It was that thought that still made me feel guilty when I thought about everything that had happened with Mr. Royal and Lucille. Their brief marriage hadn’t been as shocking to me as it had been to many of the other people in the agency. It was just another of the impulsive flights of fancy that I had come to know in Mr. Royal, and one that I often thought that I should have been able to catch before it happened. I should have been able to distract his dirty old man mind enough to convince him that gorgeous young twenty-somethings don’t just fall head over heels in love with men old enough to be their grandfathers and covered with enough liver spots to be considered kin to a Dalmatian. Mr. Royal was one of the most endearing and likable people I had ever encountered, but he was never going to grace the front of People as the World’s Sexiest Geriatric. If I had been able to just keep him away from Lucille, we never would have been subjected to the misery of having the icy woman take over the agency while her new husband traveled the world. I still wasn’t sure that Snow had gotten over the doughnut debacle yet.
Thoughts of Snow and how she had reacted, not at all gracefully, to the sudden and non-forewarned disappearance of her beloved morning coffee and doughnuts in the office breakroom, filled my mind. If I had been able to detect that something might be happening and stop Mr. Royal from marrying Lucille on a whim and a hopeful Viagra prescription, I wouldn’t have had to convince Snow to take the several months’ worth of vacation that she had accumulated over her time working at Royal and Company so that she could get away from Lucille and avoid any more conflict. Of course, that would mean that she wouldn’t have met Noah until he had come to take over the company, and likely wouldn’t have pursued a relationship with him. While that might not have been the best course of events for her, it would mean that I wouldn’t be here fighting off Godzilla mosquitos and hoping that the bacon cheeseburger tree I drew when I was eight had sprung into existence and was just around the bend. I considered Snow a dear friend, but right then I wasn’t above choosing my own selfish needs over the possibility that she might not have gotten to marry Noah when she did.
If that had happened, though, I also would have never met Eleanor.
I was surprised by the thought that suddenly flickered through my mind. Why would I have thought that?
I turned around and was planning on following a widely curved path in the opposite direction back toward the beach when I heard the muffled sound of crying coming from somewhere ahead of me. I crept forward carefully and pushed aside the large frond of a palm ahead of me. As if the strange and unexpected thought of her had led me toward her, Eleanor was sitting on a moss-covered rock, her head in her hands as she sobbed. I quietly approached and crouched down in front of her, resting a hand on her back.
"Eleanor?" I said gently. "Are you alright?"
I always hated that question. Why did people ask that when they saw other people crying? It wasn’t like sitting there sobbing was a normal reaction to everything just going perfectly well in life. And yet, when people saw someone else crying, the first thing that always came to mind was “are you alright?”
I half expected her to string together some colorful and illustrative curses that ensured I knew exactly what she felt about me and the fact that this was largely, likely entirely, my fault, and that I sounded like a blithering idiot checking in on her when she was clearly not alright. Instead, Eleanor looked up at me and tried to brush the tears from her face.
"I'm sorry," she murmured.
"No," I said, settling down beside her. "Don't say you're sorry. You’re allowed to feel whatever you want to feel right now. I just want you know that I'm here if you want to talk about it."
"Those men who were on the boat," Eleanor started, but then hesitated as if she wasn’t completely sure that she wanted to keep going with that train of thought.
"Yes?" I said, trying to gently guide her forward.
I had been thinking about what she said about her ex-husband since she mentioned him on the cruise ship, and now she finally seemed as though she was willing to tell me what was really going on.
"They're never going to stop, are they?" she asked. "They are just going to keep coming after me until they finally get me, aren't they?"
Despite the hot, heavy air around us, Eleanor was visibly shaking and her arms were wrapped tightly around her body. I shook my head and slid closer to her so that I could meet her gaze again.
"They can come," I said, "but they won't get you." Eleanor started to look away and I reached out to tuck a finger under her chin and lift her face to look at me again. "They won't get you. I won't let them."
What had started as me just trying to comfort and reassure her had become a vow, a promise to her that I meant with everything in me. Eleanor didn't look away this time. I felt warmth building within me and tension filling the space between us. Led by the same compulsion that I had tried to ignore after the wedding, I reached up and ran my fingertips along the curve of her jaw, briefly allowing them to brush across her lips. I leaned forward toward her, longing to taste those soft, full lips again. For a moment Eleanor leaned toward me as well, but then she pulled back suddenly, looking away and pushing back so far on the rock that she nearly toppled off. The moment between us shattered and I felt embarrassment mixed with frustration wash over me. I couldn’t understand Eleanor’s sudden resistance. She had been ready, willing, and eager when we were at the hotel, and I had been the one to have second thoughts. Now she was pulling away from me, looking at me like she was horrified by my advances.
"You should probably go back down to the beach," I said, my voice gruff with humiliation and confusion as I climbed to my feet.
Without looking back at her, I continued through the trees and toward the soft rush of water that I heard in the distance. I wanted to rinse off and try to regain some feeling of normalcy even in surroundings that were anything but normal. Wandering through the jungle trying desperately to come up with a viable plan for what we were going to do was bad enough when I felt like I had some sort of connection with Eleanor, even if it was just the type of connection that we had to maintain because of everything that we had gone through together already. Now I felt like that tenuous link had not just dissolved, but had burst into flames and pushed us irreparably apart. I was not only embarrassed by the rejection and frustrated by the situation we had found ourselves in and my inability to figure out how to resolve it, but now I felt totally isolated and alone. I was walking those same damn high school hallways again, albeit with a few extra bugs this time, and I hated every instant of it. I started peeling off my shirt before reaching the edge of the outcropping, but I stopped before jumping off into the water when I saw Gavin already waist deep in the pool below.
Of course. I can’t even take a bath without something going wrong.
Yanking my shirt back down over my head, I stalked through the trees and back toward the beach. I didn’t want to be near either one of the others anymore. I was done with summer camp. I might not know what I was doing or how I was going to get out of this alive, but that didn’t mean that I needed to pretend that this was a bonding opportunity. I needed some time to myself and then I’d help them build a shelter, find supplies, and do what needed to be done, but that was all. Eleanor had made it expressly clear that she had just been toying with me and any guilt that I had felt walking away from her was gone now. Someone had to have noticed that we were missing and be looking for us, and once they came, we’d go about our lives and try not to think about this ever again.
Chapter Ten
Eleanor
Worst. Vacation. Ever.
I picked my way across the hot, coarse sand, knowing that I probably looked like a really pissed off flamingo, but not really caring anymore.
“What are you doing?” Gavin asked from where he was standing in the shallow water watching fish and taunting them with a spear. “You look like a pissed off flamingo.”
Exactly.
“If you haven’t noticed, you are walking around in your boots and I’m barefoot. If you’d like to try digging your feet down into the sand you, too, might discover the delightful little chunks that seem to have been turned into glass by the blazing hot SUN.”
I flailed and kicked at the sand as I screamed the final word, letting out some of my frustration, but still feeling plenty, all bottled up ready to explode whenever it found the right time.
“You’re just like all the others,” Gavin muttered.