Page 31 of Hate Wrecked

ROWAN

As days stretch into weeks on the island, each sunrise is a reminder of the passage of time.

The rhythm of the waves against the shore becomes a clock, marking our shared existence here together, like a heartbeat.

And we adapt to the island's rhythm. Our lives woven into the landscape as we perform our tasks together—walking, gathering, fishing, sitting by the fire and drifting closer in the tent as the rain pelts us.

By the water, Riley sighs, pole in hand, as we fish for our lunch.

Distracted, I pull my line back recklessly, and I flinch before it hits me, knowing I’ve made a mistake.

I hear Riley yelp before the sting, and when I look over at her—face frozen, eyes on my leg—I know what I’ll see when I look down. The lure stuck in my shin. There are worse places, to be sure. No fat there. Just skin.

As Riley comes closer, I reach into my pocket, grabbing my pocket knife. I sever the line and start walking to the shore. “Where are you going?” Riley calls after me.

“To get this out, come with me.” She won’t like this, and I don’t really need her help. But if this ever happens to her and I’m not here, she needs to know what to do.

When I make it to our little spot on the beach, I neatly set the pole down. There is a small amount of blood running down my leg, but not a lot.

“Grab the toolbox from camp, please,” I say, and Riley sets down her things, running into the jungle toward our base camp.

The toolbox is full of old items, including some from the boat that I collected.

I know there is a multi-tool in there. Hopefully, the pliers will have wire cutters.

I take a seat on the sand, assessing my leg. It doesn’t hurt much, but it’s about to hurt a lot.

Riley returns with the toolbox, and her face is white.

“Are you okay?” I ask.

She nods, coming to me. “I just feel a little…sick.”

“It’s not going to be that bad,” I assure her, taking the toolbox. I find the tool I need and open it, tossing the pouch into the box as I look at Riley, standing over me, wringing her hands.

“Come sit down here,” I tell her. She does, like a robot, her eyes never leaving the tool in my hand, not looking at my shin.

“I’m going to cut the end of the lure. Then I’m going to push it through,” I start.

“Push it through your skin?” Riley asks, voice high-pitched.

“Yeah. It’s a fishing lure. It can’t come back out the way it went in. It has to go through.”

“Fuck this,” Riley says, looking into the sky. She doesn’t move, though.

“It’ll be fine. I’ve done it before.”

“You’ve done this before?”

“Yeah. It happens when you fish.”

“Oh God,” Riley says, covering her mouth. “Okay. What do I do?”

“Nothing, I just want you to watch, in case you ever need to do this.”

“I’m never doing this.”

“So, if you got stuck with a fishing lure, you would just live with it in your body for the rest of your life?” I raise an eyebrow.

“No,” Riley argues, “if I got stuck with a fishing lure, you would get it out. And when we get off this island, I’m never fishing again.”

I laugh, believing her. “Okay. Fine. But watch.”

She gets into a more comfortable position, her eyes watering. “Okay.”

I open and close the tool, making sure the wire cutters connect. Then I take them to my shin and cut off the back of the lure. Riley watches, blinking rapidly, hands clenched. “It’s not that bad,” I laugh.

“I can feel it, though,” Riley murmurs. And I believe her. She was always so empathetic, a sponge for everything in her home. It was beautiful but also hard on her.

“You ready?” I ask, looking up into Riley’s eyes. It takes her a minute to connect with mine. She nods.

It hurts like a fucking bitch, pushing the lure through my skin. But I do it, teeth clenched, eyes steady.

I hear Riley whisper a curse, and then it’s through, the sharp point on the other side.

I quickly pull it out of my skin, and then the blood flows.

Riley reaches forward, maybe on instinct, and clamps her palms down on my leg.

I reach behind myself for the bag of supplies we keep on the shore for our fishing trips.

There are scraps of fabric there. I grab two.

When I turn back, Riley takes one piece of fabric and replaces her hand, wiping up the blood and cleaning my wound.

When she’s finished, she takes the other piece and wraps it tightly around my leg, securing it.

“Thank you,” I say, satisfied with the stretch of her knot.

“No problem,” she says before walking to the shore, kneeling down to wash away my blood.

I stand, testing the leg. It doesn’t hurt much, but it might later. It’s a minor wound, and I hope that’s all we face out there. Small wounds to our flesh, balancing the gaping wounds to our hearts and souls as the days and weeks pass.

When Riley returns, she looks at our fishing spot. “I’ll go back. I’ll catch something for tonight.”

“No, it’s fine. I’m ready to go again,” I argue. A minor flesh wound won’t keep me from doing my duty.

“No. If you impale yourself again, I’ll jump in that fucking ocean and drown myself. I didn’t like that.” She waves at my shin. “Just relax here. Let me do it.”

I grunt, shaking my head, and she cocks her own. “Don’t be all manly and shit on me right now. Just sit here, please. You said you would let me take care of you.”

“I’ll go get coconuts,” I compromise.

Riley nods, walking to her pole.

I could go with her, but I have a feeling my presence will just make her jittery, and when she wants to be alone, I let her be alone. It’s just us and the damn cat out here, so when the silence calls us, we have to listen to it.

I pack up the toolbox and a few other supplies, making my way toward our home. After securing my items, I walk into the jungle, eyeing the jungle floor for fresh coconuts.

* * *

Later that afternoon, after I’ve gathered coconuts and rested my leg, I head toward our fishing spot to check on Riley. When I reach the beach, Riley comes out of the water, hands full and her smile wide. “Look!” she bellows, and I run over, the ocean splashing around my feet.

“What?”

“We can eat these, right? Please tell me we can eat these.” She has clams in her hands; a couple fall out, and I drop to my knees, grabbing them in the shallow.

I laugh. “Yes. Yes, we can eat these,” I reply, pulling the clams close to my chest as we walk to the shore.

“I’m going to eat them all,” Riley explains. “Until my belly is like this,” she pushes her belly out, and I laugh.

“Let’s take it slow. You don’t want to get sick,” I chastise, dropping the clams into a pile on the shore.

Riley dumps her score into the pile I made. “No, you don’t get it. I don’t even care. I’m going to eat the shit out of those clams.” She jumps up and down like a kid, pulling me into her excitement.

Before I can stop myself, I wrap my hand around her wrist, pull her close, pressing my lips to hers.

Her excitement is palpable and contagious.

She opens up to me, and when I feel her tongue, I pull away.

Her eyes are wide, and she looks hurt. All the happiness gone in an instant.

“I’m sorry,” I rush out. “You were just so excited, and I wanted… I don’t know,” I say as I drop her hand, stepping back to the other side of the pile of clams. “I’m sorry. I won’t do that again.”

She shakes her head.

“I promise.”

“Don’t make promises I don’t want you to make,” she throws out, walking toward her pole.

I’m a fucking idiot. A big fucking idiot.

Just when we find some common ground or an impasse, I hurt her or make her mad.

I watch her walk away for a moment before I gather the clams in one of our bags, and run after her to our campsite.

“How do you want to eat them?” I ask, hoping she’ll pretend the kiss didn’t happen.

“Raw. That’s how I always ate them,” she says noncommittally.

“Not over the fire?”

“Is that how you want to eat them? Don’t have the palate for raw clams?”

I scrunch up my nose. “I suppose I could try.”

“You can have fish on standby. If you’re not tired of them.”

“I’m tired of them. But it’s all we’ve had until now.” I step close to her, setting the bag down. “Riley. Thank you.” She looks me in the eyes, and I see some of the hurt fall away. “Really, thank you. It’s not just about eating the same thing over and over. It’s about…”

“Spirit. It’s about spirit, I know.”

“That’s what you do for me,” I admit, crossing my arms.

“What?”

“You always remind me of all I do out here. The shelter and the fishing. Fire. All that caveman shit. But what you do for me is give me spirit. Give this place spirit. When you sing and when you laugh. All of it. I wouldn’t be surviving out here without you.

I know I’m not the easiest person to be around because I’m always keeping you at arm’s length, but I appreciate you. And this friendship.”

“Is that what we have out here?”

“Yes. How can we not?”

“I’m for survival, then?” she reaches for the bag.

My voice is raw. “Yes.”

“Glad I can help,” she whispers, brushing past me.

I let her go, dissecting her answer. She has walls now, and I helped build them around her, brick by brick. When I’m shut out, I remind myself that I have no one to blame but myself.

I follow her, saying nothing. When she says she wants to go back to where she found the clams, I bring a pail to gather and stay close to the shore as she collects more. We move as a team, quietly, until finally, she starts singing.

It’s beautiful, and I accept it as a truce.

I catch her eyes when I can, smiling, making her smile.

This discovery bolstered her, and I am bolstered by her voice.

She writes in her notebook at night, like I do, and I wish for her to write a song about me, even though I know I can’t give her my heart. I know she would give me hers, but choosing me here isn’t the same as choosing me in the real world—in her real life.

I represent safety to her. Though I know she needs that, needed it then, I need who I am to her to be more than a word. I need to be more than comfortable or steady.

I need to be all the words she is to me.

When we have gathered enough for dinner, we bring everything to the shore. Riley moves from cover song to cover song, and I think of teaching her some Scottish folk songs. Her raspy voice would bring them justice and bring me a sense of home in this foreign place.

After she is settled at the campsite, I decide to catch a few more fish.

When I return to our homestead, Riley starts a fire, and Garfield is nearby. He knows when dinner is.

Maybe I’ll feed Riley’s fish to him if she truly means to gorge herself on clams tonight.

We move in unison, repetition, and in comfort. She gathers water, and I fillet the fish. She brings a pot to boil and pets the cat while I hold the fish over the fire.

We settle into our small life, in the abyss.

And it feels good. It finally feels good.