Page 112 of That Island Feeling

‘I knew it! You’re just here for my body too,’ he jokes.

‘I’m not not here for your body.’ I nudge him.

No, Andie! I take another deep breath and try again.

‘The oyster farm . . . why didn’t you say anything?’

He lifts his eyes. ‘I know. I should have.’

‘I’m not mad,’ I say softly. ‘You didn’t owe me that. I-I-I’m just trying to understand . . .’ I trail off.

If he truly believed what we had was real, why wouldn’t he want to show me the real him? Was it because of shame like Toby suggested, or did he really think that I couldn’t handle it?

‘It wasn’t you,’ he says, immediately answering my silent question. ‘I was – I mean – I am,’ he corrects himself, ‘still grappling with so much guilt.’

‘But why?’ I reach over and gently cup my hand under his chin. His hair has grown and is even scruffier, one of his mocha tufts curls towards his brow. ‘It wasn’t your fault.’

From everything I’ve been told, the pearl oyster disease was unlucky and not something that was preventable.

Jack withdraws his head from my hand, his eyes darting around everywhere.

‘Yeah, but the Holibob news article that led to the island’s mass tourist exodus was,’ he confesses. ‘The day before, I spotted the boat that ended up stealing the oysters. I should have raised the alarm, sensed something fishy was going on. If the oysters hadn’t ended up in restaurants in Port Hope and Sydney, it wouldn’t have caused such a media frenzy, and maybe we could have salvaged Pearl Island’s reputation. Charlie might have kept his customers –’

‘Hey, hey, hey,’ I interject, reaching for his face again, this time refusing to let go when he tries to turn away. ‘You talk about Andinese, but I have no idea what this nonsense is that you’re speaking. I have witnessed you go above and beyond for this island. If it wasn’t that boat, it would have been another one. And if it wasn’t Holibob, it would have been one of those nosy carrier parrots that leaked the news.’

With my last joke, his body jolts in surprised laughter. I smell oranges.

‘Jack, I need you to listen to me now, really listen,’ I begin, tone serious. ‘I spent the very best seven days of my life here on this island with you. It might sound cliché, but I arrived pretty fucking broken, chasing memories of my parents. By the time I left – even in the chaotic fashion that went down – I felt almost whole again. And that’s mostly because of you.’ I sift a hand through my damp curls, prepared to continue pouring out my heart, but then hesitate. His mouth twitches, and I can’t tell if it’s a ‘she’s irresistible’ or a ‘get me out of here’ twitch, so I squeeze my eyes shut and keep speaking.

‘I love that you’re always barefoot and you’re constantly on a mission to convert me to your way of life. I love that you seem intent on convincing me that you’re some kind of petty thief or that you have even one bad bone in your body when I know the very opposite to be true. I love that you make the absolute best bacon-and-egg sandwiches I’ve ever eaten. I love that you’ve made up an entire language named after me. And I love that you are the last person I think about before I go to sleep at night and the only person I want to watch the sunrise with. And it’s not because you’re an amazing – actually, make that fucking fantastic – holiday lay. I came here today because when you realise you’ve made a mistake and let one of the best people you’ve ever known slip through your fingers, you want to rectify that as soon as possible.’

I’m breathless as I finish. The faint light through my closed eyelids has vanished, replaced by the shadows of the post-sunset sky. With one sense dulled, my smell sharpens: the strong scent of citrus wafts towards me. I inhale deeply and gingerly open my eyes to find Jack hovering close, his lips centimetres from mine, like we’re back on the lily pad.

He’s staring at me, eyes dark. ‘What was that?’ he asks.

‘Um, it was Billy Crystal’s speech from When Harry Met Sally,’ I say nervously as I wipe my clammy palms on the picnic rug. ‘Well, sort of. I improvised a bit. I know it’s more my thing than yours – speaking Andinese, I mean. But I couldn’t think of something to accurately express just how much you mean to me. You’re a master of these grand romantic gestures and I wanted to finally do one for you, but I couldn’t exactly sail past with “I LOVE YOU” plastered on the sails, could I? Even if you don’t feel the same way I do, I doubt you’d want me crashing into the dock or capsizing – especially when there’s Woof encounters to consider and –’

Jack brings a scarred finger up to my lips. ‘Did you say love?’ he asks slowly.

‘I mean, I think it could be . . .’ I murmur, my heart pounding in my chest. ‘In fact, I know that it is.’

His gaze locks on mine; the intensity gauge is dialled all the way up.

My cheeks grow warm. ‘Why are you looking at me like that?’

A smile tugs at the corners of his lips. ‘Well, you have a splotch of yolk on the tip of your nose,’ he says, as he reaches to wipe it off. ‘But also, I can’t quite believe what I’m hearing.’

‘I understand if I’m too late,’ I rush to add. ‘I took a risk coming here. I knew there was a chance you’d moved on – you’re the hot oyster guy, after all.’ I flash him a weak smile.

You were my hot oyster guy, I think, regretful.

Thankfully, Jack’s response is swift. ‘You’re not too late, Andie.’ The words send a shiver down my spine. ‘But are you sure?’ His question carries a hint of gravel, laced with concern.

I meet his gaze. ‘I’m sure.’

‘I really am so sorry for not telling you about the oyster farm . . .’

‘It’s okay,’ I say, reaching out to gently touch his arm. ‘I’m sorry for believing you were some unserious island guy, when that couldn’t have been further from the truth.’ My tone melts further. ‘Life has taken pieces of both of us, Jack. Perhaps we’ve been trying to fill those voids by finding purpose in others, when really, we needed to find it in ourselves.’ I finish in a whisper and lay my head on his shoulder.

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