Chapter One
Faye
When Faye imagined jet-setting to the warm shores of Portugal, she pictured clear blue skies and sunshine warming her face as soon as the crew opened the aeroplane doors.
Instead, they circled the airport for an hour, waiting to land, and Storm Reneé met them on the tarmac like a smack in the face.
Rain pelted Faye’s bare arms, the metal steps trembling underneath her feet.
A man’s cap flew at her like a missile, and she screamed as it clipped the back of her head, smashing her brand-new sunglasses onto the tarmac.
Great. Just…great.
The wind howled as she hurried towards passport control, her dark hair whipping across her vision and into her mouth. Babies wailed as the wind tried to outroar the aeroplane engines. Pieces of paper flew loose from passengers’ magazines.
Once inside the building, Faye parted her hair like heavy curtains, the tangles wet between her fingers.
She sighed, shifting her heavy rucksack from one shoulder to the other as the line slowly inched forward.
To ease her worries that her luggage might accidentally end up in Asia instead of Europe, she’d packed most of her ostomy essentials in her carry-on.
Her muscles ached from lugging around the extra weight, but it was worth the sacrifice.
Tell that to your back in the morning.
Even travelling under perfect circumstances would give Faye a migraine. The combination of being six months post-op and travelling on her own for the first time resulted in her imagining every fictional scenario, from the plane in flames to her being sucked down the cabin toilet.
Logically, she knew she’d be fine. She could last up to six hours before she needed to empty her bag—depending on what she ate—and it was a short flight.
But the what-ifs always circulated in the back of her mind—a quality that made her the most organised twenty-six-year-old she knew but also frequently left her with a throbbing headache. Her brain didn’t know how to rest.
Hence, the enrolment on the Sandy Springs “Reset Your Life” course. A wellness retreat on a remote Portuguese island that—her dads were convinced—would give her the kick up the arse she needed.
David’s “You need to relax” meeting Lukas’s “Get out there and start living” had meant Faye couldn’t get a word in edgeways.
She assumed it was the same with anyone’s parents, regardless of gender, but their end sentiment was the same: Faye had become a hermit who treated other humans like foreign lifeforms. And that needed to change.
Finally, the grumpy, stout man at passport control waved her forward. She’d been practising her Portuguese on a loop ever since taking her aisle seat on the plane. All those months spent hiding away from everyone weren’t totally unproductive.
You can do this. Be confident. Be clear.
Faye flashed a smile she didn’t feel and greeted the man with a “Boa tarde”, digging her nails into her palms. He glanced at her and muttered something incoherent—either Faye’s Portuguese wasn’t quite up to scratch, or he was a chronic mumbler. When she didn’t reply, he raised a fuzzy eyebrow.
Shit. Did he ask something?
Just as she imagined being dragged away in handcuffs for disobeying orders, he stamped her passport and called the next person forward. Hiding the warmth coating her cheeks, she thanked him anyway and headed towards the luggage carousel.
She fired off a quick Landed safe and sound text to her dads, then scanned the board, her fingers twitching under the strap of her rucksack. Her flight wasn’t listed. She blinked, the words jumbling together on the screen. They were delayed, but surely their luggage should have arrived by now?
Someone bumped into her, knocking her off balance.
More bodies closed in, scurrying like rats.
Her mouth opened, but she couldn’t say anything.
What if her suitcase never turned up? Oh god.
She was going to end up stranded in the airport forever because she had the physical aggression of a comatose manatee.
Pain throbbed in her shoulders. The speakers overhead crackled, stumbling over a muffled message. Maybe they’d just announced her luggage had been diverted to Reykjavík. Faye didn’t know. She was going to die in this airport, the stale AC her last lingering memory of existence.
Then a flash of magenta caught her eye. She hurried to the adjacent belt, her trainers squeaking against the shiny floor as she weaved through the crowd. Suitcases piled up on the carousel like Jenga blocks. The knot in her chest loosened a smidge.
Hers was impossible to miss. She could hear David’s voice in her head. “Excellent job, Miss Pankhurst.” Her history-teacher dad loved the suffragettes and often compared Faye’s organisational skills to the founders of the movement. Faye wasn’t going to complain about that compliment.
Prepare for the worst and never be disappointed.
Strong women inspired her. Rosa Parks’s bravery, Ada Lovelace’s creativity, Amelia Earhart’s ambition. Faye believed there was a special essence in every person that surged when they faced adversity. Something she’d lovingly called the “enigma”. She just needed to find her own.
She inhaled a shaky breath.
It starts today, she reminded herself. Get a grip.
She tugged her suitcase free and started towards arrivals, sidestepping an enormous family of tantrumming children with snotty noses. Her head spun as her gaze combed the many placards. Get me out of here.
She spotted a sixty-something woman holding up “Faye Donovan” in sharp black marker, and her lungs let out another sigh of relief.
She wasn’t going to die in the airport. Hooray.
She noted the woman’s name badge: Carla.
“Olá. You’re finally here! Welcome.” A big grin spread across her weathered but kind face.
A long, loose ponytail of dark hair dangled down her back, a silver septum piercing drawing attention to her button nose.
She grabbed Faye’s suitcase and wheeled it away.
“We must be quick. The weather is getting worse.”
Carla wasted no time speeding out of the cluster of taxis, pulling red, oversized sunglasses from the dashboard even though the sun was nowhere to be seen. Remembering the broken ones in her bag, Faye sighed. She should’ve brought spares.
A quiet settled, the radio a low murmur of chattering voices as the wind raged outside, rocking the car. Carla tapped her painted fingernails on the steering wheel, tutting as the stream of traffic refused to let her merge onto the autoestrada.
Faye chewed her lip. If she wanted to make friends on this trip and prove she could be a functioning human, she needed to practise her conversational skills. But… words. It was so painfully English to discuss the weather, but it was a classic dialogue opener.
“Windy today, isn’t it?” Faye cringed hearing the words leave her lips. Interacting with people shouldn’t be so difficult.
Carla nodded, keeping her eyes on the road. “Yes, the storm is getting worse.”
Faye had read about the storm early this morning when she couldn’t sleep.
The worst of it wasn’t supposed to arrive until tomorrow, when she’d already settled safely on the island.
But Faye’s luck wasn’t worth betting on.
She’d never imagined living with a stoma, becoming a recluse under thirty, and running away to a volcanic island. But here she was.
“Ah, poor bugger,” Carla commented as a woman’s umbrella turned inside out, dragging her down the street. Leaves swirled around her, the rain pelting her face.
Faye couldn’t help the questioning glance at the use of the colloquial English, and Carla laughed.
“I like English phrases,” she explained, eyes locked on the scene outside the window.
The woman tried and failed to bend the broken metal ribs back into place, hitting herself in the nose.
“Cheap as chips. Piece of cake. The boss always teaches me.” Carla turned to Faye. “Do you know any more?”
“Hmm.” Put on the spot, every word in the English language left Faye’s brain. Then her dad, Lukas, popped into her mind. His Italian background meant he loved English phrases too, and he had a favourite. “Do you know ‘the dog’s bollocks’?” she asked.
Maybe not the best example to teach a stranger, Faye.
But before she could scramble to say something else, Carla chuckled. “What?” She grinned as she inched the van forward through traffic. “What does it mean?” The worsening weather drew dark clouds over them, and the wind rocked the van with a whistle.
“It means really good. Like…” Faye pulled a half-eaten bar of chocolate from her rucksack and held it up. “This chocolate is the dog’s bollocks. It’s the best.”
“Not made of dog, right?” Carla eyed her, waiting for Faye to confirm.
Faye laughed, relaxing a little. “No. No dogs were harmed. Don’t worry.”
“Can I try?”
She had promised her dads to say yes to more things, but sharing her chocolate was sharing her heart. Like the mimic octopus camouflages itself into a jellyfish or a venomous sea-snake, Faye had to fit in, she supposed, so she begrudgingly let Carla snap off the top chunk.
“Mmm.” Carla nodded her approval. “The dog’s bollocks.”
Faye popped a square into her mouth too, pleased at her progress. Even if she had to sacrifice her chocolate.
“I like you.” Carla pointed at her. “What more can you teach me?”
* * *
Two hours later, Carla pulled the minibus up to the port, only to find it closed.
They’d been on a wild goose chase—Carla liked that saying too—due to falling trees blocking the roads.
Faye had hoped to leave the worst of the weather behind them, but judging by the roll of thunder and the violent waves splashing the dock, it was just getting started.
She hadn’t prepared for this. She laid a hand over her abdomen, subtly gauging her bag’s fullness. The last thing she wanted was to leak all over Carla’s car. Then shit would hit the fan. Literally.