

“A boat. Like us.”

“Do you think that’s why they left Garfield behind?” I watch the cat walk the edge of the jungle, in the distance. “I hate that they left him. Who leaves a pet behind?”

“Maybe someone who thought he would be happier here than wherever they were going.”

“He could have died here,” I argue, glaring into the distance.

“I guess that’s why all the basins were left. So he always had rainwater to drink. It’s always raining here.”

I stare into the distance, following Rowan’s gaze. Another storm is coming in, and we will have to take shelter. It’s getting harder and harder not to curl up close to him at night in our tent.

Does he think sleeping next to me hurts? Does he want to reach out to me, too?

“Can we leave the tent open a little tonight so he can come in if he wants?”

Rowan grunts but nods. “I think he’s used to the storms. But maybe he will like being near someone.”

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