Chapter Twenty-Two
Jules
“Was I an idiot for staying with Darren?” I ask.
Mary is lashing bamboo poles together on her lap, and Charles is clearing away growth.
Their chosen spot is a good length down the beach, far enough away that they’ll have privacy, but not so far that they’ll have a huge trek for meals.
Charles scouted out a natural break in the treeline so they have some protection from the wind, too.
I set down the latest armful of bamboo stalks—I’ve been carrying pitifully tiny armfuls because of my shoulders—and kneel next to Mary, waiting for an answer.
“You’re not an idiot,” Mary says. “I’m sorry that he’s coming at you like this, Jules. We’ll say something if he tries to make more comments. Won’t we, Charles?”
Charles calls out an affirmative.
“I mean, before now. Our relationship. We were together for two years.” After walking this far, my emotions have cooled enough to recognise that Cillian and Mathieu weren’t trying to have a go at me. I think it was the opposite. They were angry for me.
“Will you give my eulogy?”
Charles curses. He doubles over, cupping his thumb. “Eulogy?” he demands.
Mary sets aside what she’s doing. “We’re not dying here. I know it’s scary that we haven’t been found yet, but we’re going to be okay. I promise.”
“Sorry, I don’t mean—I know we’re going to be okay.
When I was pulled off the yacht, I thought I was going to die.
That Darren would be the one giving my eulogy, and he’d say a load of horrible things about me.
It’s been bothering me a lot.” I worry the inside of my cheek between my teeth.
“I was hoping that you’d do my eulogy instead? ”
Charles sits on the other side of Mary. He looks confused.
“I don’t have any family left,” I explain. It isn’t something I talk about, and I can’t recall if I’ve ever said this to anyone in our group besides Mary. She doesn’t have family either. The parent email I compiled for everyone to send on was forwarded to Charles’s family on her behalf.
“I’m sorry.” Charles places his hand on Mary’s thigh. “Mary could make you a cool urn if you want to be cremated.”
“Charles,” she hisses.
Startled, I laugh. I set Mary off, and she laughs too. Soon we’re both gasping for air and struggling to breathe. I clutch my stomach, groaning.
“After you bought her that book on Ancient Greek pottery, she spent months figuring out how to do it in the studio. You like classics, don’t you? She could do your favourite myth on an urn in that style.”
My laughter subsides. Mary looks at Charles with love in her eyes. I might be looking at him the same way. Before this trip, Charles had been more “Mary’s boyfriend” and “Darren’s teammate” than someone I thought of as an individual. I never realised how cool he is.
“I just poured my heart into the myth of Echo and Narcissus, so that one? But maybe a myth about tragic vanity isn’t what I want on the vessel I’ll be buried in.” I think about it. “I’ll know what it means.”
“I was a sounding board for your practice presentation,” Mary says. “I’ll know what it means too. I can do that, but I’ll get Willow’s help for the eulogy. She’s a far better writer, and she’d help organise my thoughts. We’ll make sure it’s a good one.”
“Thank you.”
Mary and Charles exchange a look.
“Jules, why don’t you hang out here with us?” Charles asks. “We’ll make the lean-to a little wider, or we can put together a second one.”
Mary’s expression says she’s on board with this.
I consider the offer. It’s a nice, easy getaway to escape the consequences of storming off on Cillian and Mathieu.
I wouldn’t have to confront that particular embarrassment that way.
My hand finds Mathieu’s quartz, warm against my breastbone.
If I slept here, I wouldn’t be in a lean-to with Mathieu and Cillian. And that would mean no chance for…
Returning the favour?
Or that thing about my thighs Cillian mentioned earlier.
Or morning kisses from Mathieu.
I’m ridiculous. I should be focusing on food and shelter and smoke signals.
“Thanks for the offer, but for now I’m good.
The camp is going to be almost empty anyway.
” I turn over the quartz, thumbing the rough edge.
“Besides, Cillian gets rid of all the spiders and bugs that crawl into the lean-to, and Mathieu and I have him go investigate rustling bushes at night.” Which he never complains about, even though it’s been birds every time.
“And I don’t know if I’d be able to fall asleep without Mathieu rubbing my back.
And Cillian has all these stories about… ”
Mary and Charles regard me with equally amused expressions.
I clear my throat and gesture to the work Charles set aside. “We should get this done before it’s too hot.”
Charles and Mary keep me confined to easy, non-strenuous tasks. Despite that, by the time the sun is directly overhead, there’s a decent shelter in place. I gather our empty water bottles and head towards the beach. “See you guys back at camp for lunch?”
They nod.
I keep to the shade as I walk down the beach, scanning the horizon for any changes.
It’s blue, beautiful and empty. I keep expecting to see the glint of sunlight reflecting off metal in the distance, the way the light keeps hitting the yacht and shining off it.
Its wrecked form makes me think about my luck.
How many people in the world survive multiple catastrophic accidents throughout their lives?
Maybe that’s all my luck spent.
It feels that way. I run into Darren just outside camp. He’s carrying empty bottles too.
Our eyes meet. He’s annoyed, and I have to physically quash the urge to try to soothe the annoyance. That’s not my job. We’re not dating, and we’re not friends.
I move past him without saying anything. He grabs my wrist.
It’s a hard grip.
“What?”
“Where were you?” Darren looks at me as if I’ve been off in a secret island bunker watching TV.
“Where do you think? The island isn’t that big.” I yank my arm out of his grip.
“Off pulling your usual shit with Mathieu?” Darren challenges.
Cillian’s voice echoes in my ears. Let me guess. Darren would pitch a jealous fit whenever you talked to anyone attractive.
“Are you jealous?” I ask. “Of me, I’m assuming. Not of Mathieu—”
Darren’s hands engulf my shoulders. He shoves.
My bottles fall into the sand. I fall against a palm tree.
My shoulder takes the brunt of the impact, the force knocking the air from my lungs.
He grabs my throat. His other arm flattens against my chest, pinning me against the tree trunk.
Individual fingers bite into my neck, like a predator’s jaws snapping shut. I can’t breathe.
Panic surges through me. I snatch the hand locked on my throat, prying at his fingers. They don’t budge.
“Jealous? Of what? A pathetic fucking slut? You’re delighted we’re trapped here. You get to go around offering yourself as a warm hole to be used, and nobody has any other options, so they take you up on it.”
I can’t breathe.
“I’m not jealous.”
I can’t breathe.
“I feel bad for Mathieu. You can be charming when you—”
I jam my palm into his face, shoving.
Darren leans back with a curse. His arm span is greater than mine, and he’s out of reach.
I kick his leg.
Darren’s head snaps to the side, eyes flashing down the treeline. He abruptly drops his hands, turning away from me.
I double over, cupping my throat, gasping. It feels indented, as if his hand is still clutching me. The entire area throbs like a burn.
Voices approach. Willow and Yasop. Darren turns in their direction, straightening his sleeves, brushing sand off the knee I kicked.
The surge of panic and fear transitions into anger. I plant my hands on Darren’s back and shove with all my weight. He yelps and fumbles, landing on his hands and knees in the sand.
Darren twists towards me, mouth curled into a rotten sneer.
“Don’t ever touch me again.”
I snatch up my bottles from where they fell in the sand and rush on to camp. My entire body is trembling. Behind me, I hear Willow ask, “Did you fall?”
Mathieu is stirring something in the skillet set over the fire. He looks up as I walk into camp. “I know it’s hot, but we agreed that we’d like something cooked. Seán found enough eggs, so I’m putting together egg-fried rice.”
I go to where the bottles are gathered and put the empties in the right place. The unsteadiness of the night before rises like a wave. My hands won’t stop shaking. My throat is hot, like Darren is still crushing it.
“Jules?” Mathieu calls tentatively. There’s an insecure note in his voice.
I don’t want him to think I’m being cold. Or brushing him off. Or for him to think there’s something about him that’s making me turn aside. I sit next to him. “Smells good.”
I feel the weight of his gaze on the side of my face. I pretend that I’m too engrossed in the food to notice.
“I’m sorry for earlier. I didn’t mean to make you feel bad,” Mathieu says.
“You don’t need to apologise, you didn’t do anything wrong.”
“I think you’re cool.” Mathieu stirs the food. “And if we were dating, you being social is the part I’d like best. Even if the person you’re talking to is hot. I was surprised by what you said earlier. I wasn’t trying to be critical.”
My gaze travels up Mathieu’s hand, his slender wrist, to the slope of his shoulder, the curve of his neck. By the time I’m looking at his dark eyes, his attention is back on me. There’s tenderness in his gaze. “Rather than saying it’s fine, I’d like it if you could say you forgive me.”
I hear rustling down the path and approaching voices. I shuffle closer to Mathieu and rest my head on his shoulder. I press my leg against his. Taking, soaking up, all his sunshine warmth.
“I forgive you.”
Mathieu wraps his arm around my back, and he keeps it there. Apparently he has no reservations about people seeing the contact and gauging for themselves what it means.
I don’t look at Darren.