A second oar—made from the piece of wood I had asked Clay about days ago. He’s carved and shaped it: One end is now flat, the other end narrowed so that it fits perfectly into the oarlocks. He spent time on it, in secret, to be sure it would work.
My eyes pinch closed.
He may not have wanted me to leave, but he wouldn’t let me row out into the sea with only a single oar. He’s giving me a chance at survival,at returning home. To James. And this last selfless act is almost enough to make me turn around.
But I force myself to take up the oars, and I begin rowing away from the rocky shore of the island. The sea is flat, untroubled, and the farther I row, the island looks more and more impossible: a solitary outcropping of land, a white house at the highest point, smaller structures dotting the grassy slope. If I were a passing vessel, a freighter or fishing ship, I could easily convince myself it was a mirage.
But I keep my eyes on it, afraid to lose it from view, while also hoping I might see a sliver of land rising up in the opposite direction, some hint of mainland. My arms begin to throb with the steady motion, and soon the island is a faint band of dirt just visible in the distance, surrounded on all sides by unbroken sea.
I’m rowing away from the rising sun, hoping to travel west, but I really can’t be sure.
Time bends out around me.
An hour passes, maybe a little more.
The sun begins to feel torturous; the wide-brimmed hat I took from the tool shed is the only thing shading me from the heat. I rest my arms, sinking back in the boat and staring out at the endless blue. My head is muddied, messy, unable to sort through the stack of reasons why I’m doing the right thing. Why I needed to leave.
While my heart screams at me, pleads, to go back.
But I pick up the oars and find a new rhythm, refusing to slow my pace, and soon the ache in my arms seems to fade. The sea pulls me out into its depth. Glittery and cajoling. Welcoming me into its arms.
If fate brought me back to the island after all these years, maybe it will return me home once again.
Another hour passes, maybe two. No way to be sure.
The wind starts to stir up from the Atlantic, picking up momentum, and soon the surface of the water churns and tosses around me. To the east, a wall of clouds is building in the distance—dark and low. Rainclouds. They might not reach me, I say silently to myself. Or I might get slammed by a downpour in a matter of minutes.
I stop rowing and lift my gaze from the ocean, back to the island. What’s left of it. It’s nearly gone, only a sliver against the sea, but it’s still visible—even after hours of rowing.
I draw in a deep breath, bobbing on the surface of the Atlantic, the air electric, a static that’s hard to pinpoint.
I think of Nana, imagining how worried she’s been, staying up nights wondering what happened to me: if I’m still alive, if I’ve drowned, or if I might come wandering up the shoreline at low tide with a story to tell that no one will believe.
Time repeating itself all over again.
I try to think of James. I try to feel some longing for his hands against my skin, try to picture seeing him again, stepping off an airplane, crying, and the relief I might feel in his arms. But I don’t feel anything. All I feel is Clay.
The memory of his fingers against my cheek, the way his eyes fell into me, lidded, greedy. Fuck. I don’t know what this is, why my mind breaks apart when I think of him, why I feel like I’d do anything to feel his hands again. To lift onto my tiptoes, lean in close, and promise I’ll stay. Promise to never leave.
I don’t know why I want to make promises to him at all.
Why, right now, sitting in this tiny boat, I only want him.
Days ago, he asked me how I know where I belong.
I had thought the answer was simple. It was obvious; I made a promise to a man waiting for me back in Seattle. But belonging has nothing to do with responsibility. And everything to do with the muscle beating beneath my ribs.
I press my hands against my eyes, doubt clawing at me from the inside—far more dangerous than the approaching storm. This is my chance, this boat is my hope of finding a way back to land, so why does it feel like the wrong direction? Why does it feel like I’m no longer certain of what I really want?
Maybe because I haven’t known what I want—for years now, for most of my adult life.
Maybe because I’ve thought of the island every day since childhood. And now that I’ve found it again, I’m afraid to lose it.
I’m afraid that my life back in Seattle is not what I think it is. Not what I’ve ever truly wanted, but what I thought I was supposed to have. Fear had kept me there—fear that I couldn’t trust my own mind. So I needed something steady, reliable, like James, to keep me from tipping into madness. To keep me from chasing after impossible things. But there was another fear, one I couldn’t shake: that I might wake up one day when it was too late, and realize that I deserved something more. That I wanted something more.
Nana once told me,“There is nothing more powerful than a woman who knows her worth—and won’t ever be convinced otherwise.”
I’ve never been sure of who I really am without the story I kept inside me since I was twelve. That girl was brave enough to step onto the island for the first time.
