Chapter 5 #2
Stuffing the last bit of food into my mouth, I held up an index finger and went inside to grab my notes.
On my return, I pushed aside my empty plate and spread the sheets on the table, pointed at the magazine page, and then at the paper with my scribbles.
“I think these are correct: ‘a box of chocolates’, ‘you’, ‘you’re’, but the rest of the words I partially guessed. ”
Hunter picked up the sheet and twisted his lips to one side, reading my chicken scratch. My handwriting was never beautiful, especially when I rushed or was tired.
“My momma always said life is like a box of chocolates. You never know what you’re going to get.” He handed me my notes back. “Forrest Gump.”
I couldn’t believe I didn’t think of it. My eyes matched his words to the scripted ones. The length of each word equaled the number of letters in each scripted word. “You’re right.” I beamed. “You were quick to break this code.”
“I just guessed the movie.” Hunter flipped through the rest of the pages with my decoded puzzles, taking in every note and chart. His eyebrows went up and his eyes flicked to me, questioning. “What was your job again?”
“A software engineer. You know, a geeky girl who hides behind lines of code while wearing sweatpants covered with old mustard stains and munching on Twizzlers.” My fingers stiffened as I said those words out loud.
I wasn’t always that girl. I used to wear stylish power suits and leather pumps, had a corner office overlooking Biscayne Bay, and was the lead developer, driving my career forward ever since college graduation before everything shattered.
“Did they teach you how to decipher messages at school?” he said, sounding genuinely curious. It was just a couple of puzzles. Not that big of a deal.
The black cat rubbed against my leg, and I reached out to scratch his head.
“I think writing code is like working with a jigsaw puzzle. Long before my fingers touch a keyboard, I must imagine the big picture. I work with the data I have and spend time carefully looking at each small or big part of the project, figuring out how they all fit together.”
“Interesting.” Hunter picked up the magazine, bringing my attention to his tattoo.
Yesterday, I wasn’t in a state to notice all the details.
Most people had tattoos to tell a story of their experience or struggle or to honor someone.
Of course, some (Tina) get a poo emoji tattoo on their left buttock during spring break in Panama Beach.
Hunter didn’t strike me as someone who would get a tattoo because his favorite phrase was “little shit.” There was a story to his tattoo. And my guess was it was a tragic one.
“May I see your tattoo?” I asked quietly.
He hesitated, but then stretched his arm out.
I took in the fine details of a three-masted ship sailing across the nautical map with multiple islands.
Near his wrist was an ornate wind rose, and above it, closer to the inner part of his arm, was a beautiful compass with roman numerals, one to twelve, on the outer bezel, and degrees 0 to 360 in regular numbers edged into the inner rim.
Four fine arrows shot down along the longitude lines.
“It’s remarkable.” I looked up at Hunter and smiled. “Were you in the Navy?”
Hunter’s gaze rested on me, and his eyes had a gentleness that hadn’t been there before, but then he blinked, and it was gone. “No, I wasn’t. I just love the look of the three-masted barque. For the rest of it the tattoo artist used her imagination.”
I tore my eyes off Hunter’s face and traced the digits above the longest arrow as if my hand had a mind of its own, finding an excuse to make contact with him. “What are these numbers?”
“Just numbers.” Hunter flexed his forearm, making his muscles dance, then broke away from my touch, got up and collected our plates and his cup. I got a feeling he knew the meaning behind the numbers but didn’t want to talk about it. That was fine, I could let it go.
“When I return home,” I said, “I should get the shape of this island, or its coordinates tattooed as a reminder of my mistake.” I gave a short, nervous laugh.
Hunter furrowed his eyebrows and opened his mouth as if to say something but then closed it and walked away to where water ran out of a barrel.
On his way, he grabbed the pan off the stove and placed it all into a makeshift sink made from a small, galvanized tub.
He probably didn’t want a stranger to have his home location on their ass.
“I’m joking.” If I had to pick one as a reminder, it would be the Bloody Mary.
Tuesday sat down near the tub, his tail wrapping around his butt, and then, instead of lapping up water that ran out and down to a stream, he tapped it with his paw and licked drops off his pads. Then he repeated the motion again and again.
“That’s an odd way to drink.” I gestured with my cup at the cat.
“Tuesday is an oddball. He likes most fruits and enjoys swimming in the ocean.”
“Really?”
“When the waves are calm, of course. It started as him trying to catch fish and then, I guess he liked playing in the water.”
My eyes flickered to the note he wrote to me. “Is he accompanying you in the morning for your swims?”
Hunter shook his head, smiling.
My scalp prickled again, and I scratched it. A bamboo halved pipe that ran to the barrel connected to a bigger channel that disappeared into the vegetation. Hunter had running water and didn’t appear as filthy as I was. “Is there a place I can take a bath? I feel like I’m starting to stink.”
He wrinkled his nose. “I didn’t want to say anything.” Then he smiled. “Just kidding. There is a waterfall.”
“You have some soap?”
“I have more than that. Come on. I’ll show you where everything is.”
“How about you get stuff while I run to the bathroom?” I pointed over my shoulder.
“Need help finding it?”
“I think I can manage.”
A few minutes later, we regrouped in the kitchen again.
Hunter handed me a towel with a toothbrush, a tube of cinnamon-flavored toothpaste (gross), a pure coconut oil bar of soap (the worst kind of scent), and (just kill me now) coconut shampoo.
Oh, for crying out loud. Was there anything here not made from this awful turd-colored fruit?
“These are yours. I suggest using it sparingly.” He added a folded light blue T-shirt and brown cargo shorts, pulled a piece of twine from his pocket, and placed it onto the pile in my arms. “For you to tie up the shorts.”
A smile pulled my lips at his thoughtfulness. “I’m not sure if blue is my color, but it will do.”
The corners of his eyes crinkled, and he motioned to the left. “It’s this way.”
With my toiletries and towel in hand, I followed him, mentally mapping out the island, orienting what was where.
We went in the opposite direction from the outhouse, passing a small open area with clothes hanging on a line stretched between trees, and two small birds balanced on the wire.
I recognized my white T-shirt with “Mind The Gap” that Tina bought me several years ago from London.
The path meandered through a tangle of tree ferns, flowering bushes, palms, and hardwoods with twisting brown roots.
The bamboo piping system carrying water ran above our heads, propped up by timber, or fed through tree branches.
Hunter walked at a slow pace with his back ramrod straight, from time to time moving large leaves out of our way and holding them until I passed.
About three hundred feet from the hut, the walkway opened at the mountain’s base.
My bare foot stepped on a rock, and I yelped.
Hunter paused, turning to check on me. “You okay?”
I hopped on one foot, brushing off a pebble. “Yes.”
“I totally forgot,” Hunter said. “I found shoes for you.”
“My shoes?”
“No. My uncle collected everything that turned up on the beach. I do the same. I have piles of washed-up junk, including an assortment of different shoes. Last night, I picked some out for you. Not a pair but they are similar in size and style.”
A teeny-tiny bit of gratitude for marine pollution passed in my mind.
I was not proud of that. I lived my entire life in Miami, and even though I wasn’t the most eco-friendly person, I participated in organized beach clean-ups.
Every time I went to the beach, I brought a garbage bag to collect whatever I found.
And now I was grateful for trash. Yep, definitely going to hell.
We maneuvered through a break in a stone barrier overgrown by vines (I kept my eyes on the ground to dodge another mean stab), and came out to a waterfall framed by lush plants, plunging into a crystal-clear pool so loud it drowned out the murmuring ocean.
Brightly colored flowers of different shapes and sizes were embroidered into the greenery.
We stood in complete and total splendor.
“It’s so beautiful here,” I said, taking an awed breath.
“The world’s best shower comes with only one temperature setting.” Hunter planted his hands on his hips and rocked back on his heels. “But you’ll get used to it.”
I looked up at him. “I’m not sure I’ll ever get used to the Neanderthal lifestyle.”
“Cavemen didn’t have coffee and eggs for breakfast.”
“You sure look like a caveman with all that.” I motioned at his face.
Hunter rubbed his cheek. “You don’t like my beard?”
“It’s great if you want to join ZZ Top. You’d fit right in.”
“I think you secretly like it.”
“I assure you, I don’t,” I said, trying to sound stern, but my stupid mouth betrayed me and pulled up at its corners.
A teasing glimmer played in his eyes. I should have rolled mine back at him, but looking away from his blue gaze was impossible. The scruffy look wasn’t my favorite, even if Tina proclaimed that beards were hot, and that it added a certain tickle when—well, never mind where the man’s face was.