Page 87 of Rule 4: Never Get Stranded with a Sports Reporter

Coldness slinks down my spine. Is that why Jason disappeared? He’s bracing for me to write a tell-all story about our time on the island together?

My stomach churns.

I won’t do that.

I won’t.

“We didn’t talk much,” I say.

“No surprise there,” Rex says, though his face is disappointed.

“He was excellent at helping us survive.”

Rex snorts. “Sounds like something for the Blizzards’ PR department.”

I look away hastily, hoping my reaction is not obvious, and usher my sister to my apartment. She chatters happily about life in Tennessee, but my mind fills with blue eyes and blond hair, and when we enter my tiny North End apartment, with its red-painted planks and narrow windows overlooking an alley, my chest aches.

CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

Jason

The marble under my bare feet is cold and perfect, nothing like the sand that got between my toes for five days, and light streams from my floor-to-ceiling windows that do nothing to warm me. I collapse onto my leather sofa and wait for my breath to calm and happiness to fill my body.

It doesn’t. It’s impossible: there’s no happiness when there’s no Cal.

My phone rings, and I leap for it. Dad’s name flashes on the screen.

This is good. I don’t need to speak with Cal all the time. I spoke to him on the island. Cal is busy with his busy life, filled with people who care about him.

I answer the phone. “Hey, Dad.”

“Seems I should have taught you how to jet ski,” Dad says.

That’s probably a joke. I give a strained chuckle.

I wait for him to say he’s glad I’m alive or something, but he doesn’t. Maybe he doesn’t get how scary it was. I consider telling him, then think better about it. Why worry him? The last thing I need is regular jet skiing advice from him or something.

“I’m back in Boston now,” I say.

“Figured the news reports were accurate.” He pauses.

Oh, no.

“Seems you were stuck on that island with that pervert.”

I tense. “He’s not... Dad, you shouldn’t...” My chest tightens. “Please don’t use that language, Dad.”

I’m not saying enough. The words are lame.

“Sure, son,” Dad says. “Whatever you want.”

“Good.” I try to pretend this is a victory.

“Just don’t forget that his desires are unnatural,” Dad says. “Don’t want you being influenced badly. Like that time in high school you got curious and searched for—”

“Dad!” I plead. My cheeks burn. I’d hoped he’d forgotten about that. Of course, he hasn’t. I’d hoped his opinions had become more modern. Of course, they aren’t.

“Right, right, son.” Dad chuckles. “Got to remember I have a son who lives in Boston now.”