Page 3 of Stranded

We get off the ferry, and it really starts to sink in when I reach the end of the wharf. I wait for my turn to climb the steep ramp as we all file past the lineup of people waiting to board.

This is really the last sailing. It’s not too late—I could still change my mind.

But then I’d miss my chance to get laid. No way. I need this.

My heart is pounding and my mouth is dry, and I want to tell myself it’s all horniness, but it’s not. I’m nervous as hell for what sounds like not just a hookup but… a date.

What better to break through a creative drought?

Uninspired, my professors called my work.Derivative. D-worthy.

Kind of like my Grindr hookups over the last few years. But this one sounds different.

“Gonna camp right here?” someone behind me asks.

“Oh. Shit, sorry.” It’s my turn, so I clutch the handrail and climb—up, up, and a little more up.

I’m winded by the time I step through the gate and onto the hillside. There’s a map of the island ahead, decorated with little trails snaking off in different directions.

Until my mysterious date responds, I don’t know where to go.

The ferry blows its whistle as I tap out another message.

Are you coming to meet me or…?

The other campers head off toward the campground in little groups, while I stay, fighting the urge to glance back at the ferry and run for it.

Everything is going to be fine, right?

Unlessthisis the time my Grindr hookup ghosts me. Or catfishes me. Or turns out to be a mountain man-turned-serial killer… I listen to podcasts. I know what’s up.

Or he’s perfectly normal.

Or… this is a real possibility…he’sperfectly normal, but neither of us know about the real serial killer hiding in the woods.

I almost jump out of my skin when something moves on my screen.

…

Three dots. That means he’s typing.

“Thank God,” I breathe out, smoothing a hand down my front as I turn on the spot to look for him.

I’m half-expecting a message being like,Are you the guy in wildly impractical clothing standing by the dock?

He stops and starts typing a few times, and I click my tongue with impatience.

Maybe he can’t come meet me. Like… he’s grilling food for me ahead of my arrival. Now,thatwould be romantic.

A boy can dream, right?

Share your location?

He shares the map right away, and I tap it to open it full-screen.

But it’s not working right. It’s showing me where I was when I first messaged him—the pin is on my street, and directly on my house.

I shake my phone with frustration, barely resisting the urge to throw the damn thing in the harbour. “Fuck this app and fuck its glitches,” I groan.

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