CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
J ason
Dusk descends, the sky turning from a proper pastel blue to brazen splashes of tangerine and lilac, a disco palette that has never graced the sensible, beer-soaked sports bars I frequent, where even the patrons wear a uniform of primary-colored jerseys.
My head spins from the coconut diet. The team nutritionist would have a coronary if he saw what I was eating. My sugar levels are shot, and every muscle in my body feels like it’s protesting a war I didn’t know I was fighting.
The jet ski ride wrecked me. I’m sore, dehydrated, and woozy.
Icy gusts tumble in off the ocean, stirring the palm trees into a rustling huff and sending a prickling chill across my already cold skin.
I lie down on the sand and form a lumpy pillow out of it. Nature’s memory foam.
Cal scrutinizes the sand. “Do you think there are poisonous insects that will sting us?”
“We’ll find out.”
“Right.” Cal continues to pace.
I roll my eyes. “Sleep time.”
“Fine.” Cal collapses beside me.
I raise an eyebrow. “You know there’s a whole beach here? And a beach on the other side of the island? Like, you could be anywhere else.”
Cal stiffens.
Damn it.
I remind myself that this is the guy who pranked me in high school. Who made me a national story. Who might have already destroyed my career. Who followed me to Fiji. Who practically chased me out of Boston.
Relaxing around him? Impossible. And right now, I need to relax. If I’m lucky, this will all have been a nightmare and I’ll be back at the hotel when I wake up.
“Fine,” Cal says, voice tight.
I sigh. “What now?”
“My muscles hurt.”
“I’m not giving you a massage.”
He whips his head to me. “I didn’t ask for one.”
He stomps to the far end of the beach, then flops down dramatically.
This is what I wanted. Space. Silence.
But the sky feels too big above me.
I stare up at the stars, trying to find the Big Dipper. I think I’m successful, but I can’t find the Little Dipper.
Even the sky’s wrong.
I miss Boston. I miss my overpriced apartment and all the people who hated me. I miss snow I used to curse.
I blink. The stars blur. My eyes sting.
I squeeze them shut like that can stop whatever’s happening. I’m not that guy. I don’t cry in the dark on beaches over bad PR and too much coconut water.
I roll to my side, biting down on my lip hard enough to focus on pain. My nose prickles.
I must fall asleep at some point, because suddenly I’m upright, heart pounding.
A scream sounds.
Adrenaline slices through my fog, and I scramble to my feet. The beach is pitch black, and the waves sound more violent than when I lay down, as if they want to drag everything onto the beach into their icy, wet, seaweed-filled grasp.
“Cal?” I shout.
Silence.
I shouldn’t have sent him away.
My legs ache. My stomach turns from dehydration or fear or both. The sand is uneven as I stumble forward, as if taunting me with new, shifting patterns.
“Cal!”
Is he in the woods? Did something bite him? Are there poisonous insects, like he feared? Snakes? Terrifying vultures that prefer eating their prey alive?
“Cal!” I trip, catch myself, then sprint the last few steps to his side.
He’s curled in a ball. His breath is steady.
He’s not dead. Not screaming.
Not even awake.
Relief slams into me so hard I nearly drop to my knees. I exhale shakily, still half expecting a bear to burst from the trees, even though this isn’t exactly the right place for them.
I watch him a moment longer, to be sure.
Then I lie down beside him.
I listen to the sounds of the island. Parrots squawk, palms sway, and the ocean crashes against the shallow shore with never-ending determination.
Perhaps one day it will swallow the island whole.
My gaze drifts to Cal, and I inch closer to him, until my focus is on the rise and fall of his breath, and something in my body eases.