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Twenty-Three
Connie
Words slipfrom my lips like honey from a beehive, drawing in the hen party who were standing outside. They’ve re-entered The Shack with a crew of fishermen, some have coupled up, others stand to the side, but all of them are watching me. Tomorrow afternoon the hen party will leave with only vague memories of some untamed men who smell of the ocean and a girl who sings love songs like her heart has been bruised a thousand times over. I’m not sure how they’ve ended up on our little island, but according to one of the girls, there are rumours building on the mainland of a bunch of hot, single fishermen, and lo and behold here they are.
Either way, it’s good business for Lola and the one and only B&B on the island.
Focusing my attention on my captive audience, I keep singing, holding onto the high notes and drawing out the low notes with the gentle strum of my guitar.
The whole time, I’m well aware of Malakai’s eyes on me but I don’t let his penetrating glare stop me from singing this song.
I wrote it for him, after all.
Over the last few months I’ve sung every other night at the shack. Mostly well-known ballads. I’ve had requests to sing other songs too, and I’ve always delivered. Every time I’ve sang, I’ve grown a little more confident. This is the first time I’ve sung one of my own songs.
I wasn’t going to.
But when I saw Malakai enter, dressed in a dark form fitting shirt and black jeans, all broody and severe looking, I decided it was time. I recall the morning when he watched me sing and I remember the way he’d looked at me then, how he’d opened up a little. I want to recapture that. Maybe I’m a glutton for punishment, but somehow I know that this will hurt him more than it hurts me.
And there’s a sick kind of satisfaction in that.
Inside, my anger still bubbles. When I returned home for dinner, Grandma Silva had sensed the sudden change from my false happiness to broiling rage. She’d put it down to me having a tiff with Peter. A stupid assumption, really, given Peter and I only ever laugh when we’re together. He’s not confrontational. He’s not bullish or arrogant.
He’s not Malakai.
I didn’t tell Grandma he’d returned, mainly because she would’ve tried to prevent me from opening up tonight. I didn’t want the argument, or for her to see quite how much he’s gotten under my skin and buried himself in my heart. I’ve been an island since he left, outwardly strong, standing alone, surviving the elements, but ever since our confrontation this morning, I’ve begun to crack. My shores have been battered by his silence one too many times, and after this morning’s messy reunion, I’m crumbling.
This is my way of fighting back, of gaining a smidgen of control over a situation that I have no control over. Malakai is a law unto himself. His display just now, proof enough of that.
So I sing, pouring every ounce of emotion into my words. I let him feel my anger, my pain, my desire, my lust and unrequited love. The words flow free, my fingers strumming the chords with ease. I must’ve played this song a hundred times or more, in the privacy of my room, and whilst I’m singing for an audience, there’s only one person here I’m truly singing to.
Him.
Malakai.
Can’t you feel the weight of my stare?
I wanna touch you.
I’m burning, burning for your love.
I wanna kiss you.
Coated in your solemn vow
I wanna love you…
As the song comes to a close, I make sure that I look Malakai directly in the eye because unlike him, I’m not afraid of this energy between us. I revel in it. Even in anger it makes me feel alive, so damn alive, and I’m grateful because I’ve not really been living this past year.
His eyes blaze with an honest desire that lashes at me, wreaking havoc on my resolve to stay strong, to stay angry. I keep singing until the last note disperses and the room erupts into cheers.
The only person who isn’t clapping is Malakai.
He gives me one lingering look then turns on his heel and walks out. Out of the corner of my eye, I see Peter watch him leave. For a brief moment, a look of hate rolls like thunder across his features before it vanishes and he’s smiling once more.
“Another everyone?” he says to the crowd.
They all cheer, drowning out the keening sound of my soul.
