12
The party, as all parties, must go on. And so, unsurprisingly, when McCormick and I round the sandy bend to the circle of colorful cottages, a group of four men are setting up a white marquee tent, metal folding tables, and folding chairs.
One of them—a hugely muscled bald man with a face like a bulldog—stands on a ladder at our front porch. He’s tacking up a long fabric sign that has the hand-painted words, “Congrats, Becca and McCormick.”
“Becca!” he shouts when he sees me. “How’s it look?”
Under the shade tree, the three old women glance up from the game of cards they’ve moved on to. The largest rooster I’ve ever seen, rusty red and iridescent black, and two reddish-brown hens scratch in the sand at their feet.
The other three men stop, folding tables and chairs in their arms. All eyes are on me, waiting for my judgment.
How does it look? It’s a white sheet with hand-painted red letters. Some of the paint has dripped down from the letters and splattered over the fabric. There’s a splotch of red in the corner looking grotesquely like blood. So. How does it look?
It looks like a ransom note from a horror film.
“Good,” I say, giving the bulky bald man a thumbs-up.
At that McCormick gives a stifled laugh. The rest of the men move back to setting up for the party.
The rooster under the tree decides he’s tired of scratching in the dirt and jumps on the fluffier hen. He mounts her and she squawks, flapping her wings while he goes at it for about 1.5 seconds flat. The outraged clucking drowns out the noise of the setup. Then, once the rooster has jumped off the hen, Essie kicks at him. “Buy her a drink next time, you! Quick on, quick off. Reminds me of Gilbert, god rest his soul.”
McCormick grins down at me, the chocolate cake in his arms. The heat has melted the frosting, so the pink flowers run in waterfalls down the side and the scripted words have morphed into “Horp 15 leals Becco & Moomick.”
“I better get this in the fridge,” McCormick says, raising an eyebrow at the writing.
I don’t care about the cake.
I’ve got my head wrapped around the situation, and I think I know what’s going on.
“I need to talk to you.”
He nods then gestures toward the cottage. “While we make breakfast. Amy’s hungry, Sean’s up. This crew’s going to want food.”
My chest grows tight again, so as he turns toward the little house I say, “What do I look like?”
He stops mid-step. “What?”
“What do I look like?”
McCormick looks around the yard, at the chickens, at the men, at the ocean, as if he’s asking for help. “Beautiful,” he finally says, “As beautiful as the day we married.”
Oh, gosh. “No. I mean, what color do you think my hair is? What color are my eyes?”
“She wants a compliment!” Dee shouts as she slaps an ace on the table and grunts, “Ha!”
McCormick nods as if my question suddenly makes sense. “Your eyes are blue.”
“Blue?”
My eyes are hazel. An unremarkable hazel.
“Mmm.” He shifts, looking down at the cake. “Blue like tumbled glass washed up onshore with the sun shining through it.”
I squint at McCormick. The sun’s behind him, coating him in a golden hue.
“And my hair?”
“Yellow.”
“I have yellow hair?”
“Blonde,” he corrects himself.
“You’re failing, man.” A short, thin man with a bushy black mustache, cutoff jean shorts, and flip-flops punches McCormick on the arm.
McCormick lets out a long exhale. I feel almost bad for him. Except I don’t have blue eyes. I don’t have blonde hair. Yet all these people seem to think I do.
Which means . . .
This isn’t a mass delusion.
This isn’t some man who dragged me to an island where the entire population is playing along with his twisted marriage plot.
This is . . . a dream?
Could it be a dream?
I’ve never had a dream this real. I’ve never lived a dream where I’ve felt so much. But, I don’t usually remember my dreams. The only ones I remember are the nightmares about Christmas Eve.
But when I fell asleep I was holding onto Adolphus Abry’s watch. My mum said Uncle Leopold claimed it would let your dreams come true.
What if he meant that your dreams would feel true?
Because all this feels true, but it isn’t.
My mum asked what I wanted. This watch supposedly made dreams come true.
Secret dreams.
Dreams of longing.
So, all my life, have I been longing for an isolated tropical island? Have I wanted a husband of fifteen years? Two kids? No Abry, no loneliness, no loss. Is that what I wanted?
If I could, would I take Mila to an island outside the rush of the world and forget about all my responsibilities? Would I want to find a man who’s stayed with me and loved me for fifteen years?
I study McCormick’s profile. He’s watching two of the men struggle to unfold a long table.
If this is a dream, then I have to admit—at least in the privacy of my own mind—that he’s exactly the kind of man I would want to dream about.
He’s easygoing, calm, and soothing like a smooth day sailing on the lake. His presence is like a soft balm rubbed over tired muscles. Every time I look at him I’d like to stretch out next to him in the sand and rest my head in the crook of his arm while he kisses me with leisurely patience.
I’d like to taste the salt of the ocean on his lips and the sun on his skin.
I’d like that very much.
That is a dream I can get behind.
I’m afraid to fall in love in real life, but in a dream, where I’m not me and the people don’t actually exist? I could open my heart then.
It’s funny, when Daniel and I made the agreement we’d open up, I made the forfeit a two-week vacation at the beach with no internet and no phone. Maybe this dream is my subconscious giving me what I thought I didn’t want, but what I really, really need.
I suppose there’s only one way to find out.
“I’ll be right back,” I say, waving at McCormick.
“Where—?”
I run toward the wet sand, sprinting through the grass, then across the beach toward the blue waves and the salty mist hanging in the air.
I keep running, not looking back as my feet sink into the sand, pools of water filling my tracks. The waves crash over the coral pebbles, carrying them forward. A clump of seaweed with crabs trapped in the fronds twists at my feet. The scent of sand, salt, and the spice of wet tropical foliage twists around me.
I dash into the water, the waves tugging at me, the cool salt water enveloping me.
“Wake up,” I say. “Wake up, wake up, wake up.”
I pinch my arm. Hard enough to bruise.
“Wake up!”
And then I dive under the cool water, blowing the air from my lungs in streaming bubbles as I kick deeper, deeper.
I keep my eyes open, the salt stinging. The water is clear. Hundreds of tiny silver fish flash past, moving in formation, and a long needle-nosed fish speeds after them. Fist-sized flat fish with bright yellow and black stripes dart past, and plum-size blue fish glowing like neon signs dart to the sea floor where a cluster of coral camouflages them.
I kick and swim down, down. My lungs burn. My eyes sting. I’m desperate for air.
Wake up, I chant in my mind.
My lungs scream.
Wake up.
Wake up.
I kick deeper. The water pulls at me. I lose sight of the fish, of the coral.
Wake up.
Black seeps across my vision.
Breathe.
I need a breath.
I can’t?—
Wake up.
Wake—