Total pages in book: 60
Estimated words: 58226 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 291(@200wpm)___ 233(@250wpm)___ 194(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 58226 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 291(@200wpm)___ 233(@250wpm)___ 194(@300wpm)
I stand and smooth out my wrinkled skirt. “I grew up in the midwest,” I say, and my mind is immediately transported to the tiny house I grew up in, surrounded by corn fields, the laundry hanging on clotheslines outside. It was a simpler place and time. “Both of my parents were teachers and valued education. I learned to read at a young age, and I was writing by the time I was five.” I give him a small smile. “I’ve been a journalist since I graduated college. Got the job I have now after grad school.”
Had? Will I make it back? Will my job still be there for me if I do?
He beckons for me to follow him back to the cave. When we reach it, I take out clean clothes and thank you Jesus, my toiletries.
“You mentioned a brother,” he says.
“Yeah.” I swallow hard, suddenly choked up. “Daniel is my younger brother and I’m his guardian.”
Thankfully, he doesn’t ask questions, and I don’t supply any more details. I don’t want to talk about the accident, my parents, or my brother’s brain damage.
“You write about feminism?” he asks, folding the makeshift blanket and placing it under his arm. His question surprises me. I wasn’t sure he was paying attention.
“I do.” I say nothing more right now, because something tells me he’ll have opinions on the subject matter, and I don’t want to get into it right now. I reach into my bag and breathe out a sigh of relief. My pills. But then I frown. The food is gone. “He took the food I had in here.” It wasn’t much, but it was mine, the jerk.
“Of course, he did. Bastard.”
I don’t mention that he took some food himself yesterday, but yesterday seems like a very, very long time ago.
“I think we should go to the beach today,” I tell him. “That way, if the ship comes, we’re right there.”
He doesn’t respond, just gathers up his few belongings, but his lips are tight, and it makes me angry. Does he not care at all?
“They’ll come,” I tell him, arguing the point he doesn’t voice. “It doesn’t make any sense that they would just leave. Especially, when they realize I’m not there, and—”
“Harper. Listen to me.”
He stands with his hands on his hips, and I try to pretend like I’m not feeling the pull again. I’m hyper aware of his strength and raw masculinity, and it’s so damn disconcerting I don’t know what to do with myself. I don’t know much about psychology, but the logical part of my brain tells me that this isn’t normal, that there’s something going on here that neither of us fully comprehends. Our attraction to one another is abnormal.
I think?
How would I know? I’ve lived a carefully regulated life. The men I dated were educated and refined. We used condoms and discussed everything, and when I broke up with them it was after a series of logically thought out reasons.
Every time. Every damn time.
“They’re not coming back, babe.”
“Yeah, I know you think that,” I say nonchalantly, and even as I speak, I know this will anger him. “But I don’t believe you.”
I’m pulling a brush through my hair and untangling it, and it feels nice to actually have a little sense of normalcy.
He takes a step toward me. “You don’t have to believe me. I’m telling you, you being brought here wasn’t an accident.”
I feel my blood pressure rise. Does he know something? “Oh, yeah?” I ask, pointing my brush in his direction. “You don’t know that, Cy. You’re not God. You’re not a magician.”
He crosses his arms over his chest—his beautiful, muscled chest—and shakes his head.
“I’m not, but I’m also not stupid.”
What the hell is that supposed to mean?
He takes a step toward me.
“And I am?”
“Oh, for God’s sake, I didn’t say that. I’m not the enemy here, Harper.”
“Right,” I say through gritted teeth, waving my brush at him. “I know that.”
He isn’t the enemy, but he’s also not my friend.
“This conversation is going nowhere,” he says. “Let’s go to the beach. We’ll see for ourselves which one of us is right soon anyway. And for the record? I sure as fuck hope it’s you.”
“Really?” I ask him. The hopelessness of it all, the near desolation I feel being alone with him on this island, wells in my chest and I feel I’m going to cry. But I won’t show weakness. I fucking won’t.
He takes another step toward me. “Really,” he says. “I hope they do come to save us. But babe, they won’t.”
“You said that,” I say, my hands shaking with anger. “Stop saying that. Shut up!”
With another step in my direction, he’s standing toe to toe.
“No,” he says. “I’ll always speak the truth. I’m not a liar.”
“Oh, how noble,” I say. I’m not sure why I’m so angry at him, but when he reaches for me, I shove him away. He stumbles and nearly falls. “Don’t touch me.”