Page 37 of Rule 4: Never Get Stranded with a Sports Reporter

My white pants are soaked. They’re tight and uncomfortable, and I really, really wish I was wearing swim trunks like Jason.

Jason is currently hollering and whooping in happiness at the heavens. He flings himself onto the beach, spreading his arms wide. For a moment, I think he’s going to start making sand angels or something.

He doesn’t.

But his smile is super wide, so unlike how I picture him, and I give a strangled laugh.

“We made it, Cal.”

“We sure did.” I tear off my shoes and hold them in my hands. The sand is hot beneath my toes, but I don’t care.

I move toward him, and Jason’s face pales. Too late, I remember we’re not friends anymore. Just because Jason didn’t leave me stranded in the middle of the Pacific doesn’t mean he’s a great guy.

My recollections of him as are marred by my then-crush on him. I liked the way he looked. I liked the way the light settled on his blond hair. He was an athlete even then, and baby gay me liked it. He didn’t scowl as much then.

I hate the way his breath sputters when I come close, and I hate the way he averts his gaze, jerking his head to peer at the well, completely, boring sand.

Though I guess sand isn’t boring when you’re worried you won’t see it again.

I march past him, in case he thought I was going to sit beside him or something. He was angled awkwardly away from me on the jet ski, as if he thought I was contaminated.

It’s fine.

Absolutely fine.

I kissed the wrong guy when I was sixteen. I can survive this awkwardness.

There’s no hotel or house or anything on this beach, so I decide to look around until I find who actually lives here.

But maybe their resort is super fancy. Birds caw. There’s no well-groomed path. No neat boardwalk swept twice a day by trusty staff.

The grove becomes thicker, and more jungle-like, and I frown. I put on my wet shoes and sludge through muddy ground packed with fallen leaves and weeds and what I think are insect corpses as wet palm leaves and vines lash at my soggy attire.

Is this island uninhabited?

No way.

Surely not.

It’s gorgeous. Someone must live here.

But I consider how hard it was to reach this island.

Maybe some islands are uninhabited. Wasn’tCastawayfilmed near here? I saw the advertisements for a ferry to the island where it was filmed.

I won’t panic.

Panicking is something for other people to do. Not me. Not now.

I’m not a high schooler realizing I’m gay. I’m not a high schooler realizing I’m way more into my friend than my other classmates would find socially acceptable.

No, everything is completely fine.

I won’t freak out because I don’t immediately see signs of civilization. I probably should have explored the beach more, and I didn’t, because I’ve had enough with Jason’s sulky expressions and sulkier sighs.

I march on. Finally, light appears through the trees.

This is it. This is a house... hopefully. Instead, I stare at a different, rockier beach. It’s equally desolate, and the gnawing pain in my chest grows.