Page 85 of Freeing Hook

I shake my head. “I have to break it. For him. Charlie, you weren’t there when he told me he couldn’t be what I needed. He doesn’t think he’s worthy of my love as long as he’s like this.”

“He told you that he couldn’t be what you needed?”

I think back to the night I overheard Peter speaking with the Sister. “Well, sort of. He told me he couldn’t be the Mate I wanted.”

Charlie offers me a sidelong glance. “Always believe a man when he tells you he can’t be what you need. If you don’t, then you can only blame yourself when he proves you right.”

CHAPTER 33

JOHN

Tink has rearranged my communication board.

That’s my first thought when I enter the cave where I first trapped Tink. I’d snuck out of the Den after dinner, hoping Tink’s combination of the SUN and DOWN tiles meant to meet in the evening. I make a mental note to make her a NIGHT tile for ease of communication. Apparently I was correct, because she’s perched, thighs resting against her heels on the cave floor, looking rather pleased with herself as she glances between me and the mangled communication board.

“Oh no. No, no, no,” I say, grasping for the wooden pieces. “All of this was arranged alphabetically. I guess you’d have no reason to know that, but I organized it that way for a reason.”

Tink swats my hand away from the board, causing me to drop “GO.” It clatters against the wooden board as I choke in pain. When I withdraw my hand, I notice a faint line of blood tracing my skin from where her long nails sliced me.

My mind starts rattling off the plethora of types of bacteria that live underneath the fingernails. I can only hope that not quite so many have had time to develop in a place like Neverland.

“Ouch. Thanks for that,” I mumble, wiping my blooded hand against my pants.

Tink plucks a tile from the board and tucks it in my palm, which I open.

It’s the tile for “YOU’RE WELCOME.” I roll my eyes, which earns a twitch of her lips, the effect of which is a warm sensation in my chest.

I decide I might have to roll my eyes more often.

“Really, it’s best if we have an organization system,” I say. “That way it’s easier for us to remember which words are where on the board. At least until muscle memory takes over.”

Tink points to the set of eyes. “LOOK.” Then she encircles a set of tiles with her outstretched finger: a stick figure running, another walking, the last swimming.

Realization slaps me over the back of the head. “You grouped the verbs together.”

Tink beams and points to “YES.” The sight of her genuine smile almost knocks me over. Another thing I’ll have to make a habit of—pointing out what a genius she apparently is.

As I scan the board, I notice a set of meticulous patterns. Not only has she grouped all the verbs together, she’s also rearranged the board so that the pronouns are in the upper right-hand corner, anything that could be used as a direct object on the bottom few rows. “That certainly mimics the way we speak more fluidly. I should have considered that we don’t choose which word we say next based on what letter of the alphabet it begins with.”

Tink points to a new tile. One she must have carved herself. It doesn’t have any written script underneath it. It’s just a turkey, its bulging black eyes empty.

Incredulous because I’m uncertain turkeys even inhabit this island, so I can’t see the point in wasting a tile, I ask, “What does a turkey have to do with anything?”

Tink jabs me in the chest, then points to the button again.

“Ah. I assume stupid is what this means?”

Tink nods smugly.

I press my lips together to keep from smiling, then grab the tile and scrawl “STUPID” underneath her depiction.

As I examine the rest of the board, I notice several new tiles, none of them bearing a word underneath their icon. I’d planned on teaching Tink the tiles that are slightly more abstract today. The tiles that I couldn’t think of pictures to represent. The ones that aren’t as intuitive, like “BE” or “BUT.” However, it appears Tink has already devised other plans for our session.

She hands me a quill and a tile of a frowning woman with a slanted brow, baring her teeth, then points.

“Angry?” I confirm, before marking it on the tile.

As it turns out, she has tiles prepared for every emotion under the sun, and as we work filling them out, I find myself bobbing in impatience. “You know, this really isn’t—”

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