We didn’t say a word as we drifted to the shoreline, collecting useful items given through the charity of the storm.
By the time we’d sunburned and needed to retreat from the noonday heat, we’d collected a broken deck chair that’d been on the ocean bottom for decades (judging by the barnacles on its rusted frame), an empty oil barrel, a few dead seagulls, rotting fish, and a tangled green fishing net.
Apart from the carcasses of dead creatures, every inch of the marine litter would be given a purpose.
Somehow, bad luck had tried to ruin us but the opposite had happened.
We’d been given things that we didn’t have before.
Things that would increase our lifespan for the better.
Instead of always being known as the night from hell, it was christened Christmas morning. The holiday season might’ve been delayed by a few weeks, but Santa had finally found us with his sleigh and reindeer.
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Even though happiness had come from a night of disaster, I still couldn’t shake the memories of what it’d been like when we were first stranded.
The first panic.
The first helplessness.
The first prayers for salvation.
I’d forgotten the depth of craving for home or the endless begging for a rescuer. Time had adapted us and along with physically becoming able, our thoughts had evolved, too. Days passed where I was content. Weeks even.
I was happy with our life and consumed with lust and need for Galloway.
We’d all become guilty of forgetfulness. And soon...who knew what the word home would mean. Would this island become home? Would this wild existence become preferential over the rat race of society?
I didn’t know.
I didn’t know if I wanted to know.
Because if this did become home and our mismatched bandits became a real family...what did that mean for future goals? Did we never try to leave? Did we accept that this was our fate and plant roots more permanent than the ones we already had?
I didn’t have the answers and, a few nights after the storm, when no one was around to see my betrayal, I tore out a page of my notebook with simple lyrics to a song I’d written in my darkest days on the island.
I rolled the parchment.
I stuffed it into one of the plastic bottles donated by the sea and tossed it as far as I could into the tide.
Messages had been what brought me to this place.
Perhaps a floating ownerless message would be the one to set us free.
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The third bad luck strike wasn’t so much our doing or the world trying to kill us...but more of a forgotten date that ruined a little girl’s joy.
Pippa turned eight.
And we didn’t celebrate.
It wasn’t until her sniffles, a week after the monsoon, made me crawl out of bed and go to her that she told me. Holding her in the dark, she broke down, unable to keep a brave face anymore and told me the most awful thing.
She’d had a birthday and not told anyone.
And Conner, being a typical teenager, forgot.
We were so far removed from celebrations and anniversaries that I hadn’t even thought to plan.
Poor thing.
When we’d first arrived, Conner had mentioned Pippa turned eight in a few months. However, I’d never asked the date because I’d believed we’d be with our respective families long before the party. What was worse was...I doubted I would’ve remembered if he had told me. My brain wasn’t exactly my friend these days.
But I was wrong.
The months had passed, and we were still here.
And no one had made a fuss of such a precious girl.
I cuddled her harder, pouring as much affection as I could to make up for our error. Pippa had tried to be brave, not wanting to make a fuss because she was old enough to understand that our circumstances were different now but still fanciful enough to wish for a perfect soiree.
Galloway caught me rocking Pippa to sleep just before dawn. Our attraction and unfinished business stretched to wrecking point.
My nipples tingled. My core liquefied. And everything inside me wanted to hold him, apologise, and forget what’d happened. Pretend we’d never given in, never screwed it up, and try again with a clean slate.
Why can’t I do that? Why can’t I go back in time and do better?
But I couldn’t go back. I could only fix forward.
“I’m sorry,” I whispered.
He smiled sadly. “Nothing to apologise for.”
Somehow, after days of cross tension, it dissolved...just like that.
Our relationship transcended miscommunication and mistakes. It was more mature than snippy arguments and cold shoulders.
I’m so very, very lucky.
Leaving his bed, he tiptoed toward us. His limp stabbed my heart with a thousand love-filled regrets. Slowly, he bent and kissed the top of my head. “Next time...trust me.”
He wants a next time...thank God.
His blue eyes glowed. “If I make a promise, Estelle, I keep that promise. And I promise I’ll do whatever you want. I’ll kiss you however you need. I’ll make love to you no matter your fears.”
He captured my lips with his.
The kiss was soft and stolen. His touch sent pinwheels of togetherness through my blood.
I sighed into his mouth.
Licking me softly, he moved his lips, trailing warm kisses across my jaw to my ear. His breath was sinfully hot as he whispered, “I’ll make you come over and over, Stel, but if it means I’ll never have the pleasure, then fine. I can live without if it means you live with more.”