Page 27 of Leave Before I Love You
January 7th
Avery
Day seven.
I know because I’ve been keeping track, carving small tick marks into the trunk of a palm tree near our camp. It started out as something to do—something to ground me when everything felt surreal. But now, a full week into this nightmare, I found myself staring at those seven tiny slashes this morning, trying to wrap my head around how quickly everything can change.
A week ago, I was cruising around Miami in my G-Wagon, spending my dad’s money, shopping for gifts for my soon-to-be nephew, and avoiding any real responsibility.
Now? I’mhere.
And I’m half drunk off shipwreck bourbon that made its way on shore this morning while I was sitting in the sand watching Henry fish.
Thankfully, Henry hasn’t said much about my behavior, but I know he has to have noticed how closely I’m following him around these days. We’re practically freaking leashed at this point, like those kids with the little teddy bear backpacks in the airport. I know it, and yet I haven’t been able to stop.
He ended up catching one fish after three long hours of trying,which we shared promptly, but for as good as he is at everything else, catching these little finned fuckers doesn’t seem to be getting easier.
Still, despite the hardship, we’re ending the day with food and booze, and as such, we decided to have a little party tonight.
Okay, I decided to have a party, and Henry, as luck would have it, is a very captive audience.
A captive audience that is currently shirtless, sweat-slicked, and sitting right beside me. I discreetly glance at the way his muscles glisten beneath the firelight and wonder if being stranded isn’tentirelythe worst thing to ever happen to me.
Of course, there’s no cushy couch, VIP section, or dark, pounding dance floor, and my get-ready-with-me routine was severely lacking in makeup and hair products, but the company is nice,annoyingly hot, and I look toned, tanned, and skinnyyy in my bikini, so I’m not complaining.
I unscrew the cap of the bottle of Evan Williams and take another long, slow swig. The burn races down my throat, warming my insides, loosening my limbs, and making everything feel a little too good.
Henry pokes at the fire with our stick, his bare chest illuminated by the golden-orange glow. His muscles ripple with every movement, the flames casting sharp shadows over his sculpted abs and broad shoulders. The scruff on his jaw has grown into an all-out beard, thick enough now that he looks less like my brother’s best friend and more like some rugged, untamed lumberjack, ready to throw me over his shoulder and carry me off into the woods.
Goodness.
I lick my lips, tearing my eyes away before I say or do something dangerously inappropriate. Normally, when I drink, I kiss.Lots.
I’m also not usually a bourbon girl, but then again, I’m not usually a stranded-on-an-island girl either, and look how that turned out.
At least the company is good, if slightly lacking in volume.
“I guess our pilot liked booze enough to carry it on his plane, huh?” I question quietly, still watching Henry mess with the fire,my words half to myself at this point. I don’t know that I’ve felt this free since before I woke up to thinking Henry was dead two mornings ago. I’m a quarter of the bottle deep, and everything feels pleasurably numbed—except for the growing heat low in my stomach every time my gaze lands back on him.
“I guess.” Henry shrugs, indulging me. “I’ve only flown with Mario a few times, but I’ve never seen him drink on the job.”
I hum, watching his hands, the way they move when he talks—strong, tanned fingers that could probably break me in half if he wanted to.There’s a lot of things I wouldn’t mind him doing to me with those fingers of his…
I clear my throat and force my focus elsewhere. “What do you think happened to him?” I ask. “To Mario?”
Henry leans forward, draping his forearms over his knees, his muscles tensing with the movement. “Probably a heart attack. Maybe a stroke,” he says, his voice low, rough, like the subject isn’t easy for him. Which I understand. It’s hard to think about the fact that Mario died. I didn’t know him at all, and yet there’s a part of me that feels so guilty for the way we had to leave him.
“Honestly, I don’t know,” Henry adds, meeting my eyes for a brief moment. “I’m not entirely sure, but he was unresponsive with no pulse when I got to him. I don’t think there’s anything we could have done to help him even if the plane hadn’t been in a dive.”
I nod and swallow hard against the emotion that is now threatening to creep up my throat. I don’t know anything about Mario. I don’t know if he had a wife or kids or grandkids. But I do know that I wish his life hadn’t ended the way it did.
Rest in peace, Mario,I silently pray and raise the bottle toward the fire in a quiet toast, “To Mario,” before taking another swig of comfort to settle my always-ragged nerves.
Henry reaches for the bottle with a waggle of his fingers, and I hand it to him without complaint. As much as I’d love to down the whole thing myself, sharing fluids is an unspoken agreement these days.
He raises it to the fire just like I did, repeating my toast. “To Mario!” He takes a swig of his own and then sets the bottle down on the other side of his thigh, just out of my reach.
I narrow my eyes.
