Page 71 of That Island Feeling

There’s a rumble of distant thunder.

‘So you made that beautiful yin–yang pearl artwork for your mum and Hannah – what else is in your art repertoire?’

‘Ah, nothing earth-shattering – some pieces I create from oyster shells. It’s only a hobby.’

How do I explain that my life went from the hands-on, gritty work of breeding, cleaning, harvesting and shucking oysters to something far less fulfilling? That my hands ache to do more than spray a bottle of bloody Windex and buff fingerprints from a mirror. When I create things, especially from oyster shells, I don’t feel as sad about everything. Just as oysters make beautiful pearls from grit; I’m trying to find beauty again in the painful bits. My art is a way of turning the river’s lemons – the diseased oysters – into lemonade.

Every part of me wants to share that with her, but I’m also unsure how to say it without sounding super intense.

I love seeing the island through Andie’s eyes, experiencing it with her fresh perspective, and witnessing as she gradually falls for the place I call home. I like that in her mind, I’m synonymous with the island.

She doesn’t ask anything further, turning to study her phone instead. We lapse into silence, which is broken only by the sound of her fingers tapping on the screen. I regret being so brief with my replies. Maybe I didn’t need to wait until I had all the right words.

‘I’m starting to get the feeling you’re using me for my wi-fi,’ I say, rolling to face her.

‘Oh no! I’m not!’ Andie drops her arm, letting the phone fall to her side.

‘I’ll try not to be offended,’ I tease.

‘Grace messaged, so I had to make sure everything was good back at the house.’

‘And is it?’

‘Yes – they couldn’t find the fresh bottle of tequila.’

‘Ha. And is there anyone else you need to contact? Or do I get you to myself again?’ I ask, detecting a shimmer of apprehension.

‘Well, I – no, it’s fine.’ I don’t know if her hesitancy is about me, or something happening back home.

I prop myself up on one elbow and reach over to smooth her hair.

‘Seriously, call whoever you need to, Andie. I don’t mind. I’ll be waiting right here.’

‘I shouldn’t call him.’

‘Your dad?’ I ask, recalling our earlier conversation in the hotel room.

‘Yeah. Well, my brother about my dad. I’m trying to be good. I’ve been given strict instructions not to phone.’

‘Maybe you should listen to your brother, then,’ I say, gently stroking her leg.

‘Can you please not do that while we’re talking about my brother?’ Andie asks, but she’s laughing. A good outcome.

‘What’s your brother’s name?’

‘Toby.’

‘Well, maybe you should listen to Toby, then,’ I murmur, my hand creeping up her inner thigh.

‘Jack! That’s no better. In fact, it’s much, much worse.’

But she snuggles into me, arching her body closer. Her warmth pressing against my hand ignites a stirring in my groin.

‘Sorry. You’re right, hands where you can see them,’ I say, making a show of pulling my arm away.

Andie groans, frustrated. ‘Why are you such an arsehole, Cap?’

My body sparks at the nickname. ‘Better things come to those who wait.’

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