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I take a sip. The water is deliciously cold. “Same.”
Bailey watches me over her cup. “Same? Is prickly ol’ Rhett using the language of the lesser man?”
“Bailey…”
“The slang of the street? The youth-speak?” At my frown, she laughs, and the sound in the sun with the blue sky above makes me feel like everything isn’t completely off the rails. Like we’re not stuck on an isolated island with only ice and oysters. Like this is all part of the fun.
She pokes me on the forehead. “It’s all there.”
“In my brain?”
“No, in those anger lines. There’s three of them, straight as arrows, and they show up when you’re being a judgmental ogre.”
“I’m not judging.”
“You are. You’re judging me for wanting to desalinate water. For screaming in a storm. For not wanting to play survivor.”
“We’ve been alone for two hours, tops.”
“Exactly.” She examines the ice crusher. “I think I can work this.”
“We have plenty of water. We don’t need to crack any ice.”
She lifts the metal top of the crusher. “Yes, we do.”
“For what?”
She heads to the back counter and collects the margarita packet she took out earlier. “If I’m going to be stuck on an island with you, I most definitely need adrink.”
19
BAILEY
Iwant a margarita, and I want it now.
I hold my pre-measured mix like the treasure it is. For a brief, glorious moment, I consider chug-a-lugging the extra-strength flavoring laced with tequila straight from the bag.
But it will be too strong, and I’ve had enough foul-tasting things for one afternoon.
I realize when I return to the ice crusher that the original bowl is buried in sticks and leaves.
Dang it.
I carefully prop the opened packet against the base of the ice crusher. I retrieve the bowl and run it back to the sink.
I ignore the non-potable water warning sign over the sink, digging branches out of the basin and flinging them aside.
The alcohol will kill any bacteria.
It will. I insist it will.
Miraculously, water runs clear and strong from the faucet. I realize we don’t need to create the desalinators. This is rainwater. Maybe it only says non-potable because it sits here too long and they are extra careful.
We’re going to be fine.
I wash out the bowl as best I can. When it is presentable, I return to the ice crusher and dump the packet of tequila mix directly into the bowl. I don’t have a big pitcher like the staff used, but I will make do. In fact, I might drink my margarita straight from this bowl.
Rhett watches me warily from where he sits on the cooler.
