Chapter 1 #2
“Anya.” His voice has that gravelly quality it gets when he’s worried but trying not to show it. “You don’t know anything about these people. What if it’s some human trafficking shit? Or what if they’re like... organ harvesters or something?”
I roll my eyes, but can’t help smiling at his dramatic scenarios. “Because my kidneys are so valuable? Please. Nobody wants my worn-out organs.”
“I’m serious.” He crosses his tattooed arms over his chest. “At least research this place before you go running off to it.”
“I did.” I zip up my toiletry bag and push past him back into the main room. “There’s not much information online. It’s very exclusive, apparently. But the reviews from the few guests who’ve been there are amazing.”
“That doesn’t mean the staff is treated well,” he counters, following me. “They could be working you to death for that three grand.”
I shrug, tucking my toiletry bag into the main compartment of my backpack. “Then I’ll leave. It’s not like I’m signing a blood oath, John. If it sucks, I’ll figure something else out.”
“Fine. But don’t forget to text or call me.”
I pause, looking up at him. His stringy brown hair falls over one eye, and he pushes it back with a frustrated gesture.
Despite his gruff exterior and questionable life choices, John has been my rock.
When I ran away from home at eighteen with nowhere to go, it was John who offered his couch.
When I’ve been between jobs, it’s been John who made sure I ate, even if it was just ramen noodles or boxed mac and cheese.
And he usually doesn’t give a shit about people.
“I promise,” I tell him softly. “Every day. Even if there’s terrible phone reception and I have to climb to the top of a palm tree or something.”
He snorts, but I can see the tension in his shoulders ease slightly. “You better. I don’t want to have to come rescue your ass from some island cult.”
“As if you could,” I tease. “You get seasick on boats.”
“I’d power through it for you,” he says, and though his tone is light, there’s a sincerity in his eyes that makes my throat tighten unexpectedly.
“I know you would,” I reply, busying myself with checking that I have my ID and the few other important documents I own. “But it won’t come to that. This is a legitimate opportunity, John. I can feel it.”
He sighs dramatically. “Your ‘feelings’ led you to date that guy who stole your laptop, so excuse me if I don’t put much stock in them.”
I wince at the reminder of my terrible judgment when it comes to men. “Low blow. But fair.”
“We should probably head out soon if you need to be there by 1:30. Traffic’s gonna be a bitch,” says John, glancing at his watch.
My heart skips. This is really happening. “Okay. I’m ready.”
He gives me a skeptical look, then heads to grab his keys.
I take one last look around the apartment that’s been my temporary home these past months.
The sagging couch. The tiny TV. The kitchenette with its perpetually dripping faucet.
I won’t miss this place, but I will miss John for sure, my only friend in this world who’s had my back.
The drive to the heliport is mostly silent. John concentrates on navigating the midday traffic, and I stare out the window, watching the familiar cityscape slide by. Soon, I’ll be somewhere completely new.
God, I’m so excited.
“You know,” John says suddenly, breaking the silence. “Without you, it’s going to get lonely as fuck.”
I turn to look at him, surprised by the admission. John isn’t exactly the type to talk about his feelings.
“You’ve got your buddies from work,” I say, referring to the various characters he hangs out with from whatever odd jobs he’s doing at the moment.
He shrugs. “Not the same.”
I understand what he’s saying even without him saying it.
John and I understand each other because we’re both damaged in our own ways. He, with his parents, who kicked him out at sixteen when they found him stealing their prescriptions. Me, with my mother who abandoned me, and the toxic household I escaped.
“I’m not dying, you know,” I say, trying to lighten the mood. “I’m just going to work on an island. I’ll be back to crash on your couch again before you know it.”
He snorts. “If this place is as great as you think it’ll be, you won’t need my shitty couch anymore.”
“I’ll always need your shitty couch,” I reply, meaning it more than I can express. “It’s the first place that ever felt safe.”
John clears his throat and turns up the radio, clearly uncomfortable with the emotional turn of the conversation. I smile to myself and turn back to the window.
When we pull up to the address I was given, I’m surprised to see a legitimate heliport.
For some reason, I half-expected to find an empty lot or a sketchy warehouse.
But there it is, a real heliport with a sleek helicopter sitting on the pad.
Several uniformed staff members move around the area, and there’s a small but professional-looking reception building.
“Shit,” John mutters, pulling into a parking space. “This might actually be real.”
I give him a triumphant look. “Told you.”
But as I reach for the door handle, a sudden wave of anxiety washes over me. What am I doing? I’m about to get on a helicopter and fly to an island I’ve never heard of before yesterday.
Maybe John is right. Maybe this is crazy.
I bite my lower lip, my hand frozen on the handle. What if I get there and it’s terrible? What if the owners are abusive? What if I’m trapped there with no way to get back?
But I can’t let John see my doubts. Not after I’ve spent all morning convincing him this is a good idea. Especially when he’s looking at me with that mixture of worry and resignation.
“Well,” I say, forcing brightness into my voice. “This is it.”
I sling my ratty backpack over my shoulder and step out of the car. John follows, his eyes darting around suspiciously as if expecting to see armed guards or human traffickers lurking behind the professional facade.
We approach the reception building together. A young woman in a crisp uniform looks up from a computer as we enter.
“Welcome to Coastal Heliport. How may I assist you today?” she asks with a practiced smile.
“I’m Anya Rosewood,” I say, my voice steadier than I feel. “I’m supposed to be on a flight to Wolf Isle at 2 PM?”
Her smile widens. “Of course, Ms. Rosewood. We’ve been expecting you.” She taps something on her computer. “May I see your identification, please?”
I fumble with my wallet and hand over my driver’s license.
She examines it briefly, then returns it with another smile.
“Everything seems to be in order. Captain Morris will be your pilot today. He’s just completing his pre-flight checks, and then we’ll get you on board.
Would you like some water or coffee while you wait? ”
“Water would be great, thank you,” I reply, slightly dazed by how smoothly everything is proceeding.
As she walks away to fetch my water, John leans in close. “Okay, so they’re not immediately harvesting your organs. That’s a good sign.”
I elbow him in the ribs. “Stop it.”
The receptionist returns with a bottle of water that looks far fancier than anything I’ve had. “Captain Morris will be ready for departure in about fifteen minutes. Please make yourself comfortable in our waiting area.”
I thank her and turn to John. This is it. Time to say goodbye.
“So,” I say awkwardly. “Thanks for the ride.”
He shifts his weight from one foot to the other, looking uncomfortable. “Yeah, no problem,” he says, pulling me into a tight hug. “Be careful, okay? And remember, text me when you get there.”
I wrap my arms around him, breathing in the familiar scent of his laundry detergent and the faint trace of cigarettes. “I will. I promise.”
When he releases me, I’m surprised to see genuine concern in his eyes.
“You deserve good things, Anya,” he says quietly. “I hope this is one of them.”
A lump forms in my throat. “Thanks, John. For everything.”
He nods once, then backs away. “I’ll wait until your helicopter takes off. Just to make sure you’re really on your way and not being stuffed into the trunk of some mobster’s car.”
I laugh, grateful for his attempt to lighten the mood. “Such a gentleman.”
Ten minutes later, I’m being escorted across the helipad toward the waiting helicopter. The rotors are already spinning slowly, creating a wind that whips my hair around my face. A man in a pilot’s uniform stands by the door, greeting me with a respectful nod.
“Ms. Rosewood? I’m Captain Morris. Welcome aboard.”
He helps me into the helicopter with such deference that I feel momentarily disoriented. No one has ever treated me like I’m important before. I walk in, impressed by the interior of the helicopter. It looks plush and comfortable, with leather seats and a mini-fridge in one corner.
“We’ll be in the air for approximately forty-five minutes,” Captain Morris informs me as he helps me buckle my seatbelt. “Please help yourself to refreshments during the flight.”
I nod, still somewhat in shock. Through the window, I can see John standing by his car, watching. I raise my hand in a wave, and he waves back.
Then the engine speeds up, and my stomach lurches as we lift off the ground, the heliport growing smaller beneath us. John becomes a tiny figure, then disappears altogether as we bank and head toward the ocean.
I press my face against the window, watching as the city gives way to coastline, then to open water. The vastness of the ocean below makes me feel tiny and insignificant, yet strangely free.
As the mainland disappears from view, my mind drifts back to the day I came home from first grade to find my mother gone. I remember standing in our small living room, clutching my backpack, confused by my father’s red-rimmed eyes and the strange stillness of the house.
“Where’s Mom?” I’d asked, looking around as if she might pop out from behind the furniture.
My father had knelt down, his hands trembling as they rested on my shoulders. “Mom had to go away for a while, Anya.”
“When is she coming back?”
The look on his face, a mixture of rage, heartbreak, and pity, haunts me to this day. “She’s not, sweetheart.”
That was it. No explanation. No goodbye. Just... gone.
The years that followed blurred together in a haze of loneliness. My father retreated into himself, working longer hours, speaking less. And when Sharon entered our lives two years later, things only got worse.
Sharon, with her perfectly manicured nails that would dig into my arm when my father wasn’t looking.
“Your father only keeps you because he had to,” she’d whisper when we were alone. And her children watched and learned, excluding me from games, “forgetting” to tell me about family outings, making it clear I was an unwelcome addition to their perfect unit.
I swallow hard, pushing away the memories. Below me, the ocean stretches endlessly, a deep blue expanse of beauty. Ahead, though still too distant to see, lies Wolf Isle and whatever future awaits me there.
Tears prick at my eyes as the reality of my situation hits me.
I have no one. No real family. No home. All I have is a backpack of broken makeup kits and ratty clothes. The loneliness is something I still have to get used to.
But maybe that’s okay. Maybe being alone means I’m free to create my own path, to find my own happiness without the weight of others’ expectations or disappointments.
I take a deep breath and wipe away my tears as I vow to myself that I will be successful no matter what.