Chapter 16
Ariana
I wake up alone to the sounds of birds chirping and insects buzzing around my ears.
After a few quick swats, settle back down, grateful for the relatively insect-free sleep I just had. Villain is off doing God knows what, but even when he’s gone, I know I’m never alone. The creepy crawlies don’t sleep.
It’s day four, I think. My head feels heavy.
Must be from the champagne. And the weed.
I still can’t believe I let him convince me to smoke with him.
But it wasn’t bad at all. Matter of fact, I might still be high right now.
I have a strange sense of peace that wasn’t there yesterday.
Or the day before. Or any days as far back as I remember.
I stare up at the leaf canopy and sigh softly. The air is warm and damp and the light is soft. If not for the context, this would feel like a tropical vacation.
I kinda needed one of those.
Back home, I’m always on the go. Planes, suitcases, hotels, Ubers and taxis. A few quick selfies in front of some monument or sight and then right back at it.
When I’m not working, it’s outings with friends—lots of dinners and lounges. If not friends, I’m at Ashara’s house hanging with her and the girls.
Dates happen when friends and family don’t. Some good, some bad.
And I wouldn’t change a thing.
That’s what I always told myself, at least. I’m not a fan of stillness. Never have been. But I’m still right now and wondering if all that coming and going was me running from something.
I shake my head to stop the incoming spiral, then I make the mistake of sitting up. A wave of dizziness forces my eyes closed. All I can do is wait for it to pass.
There.
The dull ache in my leg has mostly subsided, so I unwrap it and take a look. Where it was red and angry before, the gash is almost closed, and the blood is nicely clotted. I don’t think I need the bandage anymore.
I brush my teeth, change into clean underwear, and slide my days-old dress back over my head. Fresh clothes will have to wait until I wash properly. Something about clean clothes on a dirty body makes me itch.
Like my scalp right now. I pat it mercilessly, wondering if I should take out my sew-in. My hair must look like a bird’s nest by now.
I pull out my Chanel compact and stare down at it, debating. Ultimately, I can’t bring myself to flip it open because I feel my best when I look my best. I’m not quite ready to confirm how tore up I look. There’s enough going on right now, no need to throw salt on my own wound.
I wonder what Villain sees when he looks at me.
I can’t help but smile when I think about last night, how I could feel his eyes on me as I drifted off to sleep.
I’m kicking myself for never being interested enough in celebrity gossip, because now I’m thinking about his fiancée, wondering what she looks like.
If she’s beautiful. If she makes him happy.
Not that it matters.
I’m just curious.
I don’t know anything about his world beyond his stage name, that he has a kid, and that he’s had some hits. But now, I find myself intrigued.
I’m rummaging through my bag for my lip gloss when my fingers brush my pack of birth control pills. I pop one out and swallow it dry, hoping I can stave off my period before I starts. Then I approach the wreckage, forgetting all about my lip gloss.
It’s a charred skeleton now, its black bones broken and cracked. I step carefully, keeping to the edges of the debris.
The tail is where I need to be. It also happens to be the least destroyed part of the jet. It’s tilted on its side, so I'm able to crouch and peer under the twisted panels, running my fingers along jagged seams. My hands come away black with soot and empty.
This isn’t working.
I push past my fear and duck under a bent piece of fuselage. The air inside is hot and stale, almost putrid. I gag slightly, but I hold it together long enough to spot it, bright against the grey ruin. A box, scorched but stubbornly orange, bolted into the frame.
For a second I just stare at it, my pulse pounding in my ears. It feels strange looking at it. This little thing holds the truth about what happened to us. The proof we existed. The proof we were here. A beacon of hope and rescue. It’s a monument of sorts.
I reach out and touch it, then make a futile attempt to tug it out of its place. It’s heavier than I expected, and of course I’m not strong enough to remove it with my bare hands. I scoot backwards out of the wreckage, settling onto my knees.
I’m a little disappointed, and I’m not sure why.
Actually, that’s a lie.
I know why.
I wanted to present the box to Villain when he comes back from wherever he is. Maybe to prove I was strong and capable enough to get it on my own. Or maybe to be nice. To show him I listened to him, even though I don’t really believe the location of the box matters.
To make him smile.
Just as I step into the clearing, Villain appears from the opposite side, grinning wide, dirt smudged on his arms.
“I did it,” he says. “I found the ocean for you.”
My smile answers his, and without a word or hesitation, I commence to grabbing my things.
We move through the trees, following the trail of shirt scraps he tied onto branches.
“I’ma find us some fresh water next,” he says, quickly adding, “but we probably won’t need it. We’ll be rescued by then.”
I don’t answer.
The walk seems to stretch on forever. I’m so tired, I almost tell him I’m turning back, but then I hear it—the roar of waves, deep and powerful and ferocious. Then the light brightens through the trees and we break through.
The sight knocks the breath out of me. White sand so blinding, it makes me squint. Vast blue horizon, rolling endlessly in front of us.
Water.
Before I can think, I’m running, my bad leg forgotten. Villain is right on my heels, laughing, chasing, and just for a second, it feels fun. Damn near normal. I stop at the water’s edge and drop my stuff on the sand, turning my face up to God and his circular light.
“I’ma leave you to it.”
I snap out of my stupor and look at Villain.
“I’ma go looking for seaweed so I can spell out a message.”
“How far are you going?”
He makes an awning of his palm, shielding his eyes. “Not too far, but far enough that I won’t be looking. Don’t worry.”
I nod, watching his back as he retreats down the beach. In either direction, there’s nobody else. If this were Miami or St. Tropez or Jamaica, there would be people and chairs and movement. But not here. Here, I only see more sand, and off in the distance, mountainous lumps of green.
No telling where we are.
Villain is a dot by the time my fingers fumble with my dress. Then it’s over my head, bra unclasped, panties peeled away. I squeeze a quarter-sized amount of body wash into my palm—my favorite scent. Pink Pistachio.
I step into the water, gasping as the cold waves wash over my ankles. I thought it would be warm, at least, but I can handle this. Further and further, I wade out until the water laps at my belly button. I dip a few times, wetting my tired back, shoulders, and neck.
The body wash lathers in my hands, but once it hits the salt on my skin, the suds evaporate, leaving it slick.
No matter. I wash, baptizing myself in the Atlantic, smiling at the feeling of cool silk against my skin.
The sky above is so blue, if I didn’t know God was real before, I certainly know it now.
I forget everything.
I smile.
I bask.
My fingers are pruned by the time I drag myself onto the sand.
I air dry for a bit, then use Villain’s t-shirt to dry myself off completely.
I slather myself in Pink Pistachio lotion, then I slip into fresh panties, stare at my bra for a minute before deciding I won’t be needing it, and pull on a pink sundress that floats in the breeze.
I feel human again.
I see him coming now, walking slow, but assured. I stare at him from my seat in the sand, noticing for the first time how tall he is and how much he swaggers when he walks. I don’t know how I missed it before.
I stand and turn toward him, my body shivering slightly when his eyes fix on me. Up and down, his gaze moves, pinning me in place.
“You look beautiful,” he says. “And you smell good, too.”
Before I can respond, he stoops to gather my things. “I found what I was looking for. Follow me.”
We walk. I trail a few feet behind, my legs feeling heavy. Then, because I’m dying to know, I blurt, “You didn’t sneak a peek at me, did you?”
He stops, turning toward me with a grin that’s wide enough to be an answer. “If you were me, wouldn’t you?”
He turns and walks again, leaving me unsettled. But not because he saw me. For whatever reason, I’m okay with that.
“Did you like what you saw?”
He stops again, but he doesn’t turn around.
“I did.”
I swallow hard, stomach fluttering.
We reach our destination shortly after. I marvel at the seaweed, washed ashore in thick brown ropes. We work silently, side-by-side, piling it together a safe distance from the shore. My hands sting from the salt, but I barely notice.
I’m still stuck on what he said.
“How big do you think the letters need to be?” he asks, his breath ragged.
“I’m not sure. Probably way bigger than we think is necessary.”
“How high do them bitches be?”
“What bitches?”
He laughs. “The planes. How many feet?”
“Oh.” I scratch at my sweaty neck. “It depends. Could be thirty thousand feet, could be five thousand. I would assume a rescue plane would fly low, though.”
He nods absentmindedly, staring off into the distance.
“Alright, I’ma do the H. You can rest if you want.”
“Thank you. My legs are a little tired.”
I sit on a thick log, watching him arrange the seaweed into something that might save our very lives. And when he finally speaks again, his voice comes quiet and cautious, almost like he’s confessing something.
“There’s this girl,” he says, still working, not looking at me. “Probably my favorite stripper in all of Houston, Miami, and Atlanta. Her name is Storm.”
I make a face, lips curled in disgust, because why is he telling me this?
“The way she dances,” he continues against my will, “it’s like…water. She moves so smooth. She just does it for me, if that makes sense.”
Of course it does, pervert.
“Today, I seen you from a distance. In the ocean.” He scoops up another pile of seaweed. “Frolicking. Lookin’ all relaxed and happy and beautiful. And I swear to God, that shit turned me on more than every lap dance I ever got from Storm.”
He stops moving to look at me. “I thought you were fine as hell the first time I saw you at the top of them steps. But seeing you today…it was different.”
He holds my gaze until I break away, my eyes dropping to the sand beneath my feet.
“That’s all I wanted to say,” he finishes, and then he gets back to work like nothing happened.
But it did.
At some point, he takes off his shirt, and I’m staring at his tattoos again, and his back. His muscles. His face. His eyes. And I realize something disturbing, something I hadn’t expected at all.
I’m starting to want him.