Page 30 of Hate Wrecked

RILEY

Time on the island seems to move at its own languid pace, indifferent to the world beyond its shores.

Days blur into one another, marked only by the rising and setting of the sun.

Yet, amidst the monotony, moments of significance emerge—small victories, unexpected discoveries—that serve as beacons in the vast expanse of our isolation.

I explore the island alone more and more now. Rowan trusts me not to fall into the ocean or twist my ankle while searching for coconuts on the jungle floor. The quiet is nice, but I also like his company from time to time.

There is so much ruin on the island. Years of neglect and the war’s presence linger.

I walk ahead, my walking stick in my hand, lost in my wondering.

Each day, I wonder when someone will come to rescue us.

It’s inevitable, so we try not to fall into despair that no one is coming, saving those hysterics for desperate moments.

But not knowing when or wondering if something will happen before plagues us.

Garfield stalks ahead, his keen eyes searching for his next meal.

“Me too, buddy,” I joke, my eyes searching for coconuts.

I’m tired of the taste and texture. I’m tired of fish—sometimes.

I’m tired of lukewarm water and the scent of smoke.

The island’s climate is unforgiving, especially with the relentless downpours and stifling humidity that envelop every inch of this place.

Adapting to this environment requires more than just physical endurance; it demands a mental adjustment as well.

Each day feels like a battle against the elements, a constant struggle to find comfort amid the unyielding dampness.

But with time, I’ve learned to navigate it, embracing the rhythm of the rain and finding solace in the fleeting moments of relief from the oppressive heat.

Up ahead, I see the Hilton as I break through the trees.

I laugh again at the name and make my way to the entrance.

Inside, the dust moves as I enter, making way for me.

I’ve been in this building countless times, but life out here is one of repetition.

Maybe I’ll find something new for us? Maybe I’ll find a treasure?

Rowan told me there were rumors and tales of treasure buried on this island in the jungle.

I don’t believe it, but who knows? Maybe that’s why people gravitate to this paradise and why they perish here.

I don’t want to perish here.

I kick a rock in the room, listening to it echo off the wall and into one of the mattresses.

My voice cracks a little when I start to sing.

It’s been unused, save for the song I sang for Rowan the other night, but the sound builds in my throat as I turn in circles.

I have only Rowan and Garfield to talk to out here.

And I talk to the cat more than the man some days.

I close my eyes as I spin, my voice filling the space, perhaps bleeding out of the windows.

I close my eyes and sway, my body tired and bruised but feeling alive. This is what was stolen from me in those years. My heart was a mangled mess as it came to terms with the wrong decision I made. I chose wrong. I picked the wrong person to hold my heart.

The song fades out, and I come in again with the chorus because there are no rules here. Not in this place.

I spin, arms wide, my hair a tangle in my eyes, but I can’t see because when I close them, I transport myself back to a time when Rowan kissed me in the dark, away from prying eyes.

When I thought I loved him, and I knew he loved me, I had a simple choice to make.

Pick the beautiful boy with the wide smile and the Scottish accent.

Pick the boy in a city where he knew no one but was building a name as someone you could count on.

Pick the boy who held my secrets in his strong hands like a prayer.

I start the song again, tears streaming down my face like no one is watching. Because that is the beauty of this cursed place: no one is watching, not even Rowan, who wants to forget me.

But I wont let him.

I hear the footsteps, but I feel him first. I stop my spinning, and my voice fades out.

I turn to the entrance of the building, and I see Rowan standing there, his arms loose at his side, his axe on his hip.

He’s so beautiful here—wild and contained all at once.

His blue eyes pierce me, and his mouth is a straight line.

I wipe my eyes, brushing the hair from my face.

Rowan looks down and then up at me, smiling a little. “I thought the other night was a fluke. I guess not.”

I smooth my hair again, clearing my throat. “No. It felt too…”

“Good?” Rowan asks, his eyebrow raising. “Is this what you meant the other night? Did you dance in the kitchen like this?”

I smile, but I don’t feel it. “Yeah.”

“And he made you feel bad for that?”

I steady myself. “Yeah.”

Rowan leans against the doorjamb, shaking his head.

“You’re never more beautiful than when you look like that.

Free. He was a fucking eejit not to see that.

” Rowan’s words make my heart ache, and the way he looks into my eyes as he says what I need to hear reminds me of the past and how he would look at me on the hood of a car when we confessed everything to each other.

He can feel it, too, and he looks away, straightening.

“Anyway. Sorry to interrupt you. I should have just stood outside.”

I try to lighten the mood. “And watched me like a creep?”

Rowan chuckles and looks at me briefly before turning. “I do it more than you think,” I hear him say, and then he’s gone.

* * *

“Don’t laugh,” Rowan says, holding the coconuts in front of him by the fire. “This is supposed to be fun.”

“This is the dumbest idea I’ve ever had,” I grumble. But some part of me surges, seeing him like this, smiling and willing to indulge me—or maybe indulge himself—because I know he wants this more than me.

He starts knocking the coconuts together, and I let out a laugh. “ Monty Python and the Holy Grail ?”

Rowan nods, continuing on. “Yeah. Get over it. Start singing.”

I shake my head, placing my palms on my knees.

I rock back and forth like I’m stretching before a big race, before a yoga class.

When I start singing, Rowan falters just a second, but then he returns to the rhythmic knocking of the coconuts.

I don’t know what to sing, so I try folk songs.

Something my father would listen to. I wish I had a piano in front of me so I could play something Rowan would listen to.

But I don’t, so I volley from song to song.

It’s what I need. It’s what we both need after a long day in the sun.

After a moment, Rowan stops, and I look at him. “My arms hurt. Keep singing.”

I get up from my seat in front of the fire and sing more, waving my arms in the air.

It’s a song for an audience, but I have just Rowan and the stars—and Garfield sitting by the edge of the jungle, watching us like we’re wild creatures.

I glance at Rowan from time to time. He’s leaned back, watching me.

The glow of the fire illuminates his skin.

Once pale, now darker. His fair complexion no match for the sun.

Eventually, the song that never ends must end, so I walk back to the fire, closer to Rowan than before. I point at his notebook, looking him in the eye. “What will you do with all of that when we leave here?”

He shrugs his shoulders, pretending it’s nothing. “I don’t know. Put it in a drawer.”

“And just be a bodyguard for the rest of your life?” I ask as a word flashes in my mind, the one I saw. Hate.

“There’s nothing wrong with that, Riley. I trained for the job. I made a conscious choice to do that job.”

“Did you? Or is it just because it’s what your father did?”

Rowan shakes his head, looking away. “Did you act because your parents did?”

“Touché,” I grumble. “It’s just…when you have that lifestyle, it feels like…” I hate the truth of it. “If I don’t do something that brings in a lot of money, then I can’t live the lifestyle I’ve always had unless they pay for it. And that feels…like half a life. Like I’m a kid forever.”

“Have you thought about not having that lifestyle?”

“I’ve thought about staying Katonah full time, living there. Being…normal.”

“Have you thought about singing?”

I wave him away. “That’s just a hobby. It’s not real.”

“You said it’s the one thing you feel you can do that you didn’t get from your parents. And when you sing, Riley. You should see yourself.”

I wish I could. I wish I could see myself through his eyes when I do. Because he looks at me differently when I sing—like I’m magic, like I’m the old me, like he loves me. I brush sand off my hands, looking out into the ocean. “Maybe when we leave here, we can have a fresh start.”

Rowan clears his throat, sitting up from his relaxed position. “Yeah, maybe.”

And I’ve ruined the moment—the peaceful place we carved into the night. I sit up. “I didn’t mean together. You know I’m joking with all the…” When I look at you, when I hit on you, when I tease you. But I’m not.

“Are you joking?”

“When?”

“When you look at me the way you’re looking at me right now?” Rowan declares, and I heat up. My cheeks turn red as the fire, and I feel mad.

“Are you ?”

“Am I what?” he asks.

“What are you feeling when you look at me the way you did earlier when I was singing? When you found me in the building singing?”

“How am I looking at you.?”

I inch forward, locking eyes with him. “Like you want me.”

Rowan laughs, his white teeth flashing in the firelight, his wrinkles around his eyes beautiful.

“Because I do. I look at you that way”—he stares into my eyes—“because I do. You know that. I know that. But there is nothing to do about it. Because I’m not the kind of person who just fucks someone because they want to.

I’m not the kind of person who fucks someone because they want to scratch an itch, Riley.

You, of all people, should know that. When I fuck you, it’ll be because I want you in my life forever, like before.

Except this time, I’ll make sure the other person feels the same way as me because I’m too old to be playing games like I’m in my early twenties again. ”

“So am I,” I state, my body humming at his words. He’s no challenge; he isn’t an itch to scratch. He’s all I want and all I need in this life. They can forget us here; they can leave us if it means I wake to his blue eyes every day. They can leave us if it means he will want me again.

“We’ll see,” Rowan declares, standing and walking away to the shore.