Beyond the Sea (15 page)

He counted his breath until his heart slowed. Troy was right that the rest of the world seemed a lifetime away. Even Paula’s death was distant. Brian thought of her family in Auckland and the parents whose names he didn’t remember. Even if he could talk to them, what would he say?

Keeping busy, he carried the wood to the shelter they’d constructed just inside the jungle using fronds and their orange rain ponchos to keep the wood as dry as possible. After he finished stacking and covering, Brian returned to their campfire and gazed toward the shelter.

He hated seeing Troy like this, and was very tempted to try talking more with him, even though Troy clearly wanted some space. Looking up at the stars, Brian told himself sternly to let Troy do his own thing. He barely knew the guy, even if it didn’t feel that way. Besides, he should be delighted to have some alone time.

Yet as he sat there by the fire, gazing up at the vast expanse of stars and the waxing moon, he didn’t feel the emotional release and recharge of his batteries he normally would being alone after spending so much time with someone.

When he was married to Alicia, it had been a bone of contention that he liked taking walks on his own, or curling up with a book for hours in an empty room. She simply hadn’t understood why he’d felt the need, and that it wasn’t about her at all.

His girlfriend Rebecca had been a bit of an introvert herself, and maybe that had been part of the problem in the end.
Who am I kidding? I was the problem. She tried to help after it happened, and I wouldn’t let her. Wouldn’t let anyone.

Looking back, he could see that he’d gone far beyond enjoying some alone time to basically becoming a hermit once he’d fled to Australia. It hadn’t been healthy, hiding away in his tiny apartment and only coming out to work. He flew enough to get by and supplement the generous severance the airline had given for signing a piece of paper promising not to sue.

Leaning back on his elbows, Brian yearned for his Kindle and the escape to another life, another world. But all he could do was worry about Troy.

After another miserable hour, he unzipped the suitcase and uncapped their dozen water bottles, standing them up in the sand. It had rained almost every night, a short downpour that fortunately gave them plenty of drinking water for the time being. They’d found a sad little stream inland, but wanted to conserve their water purification tablets.

The deep moat they’d dug around the teepee so their shelter was on higher ground had so far kept them mostly dry, as had the thick orange emergency blanket on top of the structure. Stepping over the moat, Brian stooped and edged through the narrow door.

When he kicked off his cargo shorts and crawled under the mosquito net in his boxers, Troy was curled away from him on his side, unmoving. Pretending to be asleep, since Brian knew that when he slept, Troy breathed deeply with quiet little moans when he shifted. Utter stillness and silence wasn’t his MO.

Brian bit back the urge to ask if he was okay. Clearly he wasn’t. They were trapped on a desert island. Their future was entirely uncertain. Precarious.

Life is never certain.

As memories tore through him, Brian swore he could smell the acrid smoke, feel the heat of the flames and the painful grip of the firefighters dragging him away. He wondered if it would ever stop. And now there were new images of unrelenting rain and the sick swoop of his stomach as the second engine flamed out. Paula’s still-warm flesh in his hand, the rest of her gone.

He pressed his lips together, but a little whimper still escaped. In the silence, he heard Troy move.

“
Brian?” Troy’s voice was hoarse, but concern was clear. He touched Brian’s bare shoulder tentatively, his fingers warm.

Part of Brian wanted to unload everything, the urge to talk about it something he hadn’t ever really felt before. The airline had forced him to see a shrink, and he’d hated every second of it. But here with Troy in their ridiculous teepee at the end of the world, the words rose up, prickly on his tongue and hot in his throat.

No.

It wasn’t fair to Troy to dump all this crap on him. Brian was the pilot. The captain since Paula was gone. He was supposed to be in charge. Strong and confident and in control. He cleared his throat. “Hmm?”

“
I thought… Never mind,” Troy mumbled, pulling his hand back and rolling away.

They settled into silence, and Brian listened to the distant tide returning, sleep not even on the horizon.

Blinking in the pale light, Brian listened to Troy crawl back in under the mosquito net. Troy was usually up first, slipping out while Brian slept until the island’s parrot alarm clock system flapped and honked to life. But this morning, Troy had come back. That was strange.

Brian listened, thinking perhaps it was raining again, but he could only hear the gentle breeze rustling leaves and faint chirping as birds awoke. The rain had come after midnight, and when it ended, he’d gone out to cap the bottles and zip up the suitcase to keep bugs and sand out of their water supply. It had become a routine, and since Troy seemed to wake early, Brian didn’t mind being the one to get up in the night.

Maybe Troy was just tired. He’d been upset, so likely hadn’t slept well. Brian drifted off again, jolting awake what felt like five minutes later when the damn parrots arrived for breakfast. Glancing at Troy, he was surprised to see him still curled up in the boxers that were his now. It was impossible to sleep through the cacophony, but Brian tugged on his shorts and crawled out, leaving Troy to it for a little while longer as he went to organize the fires.

Wearing his flip-flops, he gave the wood shelter a kick and hopped back, waiting to see if anything scurried out. They were getting low, so he made a mental note to gather and cut more wood. Then he scoffed at himself. It wasn’t like there were many other activities taking up his precious time, and he wasn’t likely to forget. The constant need for firewood, food, and water kept them occupied, at least.

Brian waited for the sun to come over the jungle. With the magnifying glass at just the right angle, smoke wisped from the fronds, the heat building until ignition. They still had the matches safe in a waterproof tube in the emergency pack. He shivered, thinking about how they’d manage a fire once the wet season unleashed.
It’s months away. Like Gran said, don’t borrow trouble.

Smiling, he took a few moments to think of his grandmother and her merry wink and cherry smile, lipstick always in her purse along with orange Tic Tacs. At least she’d gone peacefully years ago and wasn’t home thinking he was dead.

He peered at the teepee. Still no movement.

After a trip to the jungle toilet, which made him yearn for the comparative luxury of an outhouse, Brian set about slicing a breadfruit. It was roughly the size of a coconut, but at least he could cut open the bumpy, pale green exterior and then quarter and seed it. Once he had long strips, he put them in a wide rectangular breadfruit tree leaf, which was thick and rubbery and held up well to cooking on the flat rock near the flames.

The breadfruit itself was a rather bland, potatoey affair, and he wished the emergency supplies had included salt and pepper. Fortunately, the papaya added a ton of flavor. He cut one open, sucking the juice from his fingers. Next was burrowing a hole in a coconut to drain the juice into a large clam-style seashell, then cracking the fruit open and scraping out the meat to add to the little stir fry.

As the meal cooked, he waited for Troy to emerge. Rubbing his face, Brian sighed, then grimaced. His scruff was out of control. He hadn’t worried about it before—surviving and being rescued had certainly taken priority. Still, he had his straight razor, and he hated the way the beard made his face sweat as the humidity rose along with the sun.

Speaking of rescue, he picked up the signaling mirror and caught the sun’s reflection, guiding it to the horizon and sweeping back and forth, back and forth. A signal mirror’s reflection could be spotted for miles, so they had to keep trying. What he wouldn’t give to hear an engine.

But there was only the ocean, the low, constant thrum of the jungle, and a salty breeze stirring the sand from time to time.

When breakfast was ready, Brian returned to the teepee with a frown and edged inside, kneeling. Troy was still under the net, curled into a ball with his eyes shut. He was too rigid to be asleep.

“
Troy? You okay?”

After a few moments, Troy answered, his eyes still closed. “Don’t feel well. Just going to sleep for a bit longer.”

Brian’s heart skipped. “What’s the matter?” He shoved the net away and pressed the back of his hand to Troy’s forehead the way his grandmother had done to him. Troy didn’t feel particularly hot. Brian put his hand to his own forehead, and they seemed about the same. “Is it your stomach? Headache? Maybe you haven’t had enough water.”

“
I’m fine. Really.” Troy looked at him now, his gaze utterly defeated. “Just…tired. Do you need my help, or is it okay if I sleep?”

“
Of course it’s okay.” Guilt settled in Brian’s empty stomach. “Go ahead and rest.”

“
Thanks,” Troy mumbled, closing his eyes again.

“
But I’m bringing you food later this morning, and you’re going to eat it.”

“
Mmm-hmm.”

Brian knelt there for another few moments, thinking he should do
something
but having zero idea what. Even though the mosquitoes weren’t usually around in the day, he reset the net before crawling outside to make himself useful.

Brian was there again.

Stretched on his back, sweat slick on his skin and silver blanket bunched at his feet, Troy kept his eyes closed and his lips slack, feigning sleep under the net. He wasn’t sure if Brian was peeking inside the shelter, or if he was just standing outside, but Troy didn’t want to talk. It wasn’t that he didn’t appreciate the concern, but he just…couldn’t.

He’d slept off and on, and obediently sat up to drink water and eat the fruit and fish Brian had brought earlier. It was easier not to argue. It had always been that way—just do what his dad and everyone else told him. And he knew Brian was right—not eating was stupid. But the food sat like stone in his belly.

Fabric rustled, and it sounded like Brian was crawling inside. His voice was low. “Troy? I caught another fish for dinner. Nice big one.”

At the hopeful tone of Brian’s voice, guilt got the better of Troy, and he cracked his eyes open. Brian sat on his heels outside the net on his side of the shelter, peering down at Troy with a furrowed brow and obvious concern. Troy opened his mouth to answer, but his throat was so dry he could only croak, which launched a coughing fit.

Brian rushed outside and returned with a bottle, lifting aside the net to pass it to him. With what felt like a huge amount of effort, Troy propped himself on his elbow and drank. He hadn’t realized how thirsty he’d become. After downing half the bottle and swiping his hand over his mouth, he muttered, “Thanks.”

“
Do you feel sick? Are you congested?” Brian pressed the back of his hand to Troy’s forehead as he had that morning, solid and steady.

“
No. Just got a little dehydrated in the heat. I’m fine, really.” He guzzled the rest of the water.

“
Your head hurts?”

“
It’s not bad.”

Brian took the empty bottle and disappeared outside. It was relatively true that Troy’s head didn’t feel
that
bad. He’d had migraines that were worse than the constant throb and heaviness that accompanied hiding in bed all day. It was too hot in the teepee without the breeze off the water, but he wanted to stay in his little bubble.