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Chapter nineteen

Darla

I crouch down on the sand, clearing a small patch with my hand before placing the bundle of dried moss I collected in the center.

“You want something dry and soft like this moss, to catch the spark.” I tell them as I pull out my knife and a small rock.

Weston kneels beside me. I get a whiff of his scent as he leans forward, resting his arm across his knee. He smells like the ocean and mangoes, and I lick my lips, my mouth watering in approval.

What the hell, Zee?

I shake my head of that thought and notice he’s watching my hands like he’s trying to memorize every twitch of my fingers. “And the knife?” he asks, his voice lower now.

I hand it to him, my fingers brushing his. My pulse jumps, betraying me. “Strike it hard and fast against the rock. The angle matters,” I say quickly, pulling back like I’ve touched something hot. He nods, eyes flicking up to meet mine for half a second before dropping to the blade again.

I think about how he wrapped his around me on our walk here. I almost flung it off, but then the strangest thing happened, I started to feel… safe. It was a strange and welcome feeling, although not completely foreign to me. There was a time I felt like that, back before I arrived here.

I’m not sure what to think about the fact that I’m starting to feel safe around these men, starting to trust them. What’s the end goal here? It’s clear they plan on doing everything they can to be rescued, but leaving this island is not something I’m interested in, not anymore.

This is my home now, I know how to survive here and who my enemies are. The same can’t be said if I were to leave this island.

Weston strikes the rock again. Sparks dance, but the moss doesn’t catch. I reach over, placing my hand on his to adjust the angle. My fingers tremble against his knuckles. “Like this,” I murmur. His eyes lift again, slower this time, and the look he gives me makes my stomach flip.

I snatch my hand back. “Try again,” I say, trying to act like the way he’s looking at me doesn’t make my body react in a way that I don’t completely understand.

Kingsley and Bower hover nearby, quiet for once, and I can feel their curiosity pressing in around me. I don’t think they even realize how loud their presence is. After fifteen years of silence, three men just existing nearby feels like a thunderstorm under my skin.

He tries again, this time exactly the way I showed him. Sparks jump, the moss quickly catches, and a thin thread of smoke rises up. I lean back, heart thudding louder than the tiny crackle of the budding flame.

Bower grins, crouching on the other side. “That was hot.” My eyes dart to his, unsure of his meaning, but he just smirks like he enjoys making me squirm.

Kingsley claps Weston on the back. “Look at you, Mr. Survivalist.”

Weston glances at me instead of responding, like he's gauging my reaction .

I quickly look away, telling him, “Good job,” then focus on coaxing the flame bigger, feeding it with twigs and dry leaves until it’s steady.

The warmth brushes my skin, but it does nothing to ease the chill running down my spine.

My body’s confused. Too many new sensations. Too much attention. I’m not used to it.

Kingsley crouches nearby, eyeing the small flame with a nod of approval. He nudges a stick toward the edge of the fire, then pulls it back with a faint scowl as a spark flies towards his foot. “That almost got my shoe,” he mutters under his breath.

Bower laughs, shaking his head. “They were doomed the minute you got off the plane.”

“They’re Amiri,” Kingsley replies quietly, like that should explain everything.

Bower snorts. “Don’t worry, man. Give it a few more days and we’ll all be barefoot and wearing shorts made from boar hide.”

“As long as Zee makes them,” Kingsley replies. “If it’s up to us, we’d probably end up wearing coconut shells and leaf fronds. Or worse—Weston gets creative and we end up in loincloths that fall off when we sneeze.”

Weston raises an eyebrow. “I’ll remember that when your ass is hanging out of a leaf skirt.”

That sets them off. Their laughter blends, bouncing across the sand, filling the space around me. The warmth of it brushes against me like sunlight, and for a breath, I almost lean into it.

But then the sound swells, and something inside me snaps.

That sound. The deep, easy laughter of men.

It hits me like a slap .

Suddenly, I’m not on the beach anymore. I’m thirteen again, heart pounding as the laughter of strange men echoes around me in the jungle. My body remembers before my mind does. The panic climbs fast. Cold sweat breaks out on my neck. I can’t breathe.

I stumble to my feet and the laughter cuts off abruptly. But it’s too late, I need to get out of here, I need to breathe.

“Zee?” Weston asks, his voice softer than usual. But I can’t hear it properly over the roar in my ears.

“I have to go,” I choke out, already backing away. My feet move on instinct, the way they always do when the world starts closing in.

“Wait—” Kingsley starts, but I don’t stop, my feet pound on the jungle floor as I race back to my hammock, to my safe place.

I need space. Air. Distance. Anything to stop the storm breaking loose inside me. I’m aware that I’ve left McStabby at the beach, but right now, I don't care, I just need to be alone so I can breathe again. Being around them right now reminds me too much of the past and I can’t handle it.

I blink and find myself lying in my hammock, Steve clutched to my chest. I don’t even remember making it back here, my mind mostly blacking out as instinct drove me to run.

The sun is still bright in the sky, but I feel emotionally exhausted. That, combined with my lack of sleep lately, has my eyelids drifting closed.

When I open them again, the sun has moved. It looks like it will be nighttime soon. I put Steve back in his resting spot between branches and make my way down the tree.

I don’t want to see anyone right now, but there are some things I need to do before it gets too dark. Food, water and a bathroom break .

I move through the trees for a long while before I make my way to the ground.

I stand there for a minute, listening for any signs of them, and when I’m sure they aren’t here, I move to the pond and scoop up handfuls of water, quenching my thirst and making sure that I drink enough to last me until morning.

My waterskin was in my bag that I stupidly left at the beach.

Maybe I should go back and get it? They probably aren’t there anymore, anyway.

But when I see where the sun is, the jungle already starting to darken, I decide I don’t have time. I find a few guavas, as they’re the closest fruit, and eat one straight away, before slowly making my way back to my hammock.

When I reach my tree, I debate which way to go. Up to the safety of my hammock, or down, towards where the guys probably are.

“Just a quick peek, to make sure they’re okay,” I whisper, trying to convince myself this is for them, not me.

As I get lower I see my bag, sitting in the same place Bower put it last time, at the base of the trunk, behind the hut. Knowing they left it for me, even after I ran out on them so rudely, makes my chest constrict with guilt, but there’s something else there, too… hope.

I hear murmuring from inside, so I quietly make my way around the hut and closer to the door, where their voices are loudest.

“... No idea.” I recognize Kingsley's voice and strain my ears to try to pick up more of their conversation.

“Did I do something wrong?” Bower asks, making the guilt in my chest intensify.

“No, she’s suffering. Something clearly triggered her, but I don’t think it was anything we did, “ Weston tells them. “That’s the thing about trauma. The smallest thing can set it off; a look, a gesture of the hand, a laugh.”

I suck in a sharp breath. Is that what this is? Trauma?

My mind races and I, once again, flee from them. “We need to give her time and space, but I don’t think we should stay…” Kingsley’s words trailing off as I loop my bag over my head and climb back up to the safety of my hammock.

I clean my teeth and change into the black ACDC t-shirt. Grabbing Steve, I lay back in my hammock as their words bounce around my head.

Trauma.

Of course, I know what trauma is, but I never associated the word with myself before. It feels too… big, too important. What I went through was awful, but was it traumatizing?

I think about my reaction to blood on my hands, to the way I mistook a hug for an attack, to how their laughter sent me running, to my nightmares and how thunderstorms give me panic attacks.

Yeah… maybe it was trauma. How do people deal with this on the mainland? I try to remember if I’ve seen anything on a tv show, but I only recall people having trauma, not what they did to help with it.

Well, I’ve survived fifteen years by trying to ignore mine and burying it deep inside. That’s worked for me so far, so there’s no need to change things now.

The next morning, I’m groggy again, the nightmares constantly waking me up.

I feel guilty for making Bower think he did something wrong yesterday, so I decide to bring some breakfast as a peace offering, hoping they don’t ask me about what happened.

I don’t hear them calling my name this morning, so they’ve either given up on me, or they’re still asleep.

I climb down and the soft sounds of their snoring reach my ears, making my lips twitch in amusement. Some people might hate the sound of snoring, but I find it comforting, it reminds me that I’m not alone.

I continue down to the ground, fill up my waterskin and pick a handful of plums, all before they wake up. So when they finally emerge from their hut, they find me sitting around the unlit fire pit, flipping the jerky.

“Zee! You’re here,” Bower says excitedly as he makes his way down with his backpack on his shoulder. I stand and when he gets closer, he seems to stop himself short a few feet from me, his hands clenching at his sides.