Page 26 of Hate Wrecked

RILEY

Our stay on the island has been a mix of routine and surprising finds. Gerald’s clever rainwater-catching system and the outdoor shower he installed have become vital to our daily lives.

Our fishing endeavors have yielded results, offering us a sustainable source of food.

Yet, as we navigate this primitive existence, the relentless sea has transformed from a life-giving force to a reminder of our isolation.

I often catch myself staring into the blue, both transfixed and horrified by the expanse of it.

Rowan returns to our camp with the day’s catch in hand. With skilled hands, he cleans the fish, and I observe him, relishing the feeling of normalcy he brings to our otherwise surreal surroundings.

I’ve learned how to clean fish, watched Rowan do it time and time again.

He’s a good teacher, though he pisses me off sometimes with his mocking voice and eye rolls.

I can tell when he’s had enough of me. He can tell when I’m over him.

Sometimes, I get so mad at him because it’s easier than being mad at myself for being out here, for following him to this place.

The thought of being alone with my disdain feels more comforting than being alone with myself.

Once clean, Rowan puts the fish in our fish bucket. I clean up our little kitchen and head back to the Hilton, telling him I’m taking a nap. He nods and heads off, allowing me to rest.

But no rest comes. I hate the building, but I know it’s necessary to stay dry. Our tent sits in there, on top of mattresses close to the door, where we can see the fire a few feet in front of the building. A cozy home in the dark.

I go through the motions. Putting the fish away, putting our poles away.

After a half hour of trying to sleep, I get up.

With everything cleaned up, I go to the jungle to help Rowan find coconuts instead of doing one of the two things Rowan likely hoped I would do: rest or read my mother’s book.

I want to rest; the Pacific sun can be brutal, but I need to move—otherwise I’ll open the book and pour over the words. And I’m not ready yet.

The sun is a brutal beast above us, watching, turning my tan skin a darker shade, even making Rowan’s pale flesh a light tan, covered in freckles.

The cat, newly named Garfield, follows me into the jungle, probably thinking I have some fish scraps with me because I smell like them. Ugh. I need to make my way to the shower, but if I’m just going to get dirty again, it’s not worth it. And I’d rather help Rowan.

When I find him in the woods, he waves me off. So I head to the ocean for a swim, bringing a towel with me.

I don’t think nudity is a big deal, and I hate the thought of covering up out here. My breasts are small; they don’t need support. So I take my clothes off when I reach the shore, one less place for sand to pool. I fold both pieces of my tiny bikini up and lay them on the sand.

The sun feels good in the places that have been hidden. I step into the sun, and close my eyes to it. I didn’t weigh much before we left; that was against the rules of my life, but our diet of coconut and fish, is less than ideal. I reach down, counting my ribs, feeling the bones of my hips.

There is nothing sexy about a skeleton.

Rowan is always moving, creating, and building.

His muscles look long and lean, defined.

I watch him emerge from the jungle down the shore, see him catch sight of me.

I shrug my shoulders and walk to the ocean, longing to feel it everywhere despite my abhorrence for the salt and the life-taking blue.

It takes, and I come back, much like many people I have loved in this life.

I drop down below the waterline, scrubbing my body, knowing it won’t be clean, just… with new filth—the filth of the ocean.

When I turn around, I see Rowan coming up to my little pile of clothes.

And to my surprise, he strips down, too, walking to the water, eyes past me.

“How do you feel?” he asks when he gets close.

I stand up so he has to face my body, my exposed flesh. “Good,” I say before dropping back down. I creep toward the deeper area, and Rowan follows because he can’t resist—he has to take care of me.

I’m a very good swimmer, but the ocean is brutal.

The water is a clear blue, allowing us to see everything beneath. Farther out, the blue deepens into a darker hue. Our eyes remain alert, constantly wary of sharks. When Rowan swims nearby, I finally ask the question I have been meaning to ask. “How does it feel to be right?”

He moves his arms in the water, blue eyes on me. “About?”

“About this place being cursed?”

His eyes darken, and he moves away a little. “It haunts me every day, if you really want to know.”’

“I always want to know what you’re thinking,” I say, taking in a mouthful of seawater and spitting it out.

Just as I’m about to ask another smart-ass question, I feel something brush against my leg. I scream, and Rowan swims toward me. My flailing arms reach out and grab onto him. “What the fuck?” I cry, my legs wrapping around him.

Rowan spins me, looking into the water. A smile dances on his mouth, so close to me. “It’s seaweed,” he says, nodding in the direction of where I was swimming. I look into the water, seeing a green lump floating by.

I roll my eyes, hands still clutching him. He’s wearing me like a straitjacket, arms still moving, legs still pumping.

I rest my forehead on his shoulder, feeling him laugh. “God.”

“You always were dramatic,” he jokes, and I pull away slightly, splashing a handful of water at him. He closes his eyes to the splash, then quickly wipes his face, grazing my arm when he pulls it away. “Do you really want to do that?”

I think of the pool at my mother’s house, the night we played in it, tested each other, skirted boundaries. The night he made me come, left me alone in the dark.

“No, no. The ocean is scarier than the pool,” I say, tightening my legs around him.

Rowan glares at me, aware of what I’m doing. My nakedness presses against his. He continues to swim, keeping us afloat as he looks beneath the water.

“I think the seaweed threat is gone,” he says, reaching down to disentangle me from him.

I push away, swimming a little closer to shore.

“Race you to the shore?” I ask, trying to lighten the mood.

Rowan smirks and nods, taking off. He has always been a good swimmer.

I convinced him to do laps with me when he was home alone with me; the moon illuminating his body.

Now, it’s the sun that does, and when we reach the shallows, stepping out of the froth and salt, I turn to the ocean, opening my arms wide.

I let the sun dry my body. I’m naked, but I don’t feel exposed to Rowan.

It’s just a body, and he knows more. He knows what’s inside me.

After a moment, I step out of the water. When we reach our clothes, Rowan grabs his, but I leave mine behind. I lie on my blanket, close my eyes, and lean back. “Join me?” I ask.

Rowan doesn’t answer, taking a moment to walk away.

And I know his eyes are greedy.

* * *

As the evening sun begins its descent, a warm glow illuminates the deserted shoreline where Rowan and I gather around the crackling fire. The day has been a mix of labor and leisure, with Rowan leaving the water earlier while I lingered a little longer, savoring the cool embrace of the ocean.

Now, as the flames dance before us, casting shadows on the sand, a sense of quiet settles over me and our small corner of the island.

The rhythmic lapping of the waves almost lulls me to sleep.

I yawn and then look at Rowan. “What will this place look like when they take over?” I muse, my gaze drifting toward the horizon where the sky meets the sea.

Despite the challenges we've faced since our arrival, there's a strange allure to the sparseness of our surroundings—the remnants of war mingling with the vast expanse of beach—untouched.

Rowan considers my question, his expression thoughtful as he gazes into the fire. "Hard to say," he replies finally, his voice low. “I imagine they’ll build a few buildings. Maybe take down what’s there.” He motions to the buildings we have taken over.

“I like them,” I say. While I don’t feel comfortable staying in Gerald’s space, I enjoy our haven in the tent on the mattresses. I enjoy looking through the relics of the past. And I’m grateful for the supplies left behind.

“Yeah, but they’ll want a fresh slate. I imagine a few bunks. The captain said they’ll likely be ten or so people out here at a time at first, after the building.”

“What will they do?” It’s nice to hear Rowan talk, to listen to the gentle cadence of his voice.

“The palms aren’t native to the island. They crowd out the other plants. It’s not good for the ecosystem. And they’ll want to address the issue of the rats…”

I cringe, remembering the one that crawled over my foot in the jungle.

“I’d hope so.”

“It’s not an easy task,” Rowan continues. “You can’t keep a single one alive. A single mother rat will repopulate the island in two years. It’ll be overrun again.”

Suddenly, I feel sad for them. The image of a mother rat invades my mind, only to be replaced by a picture of my mother with me in her belly on the cover of a magazine.

I was on the cover of a magazine before I was born.

I cringe and look out at the water. I like it here, where there are no camera flashes, where no moment is immortalized and blown up for me to cringe at.

I can be awkward and weird—myself—with only Rowan to roll his eyes. I like it more than I hate it.

“How did they get here? The rats?” I ask.

“A boat. Like us.”

“Do you think that’s why they left Garfield behind?” I watch the cat walk the edge of the jungle, in the distance. “I hate that they left him. Who leaves a pet behind?”

“Maybe someone who thought he would be happier here than wherever they were going.”

“He could have died here,” I argue, glaring into the distance.