Once Upon an Island

I don’t wait to see if he looks around. I hurry to the kitchen to the landline. Some people only have a cell here, but service is spotty, so I keep a landline too.

I punch in Kate’s number. She answers on the first ring.

“Kate, it’s me.”

“La-La?” Then she yells, “It’s Isla, everyone, it’s Isla.” Then, “Where are you? Is Declan there? Are you okay? What happened? La-La, what in the world? Why did you do that? I was so worried—” She cuts off and starts to cry, great big, hiccupping tears and I can’t make out what she’s saying anymore.

“I’m sorry,” I say. “I’m at home. Declan’s here. We’re alright.”

Kate’s still crying. It seems she can’t stop. Her stiff upper lip has failed her. I hear rustling, like the phone is being passed off.

“Isla, it’s Renee,” she has her lawyer voice on. “What happened?”

I cringe. “I fell off the boat. Declan jumped in after me.”

There’s silence on the other end. So I say, “We waited for the boat to come back, but when it didn’t we swam to shore. I’m home now. We’re both fine. I’m sorry for the trouble. Was the coastguard notified?”

They were.

A full search was in progress. Helicopters, search and rescue boats, the works.

“I’ll notify them,” Renee says. “I’ll take care of it.”

There’s another rustling. “You’re alright?” It’s Arya.

“Hey. We’re fine.” In fact, I’m starting to feel incredibly embarrassed. “I’m sorry for all the trouble.”

“Percy wants to know if Declan is okay,” she says.

“He’s fine. We’re both fine.”

After that, I make my excuses. I’m tired and drained and embarrassed at how many people went out of their way to find Declan and me.

I hang up the phone, wrap my arms around myself, and lean my head against a kitchen cabinet. I close my eyes and let out a long sigh.

I hear Declan’s footsteps stop at the entry to the kitchen, but I don’t turn around.

I’m beat.

“They all know we’re alive,” I say. “My friends are ecstatic. Not surprisingly, your friends and family are terribly sad you were found. They were hoping for an early inheritance.”

I peek back at him and give him my best sassy smile, trying to lighten my mood. His expression doesn’t change from that flat, neutral look he’s so fond of.

“Shame,” he says. “I so hate to disappoint.”

“Hmm. Really?”

He crosses his arms over his chest. “No.”

I grin big enough for the both of us. “I didn’t think so.”

When he doesn’t smile back my skin starts to itch. Although, most likely that’s the drying salt water, my sweat and my damp clothing.

Declan is still in his wet clothes, although I can tell he’s toweled off. I imagine he’s itchy and uncomfortable too.

I clear my throat. The kitchen feels smaller than it’s ever felt before. I can’t imagine how it would feel if Declan stepped all the way inside. It’s hard to remember how awful he is when I’m standing next to my grandma’s sunny lemon-yellow countertops and the wood cabinets my grandpa made. The low hum of the refrigerator fills the silence and I can smell the ripe mangoes in the fruit bowl. I want to invite him to sit down at the table. I could make us dinner and a cup of hot tea.

Except, I keep forgetting, he stole an old man’s pension, didn’t he? He tried to ruin Michael’s life. He did ruin Michael’s relationship.

Declan Fox isn’t a nice guy.

But that thought doesn’t ring exactly true.

So I ask him, head on, “Are you a nice guy?”

He looks at me like I’m funny in the head.

Then without any hesitation he says, “No.”

Right. “I didn’t think so,” I say.

His eyes flicker to the lemon-yellow countertops and something intangible passes over his expression.

“Do you like them?” I ask.

“Like what?”

“The countertops.” I rest my hand on top of the cool, smooth laminate.

“Not particularly,” he says.

I can’t tell whether he’s serious or not. So I choose not.

I shiver, I’m getting colder and itchier the longer I stay in my wet clothes. I really should kick Declan out. Let him fend for himself. Except, even if he isn’t a nice person, I am. There aren’t any taxis this far out of town and my car is at the harbor where the sailboat left from. Even if we call a taxi, it’ll be at least an hour until it arrives.

Before I head to the bathroom to dry off, and then to my bedroom to find a change of clothes, I have to ask something.

“Question,” I say.

He nods.

“If you had a friend, and they were in love with someone who you believed wasn’t right for them, would you try to prevent the match?”

He studies my expression carefully, like he’s weighing his answer.

Then he says, “I’d do everything in my power to prevent it.” He says this with more conviction than I’ve ever heard him use.

Goosebumps rise on my skin. There’s my answer.

“Even if it’s not your place? None of your business?”

He frowns at me like he’s surprised I have the gall to question him.

I shake my head. Enough. I point to the first cupboard on the wall.

“Tea’s on the bottom shelf. Kettle’s on the counter. I’ll be back in a moment. I’ll make dinner, then you can go.”

His presence is too much. Too large for my little cottage. Plus, he’s admitted that he’s not nice, that he’s awful.

Not that I didn’t already know that.

I walk past him, careful not to brush against him as I squeeze past, my legs still feeling like jelly.