Page 47 of Hate Wrecked

RILEY

It’s nearly dark when we return to Falcon island.

Rowan and I don’t speak; the events of the day are too much to bring up.

He puts our things away, and I retreat to the shower.

I wash away death, salt, my own tears. Rowan joins me, and wordlessly, we wash each other.

He scrubs my back, and he washes my hair.

And when he holds me from behind, I feel a want, a hardness.

It would be unhealthy to give in to basic need when our bodies are so wrecked, when the hatred for our lot is so consuming.

But I push back into him, and he moans. When he spins me around his mouth finds mine, hungry, desperate, and I am just as ravenous.

But just as quickly as he’s touched me, he pulls away. His blue eyes are anguished, and when he presses his forehead to mine, I try not to cry.

And then he is gone, grabbing a towel, leaving me naked and wet beneath the shower head.

When I make it back to our camp, the sun is nearly gone, and Rowan is burning things. I don’t ask him what, just watch him burn and burn and burn. Through the thudding of my heart, I catch a glimpse of orange fur and green eyes in the trees. Garfield is watching him warily. Same, little guy.

I’m starving, so I open a can of fruit cocktail and eat it with my fingers. The sweetness makes my mouth water, and the sight of Rowan moving around without his shirt on makes my head eddy between anguish and want.

Whenever he looks at me, I offer him a tight-lipped smile; it’s all I can muster.

The birds overhead make me dizzy, the voices in my head dull and restless. Life here is untouched, pristine, and filled with death. Can you ever go back? Can you become new again?

It’s all I’ve ever wanted—to forget the years before Rowan met me, who I was then, who I’ve lingered into now. Forgiveness is given too freely by some. I clutch it like a dagger. Rowan hides his like a secret.

I wonder if whoever put that body in that trunk craves it, or if they feel giddy with their own secret, with getting away with murder.

Eventually, Rowan settles by the fire with his journal, and I watch as his hand moves swiftly, as he wipes at his eyes, and his brow furrows with anger.

I retreat to the tent, leaving the door open to the fire. The lights dance inside, and I begin to feel safe and comforted again.

Rowan’s presence does that to me, even as he unravels.

I don’t want to be scared. I don’t want to hurt.

In the darkness of the tent, I slip my clothes away. I pull my top to the side, I slip my bikini bottom down.

With my eyes on the top of the tent, on the moving shadows, I reach down, touching myself.

I pretend I am somewhere else. I pretend the ocean I hear is the one by my old home. I pretend I am on the shore with Rowan again, at our spot in the shadows where he touched me, where I touched him.

I pretend he is slipping in, burying himself in me.

When I close my eyes, I can almost believe it’s real. I open my eyes and break the spell, looking out of the tent. Rowan isn’t writing anymore. He’s staring up into the dark sky above, his jaw tight. I look away, slipping my fingers inside of myself, pretending they are his.

I don’t stifle my sigh; I don’t let myself worry about anything outside of the tent as I ride my hand.

I can’t be here, in this reality, so I take myself to the past.

When I open my eyes again to look out, Rowan is gone.

I sigh, putting my clothes back into place.

Before stepping out of the tent, I reach into the bag I keep close.

The one that usually holds my notebooks, my mother’s manuscript, and one small thing from our past. I grip the gold necklace tight but leave it behind.

When I step out, I don’t see Rowan anywhere, and the dark of the night frightens me without him close.

When I walk past the fire, I see his journal is open.

I know I shouldn’t read it, but I bend down, running a hand over the page.

I want to swim, duck down, and stay at the bottom of the ocean sometimes.

Then maybe I wouldn ’ t be able to hear her.

The way she breathes, speaks, sings, and laughs when that cat does something to make her happy.

If she only knew what I do in the jungle when she isn ’ t around.

The way I touch myself and think of her.

The way I imagine it’s her hand on me, her mouth, her body pulling me in.

I want to dare her. To tempt her again. I don ’ t know.

I ’ ve pushed her away for so long that I ’ m afraid to reach for her.

Because if we ’ ve danced this dance for so long, and if she has changed her mind, I don ’ t think I could take it.

The rejection would sting too intensely.

How do I dam this want? I hate the pull, the fire in me nothing— The words stop, and I stand, scanning the shore.

In the distance, I see his pale skin, and I walk to him like a magnet, the moon illuminating the path. “How do you want me?” I ask.

Rowan turns to me. “I think you know.”

I cock my head, he looks away.

“I saw you, Riley.”

“Doing what?” I’m tentative, feeling him out.

“You wanted me to see. The tent door was open.”

I shake my head, looking away. “See what?”

“You touching yourself.”

“And maybe you wanted me to see those pages you left open. You touch yourself in the jungle when I’m not around. What’s the difference?”

“I’m not putting on a show when I do it. I’m alone.”

“You think I put on a show for you?” I ask.

“It’s all you do, Riley. It’s all a show for me.”

Something heats in me at his words. “Someone is suddenly very arrogant. I didn’t know you had it in you.”

“Riley—”

“Maybe I like it. Maybe you need that, Rowan. Show a little arrogance, especially when it’s warranted.

” I turn to him. “I wanted you to see me. This day…fuck this fucking day. You were writing. Did that make you feel better? Make all of this go away? Maybe I wanted it to go away, too. And you won’t let yourself touch me anymore. So I comforted myself.”

He steps forward, my body humming and swaying to him. “What were you thinking about?”

“Shall I return your words? Not you? ”

“Only if it’s true,” he whispers. “And I wasn’t the first person to utter those two words.”

I wince, then edge closer to him. “If you touched yourself right fucking now in the shade of that cursed jungle, what would you be thinking about?” I ask.

A flash of memories goes through my mind. All him. All places we have been and ways we have touched each other. It’s been so long, and my body is begging for it. Begging for him.

“That night by the pool,” he whispers.

I blow out a breath. “When we could have been caught?”

“Yeah,” he says.

“If that’s the rub, no one will catch us here, Rowan. It wouldn’t be for show, the way you say I do it. It would be because I want it. Because you want it.”

“I already told you I’m not playing games with you, Riley,” he says.

I shake my head, moving away from him, and I feel the loss acutely.

“Yeah, you are. The way you stormed off, dangled the carrot with that fucking notebook.” My teasing voice goes dark.

“I was thinking of you. Because if I can’t have your hands on me, I can pretend mine are yours while I get myself off. ”

“Fuck,” he whispers, turning away.

“You want to,” I hush.

He turns back to me, hand flexing, jaw tight. “Yeah, I do.”

“It’s okay,” I say, grabbing his hand. I turn his arm over, threading my fingers with his, pulling him close. Our foreheads touch as I go on tiptoe, and I can feel his breath on me. Warm and wanting. “It’s okay,” I say again.

“No, it’s not,” he counters. “This is a trauma bond; we pulled a man from the ocean, we wrecked on an island. We found…someone in a fucking trunk, Riley. We weren’t meant to be together this long, here, in this place.”

“We bonded well before this, Rowan, and you know it.”

“You’re healthier out here without everything you cling to, Riley. I don’t want to mess that up.”

I pull away, angry. “What, do you think you’re like a drug to me? A drink? Something bad? I’m not a kid anymore, and I can make my own decisions. So can you. Stop hiding from what you fucking want, Rowan.”

At this, he grabs me, fusing his mouth to mine, shivering at the slight whimper I let out before we touch. I’ve always loved the way he responds to my body, the way he lets go. He is open and present through every bit of our moments, when we touch. I’ve missed it.

I was wrong then—in our dark past. Maybe I’m wrong now. But he kisses me like I can lie to myself, like his body can lie to me, and it will be okay.

I need the rainy season because this drought—like our time on this cursed island—has to end. I need Rowan to drown me.

When Rowan pulls away, he looks into my eyes. “I want you.”

“Is that a chance?” I ask. “A second chance?” I’ve been begging for a chance, and now it feels like not enough. I want Rowan’s heart in my hand. I’ll be delicate; I’ll be careful. I’ll be everything he was for me.

“Yeah,” he whispers, hands running up my arm.

“I’ll take it,” I say. I kiss him and moan into him when he pulls me away from the water.

His eyes are so blue when he looks at me and the stars around me.

He looks happy, and to see a smile from Rowan is to witness the sun breaking open, no matter where you are or what time of day it is.

To love Rowan Finn is to be wrapped in a warm blanket, and my heart has been so cold for so long.

When he takes my hand, pulling me toward the tent, I do not hesitate.