Chapter 3 #2
We gingerly descended, one plank at a time, until we reached a dirt footpath.
Hunter pointed to the left and we trudged around the hut, small rocks and wood chips poking at my bare feet, then shuffled past an outdoor kitchen sheltered by a large tarp.
The setup was basic: a wooden picnic table, some shelving attached to trees, and a stone fireplace.
I couldn’t make out any other details as we stepped deeper into the overgrown jungle.
I was hyperaware of each point where our bodies touched. It wasn’t a zap of electricity that shot down my spine at how Hunter’s fingers pressed into the skin near my waist or how his gaze was so intent, but a warmth originated in my chest.
It had to be heartburn.
As we slogged down the path, he moved low-hanging tree branches out of the way.
“So,” I said, disregarding the growing pain in my feet, “how long have you been here?”
“I moved to the South Pacific from Atlanta about six years ago. Lived most of the time in Avarua and now here.”
Over one hundred islands and atolls—most of which remained uninhabited—were sprinkled throughout Polynesia, so perhaps this one was close to my original destination.
“Is Rarotonga far from here?”
“About four to five hours depending on weather conditions and the boat.”
For the first time today, joy sprouted inside of me. Bambi hadn’t chartered us on the wrong course after we left Niue. Maybe she had been honest about reading the night skies. Or we just got lucky. Well, not really…
A pointy stone stabbed my foot, and I winced. “Shoot.” I paused and scraped my foot against the dirt until the pebble shook free. “Were my passport and credit cards still inside my lifejacket when you found me?”
“No,” Hunter said.
Well, shit. Getting home would be a double headache.
Hunter stared forward, his brows together as if in deep concentration. The forest thick with tropical trees, various shrubs, and tangled vines resembled a living and breathing creature. My stomach muscles tensed with worry that some danger lurked in the jungle.
“What are you looking at?” I peered up at him and searched for traces of fear or concern on his face. “Is there a tiger or a dinosaur?”
He looked at me, a humorous glint in his eyes. “No dinosaurs.”
“A tiger then?”
“No.” His cheeks creased into a smile. “I was cataloging what materials I have here to pull my boat out of the water.”
Good, at least he had a plan to get a boat. I was one step closer to getting the hell out of here. “And do you?”
“I think so. I’ll check the workshop.” The hut, the kitchen area, and now the workshop. He indeed resided here.
“Why do you live here?” Alone.
“Not long ago, I worked with my uncle. This was his place, and I lived on a boat.” We started to walk again. “He died a year ago, and left this place to me.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Me too.” He cleared his throat. “So why were you sailing in the South Pacific?”
“I was living my dad’s dream. He had a lot of sailing routes mapped out, and we picked this one because of my name.”
Hunter gave me a sideways glance. “Was he with you on the boat?”
“He passed away a few years ago.”
“I’m sorry to hear that, Sydney.”
The ache of losing both of my parents in a matter of two years pinched my heart.
Time softened the unceasing pain that at first felt like a sharp stab, but it was never gone.
My throat closed, and my face prickled. The earlier lightheadedness returned, and I didn’t want to lean on Hunter more than I already did. “Can we take a break?”
Hunter navigated us to a large rock where he helped me sit.
“I must be tired.” Pressure formed behind my eyes, and I sniffled. “I usually don’t cry”—well, not anymore—“but right now, for some reason, my emotions are getting the better of me.”
“Grief is complicated. After you think you’ve got hold of it, it returns when you least expect it.
And being stranded on a deserted island doesn’t help.
” He sat on the ground, hauled his knees up, and rested his back against a tree.
His tanned ankles and calves had several small, white scars in pairs.
I would ask why he had them but then I didn’t want to appear too prying.
Hunter plucked a twig off his shirt. “What made you want to live your father’s dream? ”
I shrugged, letting fat tears run down my face. “Stupidity.”
And Tina… Tina, who had stayed by my side through all these years while everyone else had slowly drifted from my life, was the closest I had to a family. Soon she would probably be worried sick over why I hadn’t sent her another note.
“I thought it would be a nice gesture to honor him.” I tilted my head skyward.
“I came across Dad’s detailed sailing notes and played with the idea of whether I could do it for him and me.
I had several months free before starting a new job, so I decided to charter a boat in Australia, and thought I’d figure the messy stuff out later.
And look at me now. In a jungle with no sailboat and no ashes. ”
Phill was right: I wasn’t good at anything but being book-smart. I couldn’t prepare a meal, wasn’t crafty, and definitely couldn’t plan and execute a successful trip. I wasn’t built for an adventure.
I let out an exaggerated groan. “I’m so stupid chartering a boat without knowing anything about sailing.”
“Do you know how to fly a commercial airliner?” Hunter asked.
I looked at him sideways. “No.”
“But you bought a ticket and got on the plane to fly from the States to Australia. You are not stupid. You counted on your captain to do their job just like you trusted the pilot.”
He had a valid point. I sighed. “I need to get back home.”
“I’ll drag my boat out of the water and see if it’s fixable. But if I can’t fix it”—Hunter rose to his feet and brushed the dirt off his shorts—“we’ll find a way to get the attention of a boat passing by and catch a ride with them to Rarotonga.”
“That’s good.” I smiled, relieved that Hunter already had an extra plan to get us out of here. “How often do people sail by?”
Hunter hesitated for a moment, ran his hand through his hair. “Maybe a few times a year.”
There were just not enough middle fingers to make it through this day. I snorted, and a snot bubble popped out of my nose. That’s embarrassing. I wiped it with the back of my hand. “You mean I’m stuck here with you for months?”
“Trust me”—his forehead wrinkled in the expression I know, that sucks—“I’m not thrilled about it either.”
My chest tightened, and my stomach cramped.
I felt truly nervous. No—scratch that—I had a full-blown panic.
What in the hell would I do for that long on a deserted island?
Not to mention my job as a senior cybersecurity architect at Global Aegis waited for me.
They had the highest-paid jobs in the States, and the most exciting projects.
And I got in. I was born to design networks, write algorithms, and get lost in a constant battle of identifying security gaps.
This was my job, the one I’d fought for, it was the bright spark in the crap sandwich of my life so far. It was the fresh start I needed.
I screwed up. Big time.
“It’s just ridiculous.” I laughed, this time covering my face to avoid another snot mortification. “I had a good plan to get my life back on track. But this”—I waved my hands around—“wasn’t part of it.”
“Don’t get worked up just yet. Let me first figure out the situation with my boat. Maybe it is not as bad as I think.”
I wanted to slam my fist into something, but all around me were hard surfaces: trees, rocks, and Hunter.
A fly landed on my left thigh, and I smacked it—totally missing the bug but leaving a hot sting on my skin.
I glanced at Hunter. His eyes had an intense focus.
I was so far out of my environment it was comical, in his domain.
What if he was a recluse who hated damsels in distress?
The less I appeared to be a problem, the better the chances he wouldn’t mind sharing this wretched jungle.
I straightened my back. “I’ve had enough rest. Are we near the bathroom?”
“You can almost see it.” Hunter reached his arms out to help me off the stone.
“It’s okay,” I said, ignoring his offered hand and stood (slowly) up. “I feel much stronger,” I lied.
The walk from the hut to the rickety shack in front of us wasn’t far, but because of my condition, it took a good five minutes, including time for me to rest.
“Oh, crap,” I groused.
“Literally.”
The use of a porta-john, no matter how fancy, was one of my biggest nightmares.
Yet, I stood before a small wooden box with a half-moon carved into a door and a plank above it with the word “outhouse” burned into the wood as if someone would confuse it with a day spa.
The hope was that Hunter wasn’t a teenager who would think it was hilarious to block the door.
“Are there any snakes inside?”
“No. They don’t like the smell.” He snorted, rubbing the nape of his neck.
“I think I can take it from here.” I made a step closer and reached for the handle.
“I’ll wait for you.”
Not in a million years. I didn’t want him to stand here and listen.
“Um, do you think you could go back to your camp? I’ll call you when I’m out. Or I’ll find my way back.”
“Are you sure?”
“Yes.” I opened the door. Its hinges squeaked and the stink was enough to turn my stomach. I understood the snakes’ decision.
“You might want this.” Hunter took a two-foot stick next to the door and handed it to me.
“What for?” I was puzzled by his suggestion but took it anyway.
“Hit the seat a few times. Spiders like to hide under there.”
Oh, for fuck’s sake. I’d only been on the island for a day and I already hated it.
Scrunching up my face, I tapped the wooden ring with the stick twice and sure enough, four giant brown spiders ran out and disappeared through a crack in the wall.
This is the tenth circle of hell. I peeked my head inside: cobwebs decorated each corner, a buzzing sound of flies, and one valuable item absent. I turned to Hunter.
“There’s no toilet paper.”
“Oh, yes. Sorry.” He reached out to a tree, tore off two big leaves, and handed them over. “Here you go.”
Oh. My. God.
I stared at Hunter. “You must be kidding.”
Hunter shrugged and turned on his heels. “You’ll get used to it,” he called over his shoulder as he disappeared into the jungle.
Uh, fuck.