Total pages in book: 107
Estimated words: 102167 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 511(@200wpm)___ 409(@250wpm)___ 341(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 102167 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 511(@200wpm)___ 409(@250wpm)___ 341(@300wpm)
For some reason, it reminds me of the way I used to play with my mom’s hair as a little boy, and it’s soothing—which is fucked up for a whole reason of its own, but not for worrying about right now.
Born of the same memory, the song my mom used to sing to put me to sleep falls from my lips with ease. “Hush now, little bird with special wings. Rest your head and your mind, for now it’s time. Close your eyes, and hush now, little bird with special wings.”
Avery’s body feels heavier now, much like my own, and before I know it, I drift off to sleep, just as my mother’s song intended.
And isn’t irony a bitch? This song, right here, on a beach in the middle of nowhere, is the most comfort my mom’s given me in twenty fucking years.
Fuck it. Whatever works, right?
January 2nd
Avery
My limbs ache with stiffness, and my skin feels stretched tight as I pry my eyes open into the blinding assault of sunlight. A single beam cuts through the small gap in the makeshift tent Henry made us, but somehow, it’s aimed with sniper-like precision directly at my face. Wincing, I carefully shift, trying to slip free from the weight of Henry’s arm without waking him.
My body feels sore and abused, and I haven’t felt this dirty since the Kappa Kappa farewell party at the University of Miami right before Juniper and I graduated. There was foam and neon and a sordid amount of alcohol, and if I stretch my memory to the brink of its boundaries, I can almost remember attending it.
And while the feeling of this morning is similar, the experience is…remarkably less fun.
I thought waking up would come with a haze of confusion—that I’d blink at my surroundings, question how I got here, or wonder why Henry was letting me cling to him like some desperate, heat-seeking vine. But no. Instead, I’m painfully, almost comically aware.
Henry and I are stranded and alone on an indiscriminate island in the middle of seemingly infinite blue waters after self-ejecting from a plane destined for the bottom of them. His phone is MIA, my phone may as well be a potato for all the good it does, and there are no signs of life in sight. Not to mention, I spent last night sleeping on the fucking ground. The only reason I got any rest at all was because of Henry’s big, muscular frame cuddling mine, and his deep, raspy voice serenading me away from our terrifying reality until the sweet, numb silence of sleep consumed me.
Whether it’s because of the missing comfort of my sleep mask, the scratchy press of leaves beneath me, or the unfamiliar scent of man—something I never, ever let invade my bed at home—I can’t say. But if I’m anything this morning, it’s shockingly, almost painfully clearheaded.
And I’m also criminally lacking in caffeine. There’s not much strife in my regular life, but when there is, I handle it with coffee. And this situation most definitely deserves coffee.
Carefully climbing over Henry’s lax body and out into the sand, I stand and stretch my arms to the sky, looking out at the beauty of the water and white sand in front of me. It’s picturesque and serene and so at war with how I feel about it, I should be carrying a rifle or something.
Taking a deep sigh, I pull my poor, destroyed Ravella sweater off my body and walk toward the water, wading in to my knees and scooping up palmfuls to rinse my body. I know it’ll leave me feeling crusty later because of the salt, but for right now, it feels both invigorating and refreshing. I brush the water down my arms and scoop it up to rub it over my face, removing any and all remaining makeup from yesterday until my hands look clean.
Raccoon eyes and runny mascara aren’t a good look for anyone—even in these hellish conditions.
I consider dunking my hair but, for now, decide not to. I’m afraid it’ll only make it rattier, and the gel I used to make sure my slicked-back ponytail was crispy yesterday is bound to get even cakier without my Iles Formula clarifying shampoo and conditioner.
Leaving the water slowly, I make my way back onto the sand and turn to sit, lying back on my elbows to expose my stomach. I look up to the bright sun and mutter, “Might as well get a tan.” Even laughing at the absurdity of it all as I adjust my body into an optimal sunbathing position.
This is all so fucking insane.
I close my eyes and imagine I’m at a five-star resort, laid out on a lounger and waiting on my butler service to arrive with a perfectly curated drink. Unfortunately, the silly little fantasy only reminds me how dry my mouth is, and I huff out a sigh of frustration and squeeze my eyes tighter.