Page 27 of A Not-So Holiday Paradise

Beckett grunts but doesn’t say anything else as he begins digging through crates. He pulls out several musty-looking contraptions I don’t recognize, followed by a few mesh bags that appear to hold utensils—like a meal kit you’d take camping, sort of—and then, finally,blessedly,a large, folded blanket.

I’m by Beckett’s side in point-two seconds, one arm outstretched, the other still clutched protectively over the ladies, lest the swimsuit padding fails to do its duty. I’m trying to make the stance look casual, but honestly, I think it probably just looks like I’m holding them up.

Whatever. I can’t bring myself to care about what Beckett thinks anymore. Not today, at least. I’ll try again tomorrow, maybe.

He passes me the blanket, and my fingers clutch gratefully around the rough wool. It’s going to be scratchy, but it’s better than nothing.

“Shake it out first,” Beckett advises, but I’m already in the process of doing just that. I unfold it all the way before airing it out. I snap the blanket again and again, doing my best not to let it drag on the floor of the hut, and watch as musty clouds puff into the air around us. Not sure how all that dust got there when the blanket has been folded in the bottom of a crate, but oh well. At this point I’d probably be happy to curl up in a barn if it meant I could cover up with hay and go to sleep.

The blanket is rough as I wrap it around my shoulders, but the wool is thick and warm, and I feel immediately better having a way to cover up a bit.

“Thank you,” I say as I settle down on top of another crate, my legs tapping against the side of the wood as I examine the dark tartan of the blanket. “For everything.” I swallow, then go on, “I don’t think I actually said that before. But I appreciate—” Ugh. How do I even say these things to him? “I appreciate what you did during the storm.”

There. It isn’t eloquent. But it’s the best I’ve got right now.

“You can repay me by not climbing any more trees,” Beckett says as he starts on another crate. He rummages for a while, and I just watch. I try not to pay attention to the way the light in the hut is fading more and more with each minute that passes, but the shadows it casts on his biceps—because yes, I’m watching those too—grow fainter and fainter until it’s impossible to deny anymore.

Night is falling.

I am still here.

And I’ve missed the cruise ship departure.

As though he’s read my mind—or maybe just the worry on my face—Beckett says, “What are you going to do?”

“About what?” I say, and the forced cheerfulness in my voice makes me cringe.

Beckett clearly doesn’t like it either, because he shoots me a glare that looks exactly like that emoji with the flat mouth and the flat eyes—completely unimpressed and begging me to cut the crap.

“I’m going to live it up on the island, apparently,” I say, my voice still horribly chipper. “Maybe I’ll just stay here forever.” I point to the corner of the hut where the leaves have gathered. “Put a bed there, a desk along the wall—”

“Molly.”

One word; just my name, spoken in Beckett’s serious, quiet voice. He’s stopped his rummaging, and though he hasn’t stepped away from the open crate or approached me at all, my peripheral vision tells me that his body is turned to face mine, his eyes trained on me.

I blink rapidly against the tears that are trying to make an appearance. Because the truth is, this is bad. This is so bad. I’m stuck here, the cruise ship is almost certainly gone by now, and I don’t have—I don’t have—my—my—

“Molly.” My name from his lips again, but with a start I realize that he’s standing right in front of me now, and—oh. I’m crying. I’mcrying.Great, heaving sobs tearing out of me like I’m a wet cloth that’s being wrung out.

“Molly,” he says again, his voice urgent. His hands hover awkwardly in the space between us as he stands before me and the crate I’m still perched on. “It’s okay. We’re going to be fine.”

My head drops as I give in to the weight of holding it up, and that’s when Beckett finally seems to abandon his awkwardness. Just like he pulled me close in the storm, he pulls me close now, stepping forward and wrapping his arms around me. My head is planted somewhere around his ribcage as he pats my back, murmuring meaningless words that somehow soothe me all the same.

I’m not even totally sure why I’m crying. Or rather, I guess, there are a lot of things that could be causing these tears, and I’m not sure which one it is. All of them, maybe; being stuck, missing the ship, the things I have with me—and the things I don’t.

“Breathe,” Beckett says as another wave of tears hits me. His hand is firm as he rubs my back, but his voice is gentle. “Breathe. Come on. Take a breath with me.”

I suck in a lungful of air, making a sound like a winded rhinoceros as I struggle. But Beckett doesn’t comment on the noise; he just keeps rubbing my back.

“And again,” he says softly. “Good girl. And another.”

Somehow it’s helpful to have him talking me through each breath, despite the fact that I’ve been breathing very well on my own for my entire life. His words are a gentle, repetitive mantra that steadies the turbulence raging inside, and several minutes later I’m almost back to normal.

“Look, Molly, we need to go to sleep, okay?” Beckett says. He sounds just as tired as I feel, and the halfhearted pat he delivers to my back only emphasizes it. He needs rest. We both do.

I nod, my forehead rubbing against his shirt, and then finally pull away from him, sitting up straighter.

“Yeah,” I say, swiping at my eyes. “Let’s do that.” I take several deep breaths. “Where should we sleep?”

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