37. Adrian
THIRTY-SEVEN
ADRIAN
Thanksgiving comes and goes. I wouldn’t have known, but Dylan tells me what day it is. We eat fish to celebrate and roast coconut over the fire.
“Not exactly your mom’s turkey,” Dylan says when he passes one of the coconut halves we use as bowls to me.
“Don’t remind me,” I say. “I’d kill for a burger right about now.”
“With fries,” Dylan says.
“And soda with ice in it.”
“And pie with ice cream for dessert.”
I’m salivating just at the thought.
“You remember when we went to The Big E?” I ask.
“The deep-fried raspberry cheesecake balls,” Dylan says with a wistful sigh.
“And lemon shakes,” I add in the same longing tone.
Dylan’s stomach rumbles. We’re not quite starving right now, but we’re not far off either.
The only things we eat are fruit and fish, and it shows.
Dylan’s collarbones are still too prominent, and the angles of his face get subtly sharper with each passing week.
When he stretches out, I can see his ribs.
I’m not in any better shape. Neither of us is on the brink of death, but I’m aware of the very real possibility should anything happen to any of our food sources.
It’s a constant, nagging worry in the back of my head.
It’s not that we don’t eat enough. It’s just that it’s really fucking difficult to eat the same number of calories we use up every day when the only things available are fish and fruit and an occasional egg if we manage to raid a bird’s nest. Most of those fuckers build them way up high or disguise them really well though, so it’s not a treat we get often.
I absently reach out and trail my fingers over the hollow dips next to Dylan’s hip bones. He tenses at once, goose bumps pop up on his stomach, and he jerks away.
I raise my brows at him.
His Adam’s apple moves when he swallows.
“Wh-what are you doing?” he sputters.
That’s a bit of an overreaction.
“Touching you?” I say. “You okay?”
He seems to be lost for words for a moment.
“Ticklish,” he finally mutters.
I laugh. “Since when?”
“It’s just… something.” He’s not making any sense at all. “So what are you grateful for?” he asks a bit too loudly to sound natural. Then he winces. “Okay, that’s probably not the question you want to answer in our current situation. Forget I asked.”
“I can still be grateful for things.”
“Well, for sure,” he says with a mix of sarcasm and skepticism.
“Let’s see. All the coconuts. The sand that’s always everywhere.
I haven’t brushed my teeth in six months, and I’m reduced to rubbing them with the hem of a shirt, so that’s fun.
And this island is trying to kill us. What’s not to be thankful for?
” He drops his head back and shouts, “Thank you!”
I shake my head. “There are still things I’m grateful for.”
“I don’t believe you.”
“You,” I say. “I’m most grateful for you.”
He glowers at me before he turns his head away and mutters, “Stop being mushy.”
I grin at his back while he bails with the excuse of finding more wood.
Much later, when we’re in the life raft in the dark, he slides the back of his hand against mine.
“I’m thankful for you too,” he whispers.
I sleep the whole night through.
No nightmares this time.
All in all, not the worst Thanksgiving ever, as unbelievable as it sounds.
The rainy season peters out at the beginning of May.
I don’t know if we just got lucky for once or if there aren’t hurricanes in Fiji, but aside from a few nasty lightning storms and a couple of regular storms, we escape mostly unscathed.
The biggest mishap is when a large branch crashes down on the life raft, but the lean-to we built above it takes most of the damage.
You sort of get used to the fact that the island is, if not outright trying to kill you, at least toying with the idea.
I think of her less and less.
Not on purpose.
Every now and then I stop and realize I’ve gotten so caught up in the island that I’ve forgotten the rest of the world is still somewhere out there.
Guilt will eat at me.
Then, inevitably, the island will try to kill us.
And the real world starts to fade once again.
Until it’s just me and Dylan and this godforsaken island and absolutely nothing and nobody else.
Dylan turns twenty-five in June.
“Please don’t mention it,” he says the day before.
I just nod.
I get it.
I made the exact same request on my birthday a few months ago, because my family always made a huge deal out of birthdays.
Mom and Dad invited everyone over, and we’d have a big party.
Nothing extravagant. Just the family and friends, but we have a lot of both.
There would be decorations and cake and people hanging out together.
Trying to celebrate in any way would just be a depressing reminder that we’re stuck here and everybody thinks we’re dead.
It’s better not to think about that.
It’s better to pretend this island isn’t real.
It’s better to pretend we’ll get back home soon and celebrate then.
Even if I’m not so sure anymore that we’re ever going to escape this place.