Page 86 of Bad Saint

As I stand staring at our materials, I know that was the easy part. Now the hard part is finding something strong enough to tie the wood together with. It seems hopeless, but I’m trying to remain positive.

It’s night, and although I’m gauging how many days have passed by counting the sunsets and sunrises, all days now merge into one. I’m roasting fish over the fire, waiting for Saint to return. He’s adamant he will find something to bind the wood, but hope’s dwindling.

He emerges from the trees empty-handed, looking more than infuriated. I don’t say a word while I serve up our dinner in the coconut shells acting as our makeshift plates.

“Do you want some rum?” he asks.

We’ve been limiting how much we drink because god knows it’s been our only saving grace at night. If we run out, I’m afraid to think of facing the nights here without a rum buzz. “Thanks.”

We go about our usual routine, which is scary to think we’ve been forced into having one at all. When he passes me the coconut shell, I arch a brow. This is a little fuller than usual.

“I have searched high and low, and I can’t find a fucking thing.” This explains the binge drinking.

I lower my fatigued body onto the sand and am surprised when he sits near me. He usually sits across from me. We eat in silence. After two mouthfuls of fish, I push the shell away from me, unable to stomach another bite.

“I’m so sick of fish,” I confess, placing my hands against my gurgling belly.

“You have to eat. You’re so skinny.”

He’s right. I’ve lost weight since this ordeal started. I have always been small framed with curves, but now, I just look gaunt. “I can’t believe we haven’t seen anyone. How is that even possible?”

“The world is a big place,” he counters.

Usually, I sip my rum, but tonight, I just want to forget where I am. Whether I’m sipping or shooting, the rum tastes horrible, but when a comfortable buzz overtakes me, I want more.

Saint is in the middle of taking a sip when I steal his shell. I can’t help but laugh at his speechless expression. When I finish his as well in one long gulp, I offer him both shells. “Next round’s on me.”

He doesn’t argue and stands to refill our drinks.

The alcohol goes straight to my head, which is what I wanted. I watch the way his angel wings come to life under the moon. They really are beautiful. And when he turns back around, I can’t deny that so is he.

“It means…angel.”

Usually, I would avert my gaze, but the liquor gives me the confidence to lock eyes with him. Something crackles between us. I instantly feel faint, and it has nothing to do with the rum.

“How long do you think we’d survive out here?” I ask, needing to distract myself.

He raises his broad shoulders. “A human can last about three weeks without food.” I blanch at that thought because surely, that can’t be right. “But can only last about three to four days without water.”

“Wow.” I gasp, unable to mask my surprise. He passes me my rum, which I gratefully accept.

“We have enough water for the time being. But the coconuts will eventually run out. And we can’t rely on the rain.”

“How does a former math professor know all this?” I ask in awe of his knowledge. It’s out before I can stop myself as we haven’t discussed his former occupation since he mentioned it nights ago.

I’m expecting him to clam up, but he doesn’t. He smiles and sits down beside me. “I learned quickly how to fend for myself.”

“Did your new profession teach you that?” I question cautiously.

“Yes, ah???.”

“Oh.” I sip my drink, unsure what to say as I was expecting him to tell me to mind my own business.

I haven’t breached the Zoey topic. So many times, I wanted to share with him how he called out her name when he was sick, but I didn’t. A part of me is scared to know who she is to him.

“Is Saint your real name?” This verbal diarrhea will get me into trouble, but I blame the rum as it’s given me some Dutch courage.

Saint catches me off guard—again. He laughs. The deep, honeyed sound is toxic. “Yes, my real name is Saint. Why?”

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