I managed it, though. Barely. It took all I had, but I managed to pull away, to not touch him, and face the water, letting my thoughts finally—after years of suppression and avoidance and blocking it out—return to the darkness inside me, to the old terrible memories, the deep wounds.
I dredged it all up, bit by bit. Sat in the old agony, and let it flow over me.
Knowing I was safe.
Knowing I was loved.
Myles
This time, she wasn’t avoiding me. She was lost, though. In thought, in herself, in memory. I saw her crying and sat near her in case she needed comfort. She held my hand but said nothing and so I let her have the silence of my presence.
At one point, late in the evening of the first day, she dove off the porch and swam away, and I watched her breaststroke to the sandbar and sit there well past dark, sitting, thinking.
I was wearing my swim trunks as part of our agreement to wear clothes for the next while, and she’d put on bikini bottoms but no top, which didn’t help my sexual urges, much. I held out though—didn’t touch myself, or her. It was going to be worth the wait.
She returned to the hut when stars were bright and the moon was brighter, and sat outside for a while. Eventually she came inside and slid into bed behind me, wrapping an arm around my middle and pressing her breasts against my back. I immediately got a monster hard-on that I struggled to ignore. Her hand clung to my belly, low, and I fought the need to feel her hand clasp around me.
With effort, I ignored it all and fell asleep.
Day two was more of the same—she spent a while reading a paperback, but I saw her turn the pages only fitfully, her eyes staring off into nothing for long periods of time. I made her an omelet on the propane stove, and she accepted it with a smile, but said nothing.
Sometime past noon, she swam off again, and I let her go. Her mood was dark, and tense. No longer tearful, she seemed angry, now. When she came back hours later, her eyes were reddened, tear tracks staining her cheeks.
She sat beside me on the bed, where I was lazing, dozing. “Can we go explore the island? I need to do something besides sit and think.”
“Sure,” I said. “There’s a little rowboat tied to the back of the hut. Why don’t we put on some clothes and row over?”
It was hotter on the island, away from the constant cooling breeze we had being right on the water. There was a trail leading inland, and we followed it uphill, winding toward the peak. We finally reached the top, sweating bullets and panting like mad. The view was spectacular, and we could see the little hut down below. We headed back down and found the generator, storeroom, and storm shelter. We checked them out, and by the time we’d seen just about everything there was to see, it was getting late in the day.
“Ready to go back?” I asked.
She nodded. “Yeah. I need a shower and something to eat.”
So, we rowed back and I fixed us food while she showered; she emerged with her hair wet and dripping, naked, eyes red again.
“Couldn’t see the point in getting a towel wet,” she murmured. “I can just lay out there and air dry.”
I wanted to ask if she was okay, but it seemed like a dumb question. “You want to eat out there? Or…?”
She shook her head; seemed to hold her breath, considering her words. “I wouldn’t mind if you sat with me.”
So we ate out there, sitting side by side on easy chairs, watching the stars come out and the moon slide up overhead, larger than any moon I’d ever seen, full and round and brilliant silver. After a while, the only light on us the stars and moon, I heard her suck in a deep breath.
“No interrupting, okay? No questions. No comments. Don’t be sympathetic. Just listen, okay? I’ve never spoken of this and it’s going to take all the courage I have to talk about it now. So just…just let me get it all out.”
“Okay.”
She reached out a hand—I extended mine and tangled my fingers with hers.
A long silence ensued and I waited through it.
“When I was eleven, I decided I wanted to be a musician,” she said. “I asked Mom and Dad for music lessons. They gave me an old acoustic guitar of Dad’s, a library book on guitar for beginners, and told me to try on my own. So I did. I taught myself some basic chords, learned how to play kid stuff like ‘Three Blind Mice’ and ‘Mary Had A Little Lamb’ and whatever. When I could play six basic songs all the way through without messing up, I gave Mom and Dad a recital. I had it all planned out. I’d even made little recital programs on Dad’s computer. My sisters were all there, and it was a big deal for me. I played my songs without messing up, and when it was over they all clapped and cheered. I felt amazing. I begged my parents for music lessons, and they found me a private music teacher, Mrs. Pruitt. She was about a thousand years old and had hair that was so white it was almost blue, and she could play the most amazing classical pieces on the piano. I didn’t want to play the piano—I wanted to play the guitar. Taylor Swift was just popping up on the scene, getting noticed and stuff, and I wanted to be like her.”
A long silence.
“Mom and Dad made me take piano for a year and a half, until I finally went apeshit on them, pitched a tantrum about how I hated piano and that I wanted guitar lessons and singing lessons so I could be like Taylor. I got so mad, you
