Page 72 of Shipwrecked

I turn my palm up, showing the rock. Seán stares at it. He doesn’t say anything for a long time. I feel as though my older brother is looking down on me after I’ve done something particularly bold.

I have made many mistakes tonight, but for this one, I stopped myself in time. “I didn’t throw it.”

Seán still doesn’t seem happy.

“Am I going to have to be separated from everyone?” My voice rises. “I didn’t throw it.”

“Of course not. I know you’re not going to hurt anyone,” Seán says. “Just promise you won’t go near him again. Let’s not make things any more complicated.”

“He didn’t see me.”

Seán sounds very similar to Cillian when he sighs. “Do me a favour. Don’t tell anyone about this, especially Cillian.”

I think that this midnight trip would not earn me any points in terms of reliability, nor would it ease any of the hurt of the night.

“Okay.”

When I finally return to Cillian and Jules, it’s with the certainty that I’ve let them both down.

Chapter Twenty-Six

Cillian

Mathieu sits on the same log as Jules, one hand span away from draping over him. Mathieu notices my gaze and grins. His dimples don’t show.

The mood around the camp is heavy despite the warm breakfast. Mathieu gave everyone the news last night, so at least any initial reactions of surprise are hidden. The first thing Willow and Mary did was hug Jules, and Willow sat next to Mary, their fight apparently behind them.

“Are we going to build a jail?” Charles asks.

“It would be easier to ferry him across to the other island,” Jules says.

I wince at the croak in his voice. “I can do—”

“I’m not being serious,” Jules says. “He’s shit at swimming. If something went wrong, he’d drown and pull you down with him.” He doesn’t look at me, and he turns his face the other way entirely. I stare.

“We can build a bamboo jail,” Charles continues. “The stalks look like prison bars. It’ll be jungle-chic.”

Jules mindlessly mixes his porridge. The fruit has long since disintegrated into the oats. “Whatever,” he says. “He’s not stupid enough to pick a fight with Cillian, so I’ll just stick with him. I thought we could swim out and grab the fishing rods?”

“Your shoulder isn’t too sore?” Mathieu asks. I’m glad he does because I have a feeling if I raise the question, I’ll get even more of a cold shoulder.

Jules checks his range of motion. His throat is a dark bruise, worse than it was last night. Darren must have applied extreme force. Jules’s shoulder somehow improved in the few hours of sleep we got, or at least he claims as much. “Not too bad. One trip? And we’ll get the rest of the food over too, so we know what we’re working with. Any objections from anyone?” He looks directly at me.

No is the answer I want to give, but I’m certain I’m not actually getting a choice here. Jules turned unnaturally talkative last night once he snapped out of his daze. I expected that to either worsen when he woke or switch up again. It’s switched up. There’s an intense brittleness surrounding Jules.

I’m afraid to let him collide with anything, just in case he cracks.

“One trip,” I say.

We get through the trip, though Jules is hurting by the end of it.

Once back, I weather Jules’s glare long enough to approach him.

“I’m putting this on you.” I strap my knife to his waist, guiding his shirt over it. “You’re in charge of it.” I don’t need to ask him not to lose it—Jules will be careful—nor do I feel a sense of loss to part with the knife so soon after getting it back. I don’t even know if he’d use it in a pinch, but I feel better knowing he’d have the option.

That night I find out that Mathieu isn’t fully out of the bad books either. Jules curls up on his side and doesn’t reach for him.

The next day Jules insists on another trip.