Every Sunday, we’d be up at the ass crack of dawn. We either went surfing or hopped on a Harley, riding to some quiet place to reconnect with nature. It was our favorite thing in the world.
At least, that’s how it was before I met Tommy.
Dad ate healthy and was the fittest man on Earth—I thought he was going to live forever. He was still in his fifties and went through life acting like he was going to survive well into his nineties. But in the end, carbon monoxide poisoning got to him first, something entirely avoidable.
Tears sting my eyes. I know it’s not rational; thewhat-ifsandhad-Ismight change the outcome of that weekend. But it feels like his death could be my fault. If I saw through Tommy sooner, if I broke up with him and didn’t engage in the argument about my “prioritizing Dad over him,” Dad would never have died. I would’ve seen him that weekend. He would still be alive, and I wouldn’t be running from ghosts and men with guns. If I had just listened to Dad’s warning, none of this would’ve happened.
This morning when I checked the feed, all I could spot was a dog—or at least, I think it was a dog. The dark blob looked about the same size as a midsized one, and it trotted around the same way a canine would. It rubbed itself along my cabin, took pee breaks on the trees and posts, and pawed at the back door.
Whatever it was, it ate all the kibble I left out for the stray animals in the area. Either way, it’s time for me to move on. I’ve already been here too long.
“Sialan,” Deedee curses in Indonesian—actually, my vocabulary also extends to swear words. “I’m pruning like a bitch.”
I peel my eyes open to glance at Deedee as she grimaces at her hands before resuming her fidgeting with the bracelet, staring out at the horizon.
I snort. She’s been out here for almost an hour and half. I’ve already doubled that, because I got out here well before she did. I crane my neck back to check if Nat is still sunbathing on the shore—sleeping off a hangover, apparently—then scan the streets to make sure no one has decided to join us at our secret spot.
The hair on the back of my neck prickles, and I survey the streets one more time to be safe. I can’t hear anyone drive further out than this.
My focus returns to Deedee, the feeling of being watched as strong as it always is. She has an unnatural sort of beauty, the kind where you look twice because her deep golden tanned skin glows without a drop of makeup, and she seems to wash her shiny hair with the Elixir of Life.
Her long, black braid is partially undone. Chunks of hair stick out at odd ends. Dark strands frame her face and catch the light every time she moves. Her plait reaches the tattoo on her ribs—it’s the same matching one I have on my upper back.
The woman is well above her thirties—or so she claims—but she doesn’t look a day over twenty-five. The one time I asked for her skincare routine, she laughed and said, “The blood of virgin men and Neutrogena.” It wasn’t very helpful, but I figured I’d need more than an oil cleanser to wash away signs of four years’ worth of trauma.
“I don’t want to look at the state of my hands.” I chuckle, cutting myself off at the frown she casts toward the open sea. Her fingers stall on the golden bracelet. “You good?”
She makes a noncommittal noise. “Just memories. You know how it is.” She offers me a weak, placating smile.
Don’t I know it?
“Want to talk about it?” Sometimes, it’s nice to get things off my chest when the world feels too much. I’ve confided in Deedeebefore—brief stuff, mostly, but she has a very generalized idea of the type of demons I’ve got under my bed.
She hasn’t told me much either, beyond losing her family and changing her name to feel like she’s taking back control of her life.
My stomach sours as I watch the corners of her eyes crinkle with pain and a haunted look passes over her. Seeing her like this makes me feel hopeless. She lost her sister decades ago, and she still hasn’t gotten over her grief.
I doubt I’ll ever stop feeling like I’m being torn in two whenever I think about Dad.
Deedee nods to our right. “There’s a beach a couple kilometers that way where me and Ni Luh used to swim. My mother used to yell at us every time she found out we snuck away—beat us with the broom a few times.” She snorts. “Those straw ones that sting like a bitch?That.”
I grimace. Dad’s form of punishment was only letting me have one scoop of ice cream instead of two—but I was allowed to have some of his.
“Did she surf too?”
Deedee shakes her head. “I didn’t get into it until recent years. I was too chickenshit.” She laughs.
My lips tip up at the corners as I cast a glance at the street. “I’m pretty sure my dad would’ve insisted on a water birth if he knew what it was.”
“And mine would’ve loved an epidural if she knew about it.” She sighs, turning her bracelet around her wrist. “If she knew what I got up to now…”
The phantom sound of a car soaring past makes me flinch. I clear my throat. “We really need to figure out what we’re going to do about the pirates.” Even though I’m getting out of here, I don’t want to leave them in the lurch after she got me set up and settled.
Deedee pioneered the whole gig. She’s the one who began the factory, made the connections, built the clientele. Nat came on board later to do the tech side of things. Then, I injected myself into their operation.
“I think you should reach out to your contacts in?—”
She waves me off. “Shit like this happens all the time. Don’t worry about it. Give it a week or two, and it’ll sort itself out.”
