I laughed coldly. I couldn’t help it.
If only she knew what I wanted to apologise for...then she wouldn’t be so sure a high tide could fix it.
Her face turned an odd shade of crimson.
Swallowing my morbid chuckle, I nodded. “You’re right. I feel a lot better.”
Not at all. But thanks for trying.
She cocked her chin. “Well, I don’t know about you guys, but I do feel better.”
The defiant way she held herself sucker punched me in the heart.
“I was afraid I’d lose my voice, lose my ability to write songs, and fail at my love of putting tragedy onto paper. But I don’t have to worry anymore because lyrics are a part of me as much as my heart beats and my blood flows red.”
Wait...write songs?
She was a poet?
A singer?
How did I not bloody know this?
Same reason why she knows nothing of you—you’re a self-centred asshole who refuses to share.
Pippa slowly smiled, her face filling with awe as she let Estelle’s promise gain power. In her childish, whimsical mind, it was entirely possible for her fears to be swallowed by the ocean, her safety guaranteed by the waves, and her life guarded by merfolk and fantasy.
I was glad. Happy for her. Relieved that her little heart would be lighter.
God knew, she needed it.
The messages in the sand hadn’t done what Estelle had intended, but it taught me something. Her visiting me in the night. Her touch on my body. Her lips on my lips.
She’d shown me what a hypocrite I’d been.
I hurt because she wouldn’t touch me. Wouldn’t let me touch her. I hated that she kept me at arm’s length physically.
But I’d done the same to her. I’d barricaded my emotions. I’d buried my past and locked up my secrets. I’d cut her off emotionally.
My shoulders sagged as an even more heart-destroying conclusion found me.
If I was to earn Estelle’s permission to finally have her, then I had to give something of myself in return. I had to be willing to share.
I had to be willing to let her in.
I had to be willing to let her judge me for herself.
Chapter Thirty-Seven
...............................................
E S T E L L E
......
Time is measured more than in minutes and hours. Time is more complex than dials on a wall or hands on a clock. Time is contrary.
Twenty-six years, I’d been alive. Two years, I’d been a successful songwriter singer. Three months, I’d been island-wrecked. Two weeks, since I’d touched him.
So why did two weeks feel longer than every year I’d been breathing? Why did three months seem like an eternity?
Taken from the notepad of E.E.
...
FOURTEEN WEEKS
SOMETHING CHANGED IN Galloway the night I’d touched him.
He thawed a little. He smiled more. He made an effort to converse.
In the beginning, I’d been wary—looking for a trap. Then I’d been besotted, drinking in everything he let slip. His revelations were nothing earth-shattering. But I valued him opening up to me, to us. I finally believed we could become true friends and not standoffish survivors.
I learned he didn’t like hard liquor but loved craft beers brewed right. He didn’t like large cities but loved working in wide open spaces on his own. He got headaches when he was stressed. He suffered from claustrophobia. He was an only child and his dad was still alive.
Such simple things but I hoarded each one as if they were the key to unlocking him. Unfortunately, the more I learned about him, the more I wanted him.
My trip to my bamboo spot to pleasure myself became a regular occurrence and the desire to orgasm never stopped tormenting me.
I knew what I needed.
Him.
But no matter how many invitations I gave him: lingering glances, fleeting touches, desperate wordless hints to take me.
He never did.
He permitted my fingers to touch his when we cooked together. He allowed my thigh to rest against his while we carved bowls from coconut shells and weaved another blanket to sleep on.
Yet, he never accepted my solicitations.
He did, however, throw himself into building us a home.
Ever since the week of dismal dusting of rain and shadows, he’d announced we’d waited long enough for a roof over our heads.
Now his splint had come off, he moved more, but he couldn’t hide the anger at not having a fully healed leg and ankle. He limped (he tried not to), but his body was broken and there was nothing we could do.
It didn’t stop him from working with Conner. Together, they slowly dismantled the helicopter’s rotor blades with the aid of rocks and axe, smashing them free from the mast and dragging them through the forest to our beach.
It took them three days to get the two rotors to the sand and another afternoon to dig deep enough holes to ensure the blades stuck proudly from the beach like joists for a wall.
We only had two, but it was better than nothing.
Galloway took his time.