Page 29 of Fated

The shop is small. Ten feet by fifteen feet at most. The walls are lined with unpainted plywood shelves, stocked with cans of food—corn, green beans, beets, olives, tomato sauce, chicken soup, spam—boxes of food—pasta, cereal, shelf-stable milk, cookies, crackers—and glass jars of food—olives, onions, marinara, oil. There’s a tall freezer stocked with vacuum-sealed frozen beef, frozen chicken, frozen shredded cheese in plastic bags, and a few cartons of rum raisin ice cream that are covered in freezer burn and look like they were produced in 1982.

The shop is dim and smells like plywood, cardboard dust, and ocean. There’s a rotating floor fan near the door with green streamers attached to it. It moans anemically and kicks a weak draft of humid air around the room.

Opposite the door there’s a plywood counter loaded with packs of spearmint gum and candy jellies. I’m guessing there’s no chocolate, because it would melt and weep from the heat in two seconds flat. There’s a large metal tackle box that says “cash” in permanent marker and a large black stereo from the 90s with a tape deck playing a tinny-sounding “Kokomo” by the Beach Boys.

Behind the counter there’s a man—Jordi, I assume—and a woman in their late twenties in a heated argument. They haven’t noticed me. Instead they’re facing off.

The woman is about five foot three. She has bright red hair and sunburned cheeks. She’s pregnant, maybe four or five months, and has the look of someone who hasn’t slept well in weeks. She looks hot, miserable, and like she wants to take the tackle box and drop it on the man’s head.

He has long, sun-bleached hair, ocean-weathered skin, and the earnest puppy-dog expression of a man who knows he’s in trouble and doesn’t know how to get out of it.

“You told me you ordered the crib?—”

“I did!”

“Yesterday! It’ll take six months to get here. The freight forwarding, the shipping container, customs on the big island, then the boat here—it won’t get here in time?—”

“Baby ... ” He holds out his hands and she smacks them.

“Don’t ‘baby’ me! You had one job! One job! A crib. I wanted a crib for my baby and you?—”

“Come on, baby, don’t be mad. It might get here before?—”

“I’m not a dolphin! It’s not like I gestate for a year! Is that what you think?”

“No—”

“I never ask anything of you. All I asked for was a crib?—”

The man turns then, ducking his head, and when he does he sees me.

“Babe.”

“No.”

“Babe.”

“No!”

“Hi,” I say, and the red-haired woman stops.

“Oh!”

I wave my hand. “I need to use the phone. You have a sat phone, right? I can pay whatever fee you need. I just need to use it. Quickly. Right now.”

The man and the woman stare at me as if I’m speaking another language.

Maybe I am.

“The phone. Please.”

“Is this about the party?” the woman asks, rubbing her belly. The pink in her cheeks is fading, but she still looks miserably hot and uncomfortable.

Wait.

Do they know about the party too?

Does everyone on this island know that Aaron (maybe) brought me here? Maybe with the help of my mum after my fake birthday party, and maybe not.

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