Page 87 of Hate Wrecked

“God,” I breathe out. “It’s kinda deep.”

“Stay away from the edge,” he warns, voice low.

He studies the pit for a minute, then reaches into his pocket and pulls out a handkerchief he found among Gerald’s things. He ties it to a bush by the pit. “We’ll remember it’s here,” he says. “In case we need it.”

“In case?” I ask, uneasy.

He gives me a look that’s half grim, half protective. “You never know.”

As we keep going, a path emerges, revealing a boot-trodden route. The dappled sunlight filters through the trees, casting a gold on the ground beneath our feet.

When I look at Rowan he wears a subtle smile. The desire path leads us to the other side of the island to what looks like the perfect fishing spot for our day. I can’t help but wonder who created this path.

When we reach the shore, Rowan grabs his fishing pole, and I follow him to the water, his post. I’ve been slacking on fishing with him because it’s too difficult to stay in one spot while he pretends that nothing happened between us.

He stares into the horizon like he can will a ship into existence.

I wish I could will his forgiveness into existence.

He casts first, and I follow him, watching him.

Without looking at me, he speaks. “What?”

I cast. “What’s on your mind? You’ve been in your head for weeks.”

He clears his throat. “It’s my fault we’re here. I pictured this place in my mind as I devoured the stories, wondering what it would feel like to step ashore an island called cursed, haunted. And now I know.”

“Rowan—”

“I’m not immune to the pull of the cursed luck that lives here. I’m not immune to the mistakes those who came before me made. And now you’re suffering from my morbid curiosity.”

“I’m not suffering.” And it was true. The dread was there, just under the surface. But I was alone with Rowan, and even his silence was better than the half-life I had been living for years.

“I need to make sure you get off this fucking island alive. And if I have to sink to the bottom of the ocean with that boat just so I can make sure you have the tools to make it out of here, I will.”

“You’re worrying me,” I whisper.

“You can’t feel the ghosts?” Something in his voice makes me shiver, but I shake my head, and push it away.

“No.” A lie.

“How can you not?”

“So now I’m not in tune with the island’s ghosts?” I laugh. “You always thought I was shallow.” I scoff, looking away.

“I never thought you were shallow.”

“Not a grown-up, a kid in her fantasy land. Is that what I am now, too?”

“No,” he says, reeling in his line. “I’m sorry. I’m off today.”

When he places his pole at his side, I reel my line in. When I turn to him, he doesn’t turn away or walk away from the water.

Fighting is tiring and futile. The shine of the sun on the water casts Rowan in a bright glow. When he looks at me, I raise my arm slightly, a question. He nods his head, and I hug him tight. “Thank you,” he whispers into my hair. I nod, running my hand over his back. “Sometimes it feels like you’re the anchor as we drift, And the role reversal is stark, something I can’t look away from.”

The words pull at me, and I push away from him, looking up into his eyes. I immediately know I am too close. He doesn’t pull away, and we don’t speak for a moment.

Finally, I pull away, brushing a hand over his shoulder. “You need to put a shirt on so you don’t burn more,” I say.

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