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I do the same, turning my phone on for the first time in twenty-four hours. Sadly, I still have no bars of service and hence, no messages.
“Anything?” I ask Carter.
“Yeah, a bar or two. Spotty, but I’ll text Jamie and see if he can arrange for Captain Jones to come get us later. And if not, maybe he can contact someone else in town for us.”
Carter stops where he is, and I catch up with him as he sends the text.
I wonder what it means though, for us, if we get back to Harborview tonight. Will that be it? He said he’d get me to forgive him by the time we were off of Isle North and home. What happens if that chance ends tonight?
And isn’t that exactly what I want?
“Carter.”
“Yes?”
“I,” I start. “I…” I don’t actually know what I want to say. For a moment there I wanted to tell him to stop texting Jamie, to stop trying to arrange for us to get off this island quickly.
But that would be crazy. It’s not like I actually want to spend more time with him. But I guess some small part of me still longsfor him to make up for what happened years ago. And that’s normal—to want an apology. It doesn’t have to mean anything else.
“Nothing,” I say. “Let’s keep going.”
His eyebrows move almost imperceptibly inwards.
I tell myself that’s nothing, too. That Carter Steel has no reason to feel upset about what I won’t say.
As we walk,the sun comes out a bit more, and by the time we stop for lunch (though, given our dwindling food stores, it’s more like a snack), I’m actually warmed up enough to unzip Carter’s coat. It’s so large on me that it makes me feel like a little kid, and I roll the sleeves up a few times in order to hold the food he passes to me.
I sit down at the base of a pine tree, leaning against the trunk, and he sits down in front of me, legs crossed.
“I can’t wait to eat something other than a protein bar,” he says. “When we get back to Harborview I’m going to cook myself a four-course meal.”
“You can do that?”
“Yes I can. Surprised?”
“Yes,” I admit, because I’ve never taken him for a cook. Or a homemaker of any type. But I guess that’s because I don’t really know him very well anymore. “But not in a bad way,” I continue. “It’s nice that you can cook. Women must love it.”
I mentally kick myself for saying that last part.
“Sure. They might,” he says, smirking a bit. “But Angel,” he continues, his tone more serious now. “There are no women I’m cooking dinner for. It’s important to me that you know that.”
He leans forward, consuming my personal space, inch by inch.
“Why is it important that I know that? Why would I care?” I ask. “I’m not still,” I choke on the words, but force myself to continue. “I’m not still hung up on you or anything. From before.” It’s the closest we’ve ever come to talking about it—how I felt back then—and I almost can’t believe it. But I let the fact that I was brave enough to say it buoy me.
“No, I’d never make that mistake,” he murmurs, almost to himself. “That’s not what I mean at all.”
He reaches out, and gently, with one warm, calloused finger, tips my chin upwards, forcing me to meet his eyes. The clash of our gazes is electric—I can feel him seeing all of me, everything, right down to the very bottom.
And even though it’s almost too much to endure, I can’t bring myself to look away.
“Then what?” I manage to say.
“This.” And then he’s leaning in further, and drawing my face towards his.
“Oh,” I say, right before his lips claim mine.
Kissing Carter is both nothing and everything like I remember.
