Page 37 of That Island Feeling

His intense gaze snags mine and warmth floods my body. I rush to circumvent the odd sensation with a snort.

‘So now you care about my wellbeing. After you’ve already caused my soul to up and leave my body.’

‘Don’t worry, it’s my wellbeing I care about, really,’ he says, lifting his injured hand and waving it at me, then sticking out his bottom lip. ‘I need you to look at this back at the house. Check there’s no signs of gangrene.’

I roll my eyes, but I can’t wipe the smile from my face. ‘Fine.’

Fortunately, the girls are in their bedrooms when we arrive back at Moorings, so I’m left to tend to Jack’s hand in peace.

I instruct him to sit on the closed toilet lid while I retrieve some cotton wool and a bottle of disinfectant from the cupboard he shows me.

‘Alright, let’s see what we’re dealing with.’ I crouch down to examine his hand. A collection of tea lights, evidently lit while we were away, bathes the space in a gentle glow. I’m not thrilled that they were left unsupervised, but at least there’s some light. I’m used to tending to scraped knees under the harsh playground sunshine.

The skin on his hands looks rough, like it’s never seen a drop of moisturiser in its life. His palms are calloused and decorated with a criss-cross of pink scars.

‘Oysters and fishhooks,’ he offers before I can ask. ‘And it’s this hand.’

He extends his right hand towards me. There are more scars and callouses, and on the back, between the thumb and index finger, is a very faint bite mark.

‘Hmm, doesn’t seem to be infected.’

‘Well, thank goodness my attacker appears to have good oral hygiene.’

I slide a tongue over my teeth. I know it’s only banter but still, the compliment feels nice.

‘Thank you. I’ve been brushing twice a day since 1990.’

‘So, thirty-four years?’ he asks carefully. I’m too impressed by his quick maths to feel self-conscious that I’ve just revealed my age. Not that it’s something I’m ashamed of; I just get a sense – even with his well-worked hands – that he’s younger.

‘Give or take. Apparently, I started teething early.’

A memory surfaces briefly – Mum telling me how she had to stop breastfeeding before I was six months because I wouldn’t stop biting her.

My mouth twists; maybe I’ve always been a biter.

Jack raises his chin to look at me. ‘Advanced, huh? Why does that not surprise me?’

My focus returns to his hand and I dab at the puncture marks with the antiseptic liquid, a strong eucalyptus scent diluting the citrus.

‘Ouch! That stings.’ He flinches, jaw stiff.

I stifle a chuckle. ‘Quit being a baby.’

He grins sheepishly at me. ‘You’re right. It’s not as bad as an oyster cut on the nuts.’

‘You did not just say that.’ My cheeks burn as I rummage around in the first-aid kit for a bandaid.

‘It seems, regrettably, that I did. And I’ll take a Snoopy one, please.’

It’s comforting that I’m not the only one fumbling over my words.

I remove the backing and adhere the bandaid to his skin. ‘Naww, your boo-boo is all better.’

‘Do I get a lollipop for being a brave boy?’

‘That depends . . .’ I couldn’t possibly be this bold, could I?

‘On what?’

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