27. Pippi
We’ll be okay.
People fight all the time. Bigger fights than we had. Meaner. And they cool off and make up.
We’ll be okay.
But my parents fought too, hadn’t they? And they were never okay.
We’re different.
I can patch things up in the morning. But should I?
These thoughts had bounced around in my head all night.
They’d first invaded when Jackson, dressed in black jeans and a mint green polo shirt, left for dinner, muttering that I should “ not bother waiting up .” They’d staged an assault as I sat on our bed, crying until my eyes hurt, and they’d chased me into my sleep and haunted my dreams. And they continued to drill into my brain when I woke up and blearily looked at the clock on the wall.
The midnight hour had come and gone.
And Jackson was nowhere.
His side of the bed was undisturbed, and his clothes were strewn where he’d left them.
In the bathroom his cologne, shaving cream, toothbrush, lint roller, and comb remained scattered over the sink.
He never tidied after himself. Didn’t need to, really.
I usually hit the bathroom after him and put everything away.
I hadn’t done that tonight, though.
And he hadn’t come back to set anything straight.
Anything. His stuff. Or our fight.
Near seven hours now, since he’d gone.
Did he even want to set things straight?
Did I?
We’ll be okay.
It was around that time, sniffling in our empty cottage, that I got myself together, shimmied into a red swirl blouse and jean capris, and left. To go meet Alistair.
And when Jackson came back tonight— if he came back…
Let him worry.
It was a nice night. Warm, with a breeze that was still a little too sticky, and a lot too salty, for my taste.
But it felt less like the sweltering sauna that it had been the last few days.
Or maybe my internal body temperature had cooled.
The epic crying session had wiped out the negative emotions I’d been frothing over.
Either way, it was almost pleasant, climbing down the cliff path, and sitting, once I’d gone as low as I dared, to wait for Alistair.
It would’ve been more pleasant if those barbarous thoughts had stopped ravaging my brain.
What have I done?
Why did I do it?
I’ve been saying how much I want to go home. If I keep this up, I might not have a home by the time we leave here.
And that brought on the waterworks again.
I felt him several seconds before he called my name. His hope was soft and delicate as it reached for me, like a ribbon of fine silk.
“Pippi?” Alistair murmured.
“I’m”—a watery hitch fractured my words—“here.”
A pause. Then, “You’re c-c-crying?” he said in the tenderest voice.
“Y-y-yes.” And I cried harder.
Because the sound of my tears had left him in turmoil.
And his turmoil fanned mine.
It was a vicious cycle.
“What’s wrong?” Alistair’s voice soothed.
“ Everything ,” I said.
“I’m sorry.”
And those weren’t flat words spat out to be polite. Alistair was truly, deeply sorry, even if he didn’t know what he was sorry for.
“Me too.” No matter how many tears I mopped up, more kept coming.
“I made such a mess. And I don’t know why …
I mean, I do. But I should’ve done it differently.
Or just kept my mouth shut and…Stars. I used to think that about my mom.
That she should’ve kept her mouth shut. And now I-I’ve thrown it all away.
It feels like. And…” Salt blossomed over my tongue when I slurped a mouthful of tears.
“My head hurts.” It did. The raw, skull-flaying ache that crying left behind.
“I’m sorry.” Alistair himself sounded close to tears. “What can I do? Pippi? To…help?”
“Can we go somewhere?” I asked. “I don’t wanna be here right now. So can we go somewhere? Anywhere. Your favorite place, as long as it’s not underwater. Although, honestly, drowning would probably solve all my problems?—”
“Do not ”—Alistair’s voice rose to a frantic bellow—“say that, Pippi. Ever. Please.”
Horror, heartache, and fear flooded my chest. The agony had me sucking in a great galumphing breath. And then I panicked when the air got stuck in the base of my throat. Because my lungs were drowning in the swamp of caustic emotion.
Tacky sweat dribbled down my back. I straightened. Grappled at the rocks. Started to see checker spots.
But then the sensation vanished. My lungs worked freely. My head cleared.
Because Alistair had pulled his torment away from me.
“I’m sorry.” His voice tentatively stroked my brain. “I’m sorry. That was ru-rude. To yell. I didn’t mean to scare you.”
“You didn’t,” I said. “Honest. You didn’t scare me.”
“Good. I?—”
“You’ve lost someone.” It wasn’t a question. People only experienced that sort of misery when someone they loved had been ripped out of their life.
“I have. But I shouldn’t…You…I?—”
A hot pool of his frustration swamped my chest.
“Take your time,” I reminded him. “I know I talk fast, Alistair. But you don’t have to keep pace with me. Take your time with the words. I’ll wait.”
The pool cooled and dwindled away.
“I spoke…talked fast too.” Alistair sighed. “Once.”
“Was that back when you were honing your flirting skills?”
He laughed. “Yes.”
“A speedy smooth talker. With a hot British accent. You must’ve had all the ladies lined up. Probably the gents, too.”
He paused, nibbling on the words, trying to figure out their textures and flavors. And then, in a voice deliberately dropped a few octaves he asked, “You think my…ack-ak-acc-sent. Accent. Is hot ?”
And I laughed. A very messy and wet laugh that left my throat a little raw and sent some flaming ice picks into my brain. But it dried the tears, better than my sleeves or hands could’ve done. “Yes. Your accent is hot . More than that, it’s decadent.”
There’s a reason I had a wet dream of you whispering sweet nothings to me.
I wasn’t quite rebounded enough to tackle that conversation, though. Not yet.
“I like your ack-accent too.” He kept his voice low and husky.
“Now you’re milking it.”
He dropped to a purry growl. “You say my name n-n-nice. Alistairrrrrr .”
A shriek of laughter rocketed out of me.
“Oh dear. There must be another whale d-dying nearby,” Alistair rumbled.
And I was gone. Laughing until I wheezed. Until my stomach ached and I started crying again. Good tears this time, though. Healing tears. The sort that nourished the soul, rather than drained it.
Alistair murmured to me as I fought off the giggle attack. Nothing to set me off again. Just support, to help me down from my high, and keep me from crashing back into despair.
“You do have a lovely laugh, Pippi.”
Ahhh, there was that word.
Lovely. I’d never hear it the same way again.
I swiped at my sticky eyes. “Thank you. Not for the compliment. Well…I mean…thanks for that too. But double thank you for the goofing. I really needed that.”
A pulse of joy thrummed through me.
“I’m sorry, I…What you felt. Earlier. I should have…Cun-con-controlled it.” Alistair stumbled over the words. “And not yelled. I’m sorry.”
“Honestly, Alistair, I’m glad you let me feel that. We’ve all got nerves that flare when someone trounces on them. I didn’t know you had a nerve there. I’m sorry.”
“You couldn’t know. When I haven’t told you.”
“I know. And I’d like to fix that. The things we don’t know about each other. I’m not on this island long, so we’re having to speed run this friendship. But I like you, Alistair. And I’d like to know you. As much as I can.”
His hope was back, twining its silken chords around my heart. “I’d like that too. And Pippi, I had to th-think. But you wanted to go. Leave. To a f-favorite place. Do you still?”
“Absolutely.”
“I know where to take you.”