Page 6 of Leave Before I Love You
She nods quickly, the sound of sobs racking her chest taking over again. I have a feeling it’s the calmest version of my best friend’s flagrantly spoiled, fashionista little sister I’m going to get, given the circumstances, so I start into my spiel.
“We’re going to land in the water, and because of that, I need you to be ready,” I instruct as swiftly and concisely as possible. “As soon as we hit, I’m going to pull the quick release on your harness and free you from my chest. While I’m detaching the chute from my back, I need you to tread water and wait for me. Can you do that?”
She nods. “I…I think so.”
“Good. The water’s warm, so you won’t have to worry about it being a shock that way, but our clothes are going to make us feel much heavier than we’d like to, very quickly. Donotpanic.”
Her head moves up and down again jerkily, so I continue.
“If it gets to be too much, just float on your back, okay? Once I’m free, I’ll work on making sure we’re in the right spot to ride the current into the island down there to the right. Do you see it?”
“Yes,” she manages, her voice much steadier than before. Immediate pride swells my chest over her composure. It takes character to find a way to fight the instinct for raw panic, especially if the only normal day-to-day stressors on your nervous system are making sure the barista at Starbucks gets your order right.
“Good girl. Fifteen seconds until we land, now, okay? Remember. Tread water, don’t panic.”
“Tread water, don’t panic,” she repeats, making me smile.
“Good. Good job, Avery. We’ll be on land soon, okay? You’re doing great.”
I just have to get us to land, and then, I can make a new plan from there,I tell myself.
I knew this experience would change Avery, but it’s become really fucking obvious in the last ten minutes or so that it’s going to change me too.
Quite possibly—most probably—in ways I can’t even imagine.
I grit my teeth, tightening my hold.
Three, two, one—impact.
Avery
Henry stares out at the stunning, unforgiving azure of the Caribbean, waves pounding against the shore like a cruel joke. His hands are laced together behind his head, and his chest rises and falls in deep, unsteady breaths.
I lie in the sand, panting, disoriented, my limbs trembling from the final fight with the surf. Inside my chest, my heart hammers violently, each beat so forceful I half expect it to crack through my rib cage. My clothes cling to me like dead weight, my skin is sticky with salt, and my lips are coated in the briny taste of survival.
Above me, the sky is endlessly blue, peaceful—a sick joke of a contrast to the absolute chaos churning inside me.
My mind stutters, everything sluggish, like my brain refuses to process the sheer insanity of what just happened.
One hour ago, I was admiring Henry’s muscles from the safety of a bright-yellow plane. Now, I’m washed up on a deserted island like some Wish-version of Tom Hanks inCast Away—minus Wilson but plus a single, soaked designer shoe.
Heaviness clogs my throat, and I can’t immediately tell if it’s seawater or unshed tears. Maybe, I guess, it’s a combination of both.
I sit up slowly, testing the trustworthiness of my exhausted limbs before climbing to my feet. The toes of one sock-covered foot curl into the sand. My sweater scallops at the bottom with theweight of the water, so I wring it out with a twist of my hands and stare mindlessly at the fabric. It’s warped and misshapen, and I fear, without a dry cleaner on this little slice of serene hell, it’ll never be the same.
And just like that, the last fragile thread holding me together snaps.
A wretched sob tears from my throat as I yank the cashmere over my head and hurl it to the ground, completely ignoring the fact that my bra is the only thing covering my tits now.
“It’s ruined!” I scream, my obnoxious volume echoing in the otherwise soothing atmosphere of lapping waves. “That was an eight-hundred-freaking-dollar sweater, and it’s garbage!”
Henry’s head snaps toward me, his expression shifting from exhaustion to outright disbelief. Hands planted on his soaked hips, shoulders stiff, gaze burning.
“And my shoes! My brand-new freaking Golden Gooses June got me for Christmas!” I gesture wildly at my feet. “One’s missing, and the other might as well be! It’s destroyed!”
“Your shirt?” Henry asks quietly, walking toward me with a noticeable edge to his movements. “Your fucking shirt and your fucking shoes?” Every word escalates in volume until he’s screaming too, louder than me by at least several decibels. “You’ve got to be fucking kidding me with that shit!” He turns away and back again quickly, pointing an agitated finger in my face. “Of all the spoiled-brat-ass things to think about in a situation like this, you’re worried about your fuckingclothes?” His tone is seething. “A man is fucking dead, Ave, and you and I? We don’t have a fucking clue where we are.”
Tears blur my vision, but I don’t back down. I get right up in his face, fists clenched, voice shaking with fury.
