19
JENNA
It’s a sad, cold evening when the bus drops me off just in time to catch the last ferry to the island.
Friends, I am a complete failure.
“People move home all the time,” I remind myself as I lug along my dog and my rolling suitcase, onto which are strapped my stand mixer and pots and pans with duct tape that Hannah bought because she felt sorry for me. “It’s not the end of the world.”
Yes, but they don’t have to move home to the Cloudveil Collective compound.
The ferry docks on the island with a long, sad, wailing blast.
Truman and I are the only ones to hop off at the dark wooden dock. It creaks under my feet as, suitcase wheels squeaking, I lug my stuff to the gravel road.
The island is one of the most remote ones on the bay that stretches out in front of Seattle. The few early inhabitants, such as my mom, originally wanted it to be a place to commune with nature and raise their kids where they could see the stars.
That means that I’m walking home in pitch blackness, the super-tall evergreen trees swallowing up the yellow light from the dock.
I’ve walked these roads before, doing the walk of shame back from a night on the town in Seattle with Hannah when we were teenagers.
I never called to ask for a ride.
My mom would just send her latest boyfriend. I didn’t want them to start feeling fatherly affection for me if she was going to jettison them after six weeks. Picking up your teenage stepdaughter felt more fatherly than I wanted to allow.
And so I walk.
Ariana Grande plays on my phone.
“We’re getting exercise!” I sing along, out of tune with the music. “We’re going to be healthy.”
I think I hear the crunch of tires on gravel.
My heart starts thudding.
Truman’s ears perk up.
“It’s nothing. There are other people on the island.”
I move over to the side of the road in case the car needs to pass. Instead, I hear it speed up, tires spinning.
I scream as the car almost brushes me then speeds down the road, taillights dark so I can’t make out the license plate.
“That’s weird. A very weird coincidence, totally not related at all to anything that’s happened in the past week. It’s probably a tourist mad they missed the ferry.”
Then why are my teeth chattering?
Truman’s floppy ears are high on his head, and he gives a few sharp warning barks to the dark.
“We’re okay. We’re fine, Truman… out here alone… in the dark.” I turn off the music.
In the dark, I hear the faint, faraway sounds of gravel crunching.
Is the car turning around? Is it Nathan? Shoot, is it Andreas or Brock? But Brock wouldn’t run me off the road, right?
He would for a prank video.
Maybe I am in over my head. Perhaps McCarthy is,maybe, just a little bit right.
