Chapter Twenty-Six #2
It takes us several days to get it built, partially because Jules insisted on a functioning door, but mainly because he dragged that window he almost died for over, and I refused to help install it.
Mathieu accused me of sulking, and Jules had enough grace to look embarrassed but not enough to stop ignoring me.
As soon as he got my agreement for the hut, he went back to giving me the cold shoulder.
How mad could he be about not being allowed to give a hand job?
Certainly not half as mad as I am about the window.
I watch in the evening light as Mathieu and Jules put the finishing touches on the inside.
We have a solid bamboo bed frame a foot off the ground, several layers of woven palm fronds, and our fair share of scavenged cushions.
Just having that space off the ground to spare us from bugs will be a huge relief.
The window I’ve decided never to acknowledge is facing the ocean, letting in enough light to keep it from being gloomy inside.
Mary gifted Jules a curtain made from plant leaves that she wove together.
I broke my resolution not to help for five minutes to help him put it up.
He looked worried that he was going to tear it.
After that, I went straight back to sitting in the shade, watching, and the next day I’d had enough of watching them work without me and just got to it.
Staying mad at Jules wouldn’t change what happened, and I already got his promise for no more repeats.
“Are we sleeping in here tonight?” Mathieu asks as I’m double-checking our thatching. One of the things we were able to scrounge up before the yacht sank was the extra sail, and we have a section of it woven into the roof and walls.
There are dark clouds coming in, and there’s a bluster of wind rustling the leaves.
“It will be a good test of whether we’re fully waterproof,” I say.
Jules loudly ignores me. I’m not sure how he does it. I know I’m not crazy or imagining things because Mathieu glances between the two of us and looks amused.
“I’ll go let Seán know,” I say. “Do you need anything from camp while I’m there?”
“Just my bag,” Mathieu requests.
I head out through the undergrowth onto the sand.
I don’t get more than a few steps, and Jules is next to me, keeping pace.
This has been the thing about the past week.
I can’t help but be aware of the cold shoulder I’m getting because Jules has been glued to me every minute of it.
His offhand comment about sticking to me because Darren won’t pick a fight with me wasn’t as dismissive as I initially thought.
My irritation softens. If I’m being seen as a safe figure, I’m not going to do anything to jeopardise that. He’s putting up a strong front, but I’m sure Jules is rattled. How could he not be? He was assaulted by a man twice his size and is still stuck on an island with said man.
“Willow said she and Yasop are going to the other side of the island and to try to keep a fire going over there.” Jules breaks the silence.
“That’s a good idea,” I say.
Jules’s eyes slide towards the hill in the middle of the island. The mound is grey in the fading light and thick with shadowy trees. I’ve been bitten by racer snakes half a dozen times now on the water trips, while, for whatever reason, nobody else has got so much as a nip.
“It’s not an easy climb, even if we have that trail going up from the pool,” I caution.
“And maintaining a fire up there would be a lot more challenging than down here. It’s a blanket canopy at the top, and thick with shrubs and young trees.
If it goes wrong and we catch the forest on fire, it’s so densely packed we’re not going to be able to stop it. ”
“And that would be our food source gone,” Jules finishes.
“If the wind’s wrong, we’ll burn down all the vegetation on that other island too. The direction it’s blowing now, actually.” It’s pushing against our backs.
“Would going up there and clearing a few trees for a fire pit be difficult?”
I consider the idea. “Not impossible, but yes, difficult. We don’t have an easy way to fell big trees. Bamboo poles and branches are one thing, but cutting into a solid tree trunk… Even my knife can’t manage that.”
Jules reaches to his waist, closing a hand over the hilt of the knife.
He only takes it off to sleep and swim. I’ve noticed he touches it often, the same way he does the quartz Mathieu gave him.
I’m oddly pleased by it. Like I gave him a gift, too.
The day I gave it to him, he stopped ignoring me long enough to ask how to light a fire with it.
We relit the beacon fire with a rock, and Jules seemed delighted at the sparks he could create with the spine of the knife.
“Leave it with me,” I say. “I’ll think about how we can safely manage it.”
Jules bumps into me as we pass Charles and Mary’s hut.
He peers in their direction, but cleverly woven vines form a privacy screen across the entrance.
I’m not sure what dictates his visiting decision-making.
Sometimes he does, sometimes he doesn’t.
Sometimes he stays to chat, sometimes he says hi and is gone again just as quickly.
He’s got some sort of empathetic sixth sense for people’s moods.
He knows when he’s welcome or not, and he knows when to move along quickly.
“Can you read me as easily?” I ask.
Jules looks up with an expression of bafflement. “What?”
“The way you”—I gesture towards Charles and Mary’s camp—“need only one or two words, and you know whether to stay or leave. If someone wants company, or if they want space. You’re always right. Can you read me like that?”
“I do that?” Jules seems caught off guard. “Well…everyone wants space right now. Now that the food is running low again, and we’re back to fruit and fish. Patience is fraying.”
“Yours isn’t.”
Guilt shifts across his face, followed by embarrassment. He looks straight ahead and drifts sideways so that his arm bumps mine again. “I wanted that window. I know it was stupid and unreasonable, but I wanted it more than anything. And I’m used to, when I want something, taking steps to get it.”
With great effort, I put aside the anger that rises at the mere mention of the window. It’s rooted in worry, and I don’t want to yell at Jules again. That means moving past it.
“I’ve noticed that about you.”
Jules bumps me again, eyes flashing as they dart to my face. I’m confident at this point that he won’t misread my amusement as anything mocking. He stops walking and turns to me.
Jules presses both hands to my chest and shoves.
Thanks to the slope of the beach, I have to take a step back to keep my balance. Jules put his entire weight into that shove.
“Right,” I say.
Jules shoves me again. One step. Two steps. Three. Four. Five.
“Going all the way to the ocean, are we?” I ask.
I could catch his wrists and stop him. I could also just brace rather than getting pushed back.
Our weight difference is big enough that there’s not much he could do about it if I just plant my feet.
He gets me halfway down the shore before he’s puffing for air.
His head is ducked down, avoiding my gaze.
I plant myself, and Jules’s next shove ends with him plastered against my chest. He makes a frustrated noise.
“Jules.”
He resets his palms against my chest, putting his weight into it.
I’m braced, and he doesn’t achieve anything.
Sweat beads on the back of his neck, and his muscles bunch with the strain.
His stylish haircut is growing out on the sides, turning him into something unkempt, a little wild.
It’s longer than when I had it in my fist on the yacht.
“Right,” I say again.
I purposefully step back. Jules falls with a yelp against me. I gather him in my arms and kiss him.