9. Charlotte Gallagher
Charlotte Gallagher
Morning comes slowly on the island. I’ve been awake for a while, staring up at the ceiling and trying to think about anything other than yesterday.
It’s not working.
My mind keeps drifting back to the waterfall. Not the snake, the very convincing stick that nearly killed me.
The part after.
The moment I panicked and threw myself at Dane without thinking, wrapping around him like that. His arms came around me, and he held me.
And when I looked up at him… something had changed.
I’ve known Dane my entire life. I know every version of his expression—when he’s annoyed, when he’s trying not to laugh, when he’s focused on something. But yesterday, there was something in his eyes I didn’t recognize.
Not anger.
Not frustration.
Not that distant look he used to give me, like there was a wall between us no matter what I did.
This was something else.
I turn onto my side, facing the opening of the shelter where the light is starting to creep in.
Because it’s not just yesterday. He’s been different for a while now.
Sometimes he looks at me like he’s about to say something important but then doesn’t. Other times he avoids looking at me entirely, but not in the same way he used to. Before, it felt cold. Like he was shutting me out on purpose.
Now it feels like he’s trying not to look at me at all. Which only makes me notice it more when he does.
And lately, whenever we end up close—by the fire or along the beach or under the waterfall—something shifts. I can’t explain it.
It makes my chest feel tight, and my thoughts scatter. Part of me wants to step closer. Another part suddenly becomes very aware of how little space there already is between us.
And underneath that—something else.
Something that makes even less sense.
Excitement.
I don’t have a name for any of this. I just know something changed yesterday, and I don’t understand what it means.
Which is the most frustrating part.
Because the truth is, I don’t actually know much about how men and women are supposed to act around each other.
Mum tried to explain some things to me before the trip.
She said it was important because I was getting older.
There was talk about periods, what they meant, and how babies are made—the basic mechanics of it all.
It was embarrassing, but she stayed calm about it, so I tried to treat it like any other lesson.
Still, it wasn’t the whole story.
I remember asking questions—probably too many—and at some point she laughed and said we’d talk about the rest when I was older.
We never did.
Now I’m older—old enough to recognize when something strange is happening between two people. Old enough to know that what Mum explained doesn’t come close to covering… this.
It doesn’t explain the way my stomach flips when Dane looks at me too long. Or why he looks away right after, like he’s been caught doing something wrong. Or why he can be completely normal one minute and distant the next, like he’s trying to put space between us.
I let out a quiet sigh and stare at the ceiling. Because there’s exactly one person on this island who might actually understand what’s going on. And I can’t ask him.
Lately, every time we get close… he gets weird.
I lie there a while longer, turning it over in my head, trying to solve something I don’t understand well enough to fix.
There has to be some way to figure this out.
Mum would’ve known what to say. She always understood things like this—how people felt, why they acted the way they did. She and Dad could have entire conversations with just a look, like they were speaking a language the rest of us couldn’t hear.
I wish she were here.
But she’s not. Which means if I want answers, I’ll have to find them somewhere else.
My thoughts spin for a bit longer before something clicks into place.
Books.
Mum always had one with her. Didn’t matter where we were—the yacht, the house in Brisbane, long flights—there was always a book in her bag.
Sometimes two or three. I remember stacks of them in the cabin when we first got stranded here, paperbacks with bright covers and couples tangled up in dramatic poses.
Ryan used to tease her about them.
Back then, I thought they looked painfully boring. Stories about people falling in love didn’t seem worth the time, so I ignored them.
Now, lying here, that memory suddenly feels a lot more important.
Those books were all about relationships between men and women, and the strange, complicated things that happen between them.
The thought settles in slowly, then clicks into place. Maybe those books hold the answers Mum never got to explain. And if they do, I know exactly where to find them.
By the time I sit up, I’ve already decided. If the books are still on the yacht, they might actually help me make sense of this.
Mum always said stories were about people—how they think, why they do what they do. If that’s true, then somewhere in those pages there has to be something that explains what’s been happening between Dane and me.
Outside, the air is already warm. Sunlight filters through the palms, and the tide is slowly pulling back from the shore. Dane is crouched by the fire, checking a small pot over the coals. He glances up when he hears me.
“Morning.”
“Morning.”
I hesitate, trying to keep my voice casual. “I was thinking about heading over to the yacht. I’d like to go through Mum’s things again.”
He frowns. “We’ve gone through everything a hundred times.”
“I know.” I pick up an empty coconut shell and turn it over in my hands, pretending to study it. “But that was when we were just trying to survive. Maybe we missed something.”
Dane watches me, clearly unconvinced. “That boat’s been picked clean for years, Charlotte.”
“Probably,” I say with a small shrug. “But it won’t hurt to check again.”
That part is true. It’s just not the real reason.
I’m looking for answers. And if Mum’s books are there, I have a feeling the answers might be in them.
Dane doesn’t answer right away. He snaps a dry stick over his knee and tosses it onto the fire, nudging it into place as the flames catch.
“You want me to come with you?”
Lately, anytime I go too far from camp, Dane ends up nearby sooner or later. Usually, I wouldn’t mind. Today, I do. Because explaining why I’m going would be complicated.
“I think I can handle a short walk down the beach.”
“That’s not what I meant.”
“I know.” I smile and ruffle his hair as I pass him. “I’ll shout if I need help.”
He studies me for another second, like he’s deciding whether to push it. Then he exhales and leans back on his heels.
“Fine.” He points the stick at me. “But if you find anything useful, bring it back.”
I grin. “Deal.”
But if I find what I’m actually looking for, Dane probably won’t consider it useful at all.
The walk down the beach is quick. The yacht sits where it always has, tilted slightly where it beached during the attack. From a distance, it still looks almost the same—white hull, tall mast rising above the trees like a marker from another life.
Up close, it’s different.
Salt has dulled the paint, the rails are rough instead of polished, and the ropes hang stiff with age. The deck creaks under my weight as I climb the ladder and step aboard.
The island takes everything eventually.
Inside, the cabin smells stale, the kind of closed-up air that never quite goes away. Dust coats the surfaces we stopped using years ago, and the quiet feels wrong—too still compared to the island’s constant noise.
I pause for a second, just taking it in.
The yacht still holds pieces of the world we lost. Cabinets full of things we didn’t understand back then. Drawers we searched over and over in those first days when survival was the only thing that mattered.
Outside, everything feels alive.
In here, time stopped.
I move down the narrow passage toward my parents’ cabin. Back then, most of what was left didn’t matter—clothes meant for city streets, shoes that would be useless in the sand, and books we didn’t have an interest in.
Those books are exactly why I’m here now.
I open the cabinet beside the bunk and start shifting things around, my pulse picking up a little as I dig through the dusty stacks. For a second, I worry I imagined it. Then my fingers brush paper.
I pull them out one by one, my breath catching as the stack grows in my hands. There are more than I expected—at least a dozen. Romance novels, their bright covers faded with time. Women in flowing dresses, men standing close behind them, dramatic embraces frozen mid-moment.
I pause, staring down at them as a slow smile spreads across my face.
Mum loved these. Stories about people falling in love and all the complicated things that come with it.
A small flicker of excitement builds in my chest as I gather them in my arms. Because somewhere in these pages, there has to be an explanation for what’s been happening between Dane and me.
I carry the stack to the small table and set them down like they’re something fragile. Up close, they’re even more dramatic than I remember.
The covers alone are enough to make me stop and stare.
One cover shows a woman in a flowing red dress leaning back in a man’s arms while he looks at her like she’s the only person in the world. Another has a couple standing so close their foreheads touch, the title curling above them in gold.
I turn one over and flip it open somewhere in the middle.
The pages smell stale, like they’ve been shut away too long, but the words are still clear. I read a few lines, slowing over phrases that don’t quite make sense.
His gaze darkened with desire.
I frown, not entirely sure what that’s supposed to mean.
A few pages later, another line catches my eye.
Her heart raced as his hand moved up her thigh.
Whoa. That one I understand.
I snap the book shut and stare at the cover for a second.
If these stories are about people falling in love—and if love explains why men and women start acting strange around each other—then there’s a good chance one of these might help me.