But things are different on theisland.
…things are different withhim.
This is no childhood crush I can shake, no unsuccessful flirtation with a cute boy in a coffeeshop.
Beck possesses my thoughts the way I wish I could possess his body. And every day that drags by with those desires unfulfilled sends me a little deeper down the rabbit hole of rebuffed feelings. Every time our eyes meet, I grow a little moremorose.
Ironically enough, in many ways things on the island have never been better. We don’t spend every minute worried about where our next meal is coming from, or whether we’ll run out of water again. Ian is still holding on, despite the odds stacked against him. Our shelter is growing more stable all the time as we add makeshift furniture constructed from driftwood. My skin has turned golden brown, no longer sizzling in the sun when I walk along the inlet, ankle-deep in thesurf.
We’re surviving. Practicallythriving.
Yet I’m more miserable than I’ve been since we first washedashore.
Finding the freshwater pool is the only thing that’s lightened my spirits in almost a week. Stripping to my skin, I carry my dress and underwear with me into the water along with my small bottles of body wash, shampoo, and conditioner. I fall into the sun-dappled surface like it’s a featherbed, letting it close over my head in a cool rush. The warm water flows over my dry, sandy skin like a caress. It’s absolutely sublime. Heaven onearth.
I float for hours, limbs splayed like a starfish as the sun filters down on me. I examine myself for the first time since the crash, grimacing at the way my hipbones and ribs jut through my skin with new sharpness. I take my time shampooing my hair, allotting myself the smallest dollop imaginable, then lather every inch of my skin with body wash. It has a light, pleasing scent I recognize immediately — gardenias and sage. Feminine without being overpowering. As soon as it hits my nose, the gates of memory are blasted open, yanking me straight back home to our farmhouse, where this same smell saturates everyroom.
Straight back to mymother.
I haven’t allowed myself to think about her except in passing. It’s too painful. If I let my thoughts linger on what she’d do if she were here… the things I’d say to her if I could go back to that last moment together at the airport… the pain she’s in now, coping with the unexpected loss of a child… I’d probably never get out of bed in the morning. Never stop obsessing over the slew of macabre realizations that accompany that line ofthought.
She thinks I’mgone.
Did she buy a casket and hold a funeralservice?
Has she already laid me to rest? Turned my bedroom into a shrine of untouched memories, each item exactly as I left it that last day athome?
As far as the world is concerned, Violet Anderson is dead. Lost, somewhere at the bottom of the Pacific Ocean, with all the other unfortunate souls on that plane. It’s a strange reality to grapplewith.
The water grows chill as afternoon fades to dusk. Still, I float — eyes closed, limbs splayed, worries drifting away with the ripples. I know I should get out, go back to camp… but I can’t force myself to leave. In this pool, totally alone, I’m at peace in a way I haven’t been for a very longtime.
The snap of a twig by the shore jolts me from my reverie. Eyes opening, my feet sink to the silt bottom as I spin around, lift my head… and look straight into a set of wide greeneyes.
For one supercharged instant, we're both totally frozen — me, standing naked in the crystal clear water, Beck, stunned silent by the sight of me. Our gazes tangle and hold. For a moment I stand totallystill.
Watching him watchme.
He’s not touching me — he’s not even near me — yet somehow, it’s the most erotic experience of my life. The mere weight of his eyes on my skin is more exhilarating than any former boyfriend’s rushed hands or sloppy backseat kisses everwere.
The seconds tickon.
I should covermyself.
He should turn hisback.
One of us should break thesilence.
One of us should tear their eyesaway.
Andyet…
I can’t move. I can barelybreathe.
I am a cherry blossom tree hit with the first hints of spring. Something dormant inside me has stirred awake after a long hibernation. Something I’m not sure I even realized lurked there, waiting to be roused, until this breathless instant pinned beneath Beck’sgaze.
Now that it’s made its presence known, I’m not sure I can banish it back toslumber.
I’m not sure I wantto.