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Huh.
“Jack?” she called out softly. But nothing. Only the breeze coming in through the open windows, making the wind chimes sing.
Donovan downed two headache tablets, grabbed her stuff, this time she tossed in her notebook and pencil, and headed down to the beach. Her spot was vacant. The beach was vacant. In fact it seemed as if the entire island was vacant.
Glancing over to the dock, she noticed the second boat was missing and lips pursed, she began to unpack for the day.
“Could have at least left me a note,” she muttered. “Maybe I wanted to use it today.” Not really but still. “Hope a goddamn shark finds you,” she said, eyes on the water and then glanced around. “Jesus, Donnie. You’re starting to sound as crazy as you feel.”
That was an understatement.
She was bitching about a boat she didn’t even know how to drive, and she was talking to herself. Falling into her beach chair in a huff, she reached for her notebook instead of the book-that-she-would-never-read.
Her notebook was for writing songs. For getting words down that she could put to melody. But as she stared out over the water, feeling more lonely than she could ever remember feeling before, she began to think of a lot of thinks that she’d pushed to the back of her mind. Dark things. Painful things. Secret things.
Taking her pencil out of her mouth Donovan sighed, and after a few seconds she began to write. What ended up in the pages weren’t words meant for music. Nope. They carried a lot more weight than that. They were words meant to tell a story. The sad story of Donovan and Jack.
And the night it all went to hell.
By mid afternoon she’d filled more than twenty pages, her cursive writing small and neat. She was spent, emotionally drained, and glancing down at the paper, it was no wonder. Everything was there. Every sad and sordid detail.
Getting stuff out was supposed to make you feel better, but right now, in this moment, she felt nothing but overwhelming sadness for the life that she could have had. A life that she wanted. A life that she thought about every single day.
Tired and hungry Donovan, headed up to the house. By the time she showered and prepared herself the saddest looking salad ever (she’d tried to get the caramelized walnut thing happening but burnt them instead), the sky was blocked out by yet another storm rolling in.
Determined not to dwell on Jack, she ate her salad on the patio and tried to ignore the empty chair across from her. And the empty dock for that matter, which was even harder to do, because big fat raindrops began to fall just as she was finishing up her dinner. Along with the rain came thunder, and a bolt of lightening ripped a hole in the sky. She barely made it inside before a deluge fell from the stormy clouds.
Now Donovan was the kind of girl who loved the rain. When she was little she used to run around and try to catch drops on her tongue, and if it was thundering and lightening, even better. Her gramps, God bless him, used to call her the little witch. Her mom? Just plain stupid.
Of course things changed the summer she turned twelve and witnessed her cousin Zack get hit by a bolt that came at them without any warning.
The smell of burning flesh was something she’d never forget, and her cousin Zack had never been the same. Lucky to be alive, he suffered third degree burns and lasting neurological defects, including seizures. Another thing her mother had blamed Donovan for.
“Can’t you ever listen? You know that trouble always finds you, and now your cousin is gonna be a vegetable, and that’s all your fault.”
So yeah, Donovan wasn’t a fan of lightening and Jack Simon was a fool to be out on the water in such a storm. He, of all people, knew better. What the hell was he thinking? Was he so pissed at being stuck on this island with her that he had to take the boat out into the Caribbean to get away from her?
Whatever, she thought. But whatever didn’t make her feel any better because an hour passed and no Jack. And then another. Still no Jack.
By this time it was dark outside, and her bandaged foot was killing her from all the pacing she’d done. Up and down, back and forth. Across the patio where it still rained and then back inside. But she couldn’t stop. Worry had her nerves jumping like a Mexican bean, and her stomach was just as bad, tied up in knots that would make Christian Grey proud.
Jesus. It wasn’t fair that she still cared so much.
Where was he? Was he hurt? Had the storm somehow overturned his boat? Was he somewhere out there in shark infested waters, trying to keep his head above water?
“Sweet Jesus,” she whispered hoarsely. Sharks.
But no one was listening, and Donovan passed another hour watching the darkness and cursing herself for not bringing along a cell phone. Because if she had one, surely she’d have alerted the coast guard. Did Belize even have a coast guard?
The thunder and lightening had stopped, though the rain was still holding steady. Feeling like a caged bird, Donovan headed for the patio and let the water wash over her, arms crossed over her chest as she tried to find some kind of comfort.
Minutes passed—long minutes that stretched into at least thirty—and Donovan was trembling from cold, fatigue, and fear. What would she do if he didn’t come back? It was then that something caught her eye and wiping water from the corners, she strained to see what it was. When the sound of a motor cut through the night, she whimpered, eyes glued to the dock.
The moon was still playing hide and seek with the storm clouds, so she could barely make out the dock. Without thinking or even pulling on her sandals, she sprinted down the steps, nearly tripping over the small bushes at the bottom and ran toward the water.
She was acting on impulse. Adrenaline and fear driving her forward. It was a miracle that she didn’t fall and break a leg on her mad scramble to get to the dock.
By the time she hopped onto the wooden boards, slick from the rain, she could see Jack tying up the boat, and she didn’t stop running until he turned toward her. She slammed into his chest and slid her arms around him, squeezing her eyes shut. He was back.
