Page 54 of Hate Wrecked

I watch Rowan by the fire through the door as I unravel the cord of my headphones, sliding them onto my head.

When I press play, music fills my ears, and I almost sigh. And maybe I do, because I see Rowan turn sharply to me.

When I see him stand, I close my eyes.

“Does that thing work?” Rowan asks, walking into the building. I nod my head, pulling the headphones off. “Yeah. I’m only going to listen to one song at a time, though. I want to preserve the battery.”

“What are you listening to right now?” he asks, walking closer, his version of an apology.

I pat the blanket and offer him the headphones. “Come listen?”

It’s an intimate thing, sharing music with someone. Or at least, it’s a very intimate thing for me. Music is my love language; it’s in what I sing, what I listen to, and what I write—though nearly everything I write is secret. Rowan knows what it means to me. It’s how we bonded and came together.

He can’t help himself. He walks to me, sitting down on the blanket, his arm grazing mine. I hand him the headphones, and he puts them on, pressing against me.

I had the volume up, so I can hear the Mazzy Star song swell. But I restart it. I’ll waste the tiny little bit of battery it takes to go back to the beginning so he can hear it as I did. Every bit—as it’s supposed to be.

He smiles a little, and the wrinkles around his eyes are beautiful. “I like this one.”

I want to lean into him as her voice lulls us. Fade into him, the way the song suggests.

I love him still, wholly and sadly.

We sit in silence, the slow tapping of Rowan’s finger on his knee, the slow swaying of my body. I make sure not to bump into him, scared to frighten him off after our fight, and the way I tried to tempt earlier.

It’s rare to be side by side with the love you lost. It’s rare to have that chance. And fate handed it to me; Rowan did not offer it.

That’s the rub, the writing on the wall. In the sand…

When the song ends and “Into Dust” starts, I feel him tense. I don’t stop the song—just one isn’t enough with him—and I’m transported back to the hood of a car the year the song came out, his hand in mine.

I know he can feel it; I can sense it in his stillness, the way his eyes wander toward me for even a moment.

I reach across the space and rest my hand on his knuckles. His clenched fist tenses, and his head hangs—an offering. His hand moves, flips around, and he threads his fingers with mine. But he doesn’t look at me.

Not yet, and maybe he won’t.

Maybe slipping into the past is enough, all he will give me.

I get five minutes of closeness before everything fades out. Before the song can end, Rowan takes the headphones off, dropping them as he stands. “Thanks for the song,” he mumbles as he walks away, out the door, to the waves, down the shore. I wait for him as the song fades out, as the sun fades away.

When it ends, I turn off the Walkman, slip it back into my bag, and head toward the fire, gazing down the shore. I don’t see Rowan, as expected, but I do see his notebook open next to his pile of belongings. The temptation to open it and see what he’s always scribbling in there is strong. Does he write of us, or is it all just facts and figures about the lives of two stranded people on an island?

I wish I knew. Before I can stop myself, I make the decision to look.

I’ll glance. Justoneglance.

That’s all I get before I hear Rowan coming. But not before I see my name in his handwriting.

With one word close by.Hate.

I REGRET IT ALL

ROWAN

I noticea change in Riley's behavior as we navigate our daily tasks on the island. Her usual vibrant conversations have tapered off, replaced by a noticeable silence that lingers. Over the past couple of days, she's withdrawn into herself, speaking sparingly, keeping her thoughts close. A barrier has risen around her, shielding her emotions. I can't help but feel a twinge of worry, wondering what's weighing on her mind, wishing to bridge the growing gap I know I put there.

From my spot in the shade, I watch her with the cat. She has a long vine, and she’s pulling it in the sand. The cat runs after it diligently, excited to play. And Riley laughs as if each time is new. As if each pounce is a gift. And I suppose it is. For all of us.

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