Then again, if only I didn’t have boats to build and stranglers to neutralize.
I touch a hand to my neck. My windpipe’s bruised, and swallowing kills. Turns out there are more ways to die on this island than I’d previously thought, like at the literal hands of a boy.
I could have left him on the shore. The storm might have drowned him. The ocean might have lapped him up and returned him to Joules-knows-where he came from. I could have disposed of him without lifting a finger, and it’d serve him right.
Instead, I kept him. Bound to M.M.’s bed, still naked—I refuse to dress my would-be murderer—but alive.
Because he’s just like me. We both washed up ashore, bare as babies. If he remembers anything, anything at all, about what’s out there—other islands or the cities from my dreams—I don’t care if he’s the devil himself. He could be the answer to my past and my future. He could better my chances of finding Kay.
We’ll see once he wakes.
Beneath my feet, the tide rises, slurping through the pier planks. The sea breeze tastes divine, especially after last night’s events.
One last inhale, and I leave the pier. The nape of my neck prickles as I trek across the beach. It’s strange, knowing there’s another soul on this island. The house, when I return, looks different somehow. A floorboard creaks, and I jump, but it’s just U-me.
The heebie-jeebies settle once I enter M.M.’s bedroom. It’s bright at this hour, its eastward window aglow. The walls are papered with tiny flowers. The air is iridescent with dust, and sweet, too, the scent of yarn coming through the slatted doors of the closet, where M.M.’s sweaters hang in a row. I’d sleep here more often if doing so didn’t make the rest of the house feel too empty. On the couch, I can convince myself I’m one of many guests, only passing through.
The boy, though, has made himself right at home under the blanket I spared to cover him. I sink into the sun-warmed rocking chair by the bed and watch him sleep—rather deeply, I think enviously, for someone restrained to the bedposts. I bet it’s a dreamless slumber. I bet—I know—he didn’t wake once last night. He was out like a light while I had to fight to keep my eyes open after my near-death experience just to avoid death-by-sleepwalking-into-storm.
If I’m awake, surely he can be too.
My patience drying up, I prod him. Poke him. I check that he’s still breathing, and as I’m holding a finger under his nose, it hits me all over again.
A living. Breathing. Human.
The first in three years.
Will he be funny? Sarcastic? Charming? Or will he wake up still a murderer?
As if I might find the answers written on his face, I scoot closer and study him. He appears to be around my age, whatever that is. As for his looks, he’s pretty, but plain. Nothing about him sticks out. Nothing is striking. His cheekbones, while high, could be more defined, and his jaw, refined, could be more chiseled. His hair is wishy-washy wavy and too short to be long, but long enough to fan out over the pillow, curling around his ears and neck, a dark gray mop over his brow, eyes interrupted only by the slope of his nose—a nice enough nose, but still boyish. Boyish—that’s the word. Missing angles and gentle shadows, like the half-moon dwelling above his lip.
Which brings me to his lips.
Not too full, not too thin. Average, but here, it works. His lips are probably his nicest feature, and I run a finger over the bottom one before I can help myself, surprised by its softness. Do murderers have soft lips? I pick at my chapped ones, suddenly self-conscious. Then I chuckle. Me? Upped by a boy? Impossible.
Hold up.
Where did that thought come from?
I don’t have memories of any boys. In fact, when I try to remember them, I end up with images of ice pops that melt too fast and sky-cities hovering over oceans. And Kay. Black coffee eyes. Bobbed hair. The rare slice of a smile.
But then, like some levee has broken, it all comes flooding back. Boys upon boys upon boys. Boys who talk more than they listen, who aren’t as funny as they think they are but who need me like air, whose smiles are easily earned.
Only one boy is unsmiling. Black hair, swept to one side. Coal-dark eyes. When our gazes meet, it’s like he sees me, not the version of myself I try to be to make others like me, but the parts I’m hiding, the secrets I keep from Kay, out of fear that they’ll hurt her. I never want to hurt her or anyone or him.
A boy whose name I can’t remember.
When I resurface, I’m out of breath. I glance back down at the boy to find my finger still on his lip and his eyes wide open, gray irises pinned on mine.