Page 93 of Hate Wrecked

Eventually, Rowan settles by the fire with his journal, and I watch as his hand moves swiftly, as he wipes at his eyes, and his brow furrows with anger.

I retreat to the tent, leaving the door open to the fire. The lights dance inside, and I begin to feel safe and comforted again.

Rowan’s presence does that to me, even as he unravels.

I don’t want to be scared. I don’t want to hurt.

In the darkness of the tent, I slip my clothes away. I pull my top to the side, I slip my bikini bottom down.

With my eyes on the top of the tent, on the moving shadows, I reach down, touching myself.

I pretend I am somewhere else. I pretend the ocean I hear is the one by my old home. I pretend I am on the shore with Rowan again, at our spot in the shadows where he touched me, where I touched him.

I pretend he is slipping in, burying himself in me.

When I close my eyes, I can almost believe it’s real. I open my eyes and break the spell, looking out of the tent. Rowan isn’t writing anymore. He’s staring up into the dark sky above, his jaw tight. I look away, slipping my fingers inside of myself, pretending they are his.

I don’t stifle my sigh; I don’t let myself worry about anything outside of the tent as I ride my hand.

I can’t be here, in this reality, so I take myself to the past.

When I open my eyes again to look out, Rowan is gone. I sigh, putting my clothes back into place. Before stepping out of the tent, I reach into the bag I keep close. The one that usually holds my notebooks, my mother’s manuscript, and one small thing from our past. I grip the gold necklace tight but leave it behind. When I step out, I don’t see Rowan anywhere, and the dark of the night frightens me without him close.

When I walk past the fire, I see his journal is open.

I know I shouldn’t read it, but I bend down, running a hand over the page.

I want to swim, duck down, and stay at the bottom of the ocean sometimes. Then maybe I wouldn’t be able to hear her. The way she breathes, speaks, sings, and laughs when that cat does something to make her happy.If she only knew what I do in the jungle when she isn’t around. The way I touch myself and think of her. The way I imagine it’s her hand on me, her mouth, her body pulling me in.I want to dare her. To tempt her again. I don’t know. I’ve pushed her away for so long that I’m afraid to reach for her. Because if we’ve danced this dance for so long, and if she has changed her mind, I don’t think I could take it. The rejection would sting too intensely. How do I dam this want? I hate the pull, the fire in me nothing—The words stop, and I stand, scanning the shore.

In the distance, I see his pale skin, and I walk to him like a magnet, the moon illuminating the path. “How do you want me?” I ask.

Rowan turns to me. “I think you know.”

I cock my head, he looks away.

“I saw you, Riley.”

“Doing what?” I’m tentative, feeling him out.

“You wanted me to see. The tent door was open.”

I shake my head, looking away. “See what?”

“You touching yourself.”

“And maybe you wanted me to see those pages you left open. You touch yourself in the jungle when I’m not around. What’s the difference?”

“I’m not putting on a show when I do it. I’m alone.”

“You think I put on a show for you?” I ask.

“It’s all you do, Riley. It’s all a show for me.”

Something heats in me at his words. “Someone is suddenly very arrogant. I didn’t know you had it in you.”

“Riley—”

“Maybe I like it. Maybe you need that, Rowan. Show a little arrogance, especially when it’s warranted.” I turn to him. “I wanted you to see me. This day…fuck this fucking day. You were writing. Did that make you feel better? Make all of this go away? Maybe I wanted it to go away, too. And you won’t let yourself touch me anymore. So I comforted myself.”

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