But I don’t. Dad would lose it. And that’s not a fight I feel like having right now.
“Fine.”
I wait until she’s out of sight, then slam the door hard enough to rattle the frame. I throw up two middle fingers at her.
“Fuck you, Tara.”
God, I hate her.
She might’ve won this one, but I’m not done. Not even close.
Chapter 1
Charlotte Gallagher
The scrapeof stone against metal carries through the air, followed by a brief pause as he tests the sharp edge with his thumb.
I sit in the shade near the edge of the sand, watching Dane sharpen the spear like I’ve seen him do countless times before.
He’s crouched near the fire pit, one knee pressed into the sand, completely focused. His movements are steady, controlled in a way they weren’t in the beginning. When we first ended up here, nothing he made quite worked. His early spears were crooked, the tips uneven, the shafts warped.
Now everything he builds is exact.
The island did that to him.
Over time, I’ve watched the hesitation disappear in him. He’s turned into someone who doesn’t second-guess himself anymore. There’s a certainty in the way he works—a quality that only comes from doing the same thing over and over until it becomes instinct.
The stone drags against the blade again, the sound carrying easily.
We haven’t spoken in hours. Not because anything happened between us. Silence has become normal. It settled in after Ryan died, and it never really left. Most days, we move around each other saying only what’s necessary about food, the weather, or whatever needs fixing next.
Everything else stays unsaid.
His gaze lifts toward the ocean the way it always does. Even now, he still checks the horizon again and again, scanning that empty line where the water meets the sky.
Old habits don’t go away easily.
His eyes pass over me quickly without stopping. It’s subtle, small enough that most people wouldn’t notice. But I do.
He’s careful not to look at me. If I move closer, he drifts the other way. When we pass near each other, there’s always a slight adjustment to keep from touching. He never makes a show of it, but the distance is deliberate.
And it matters more than I want it to.
I look away, letting my attention drift around the camp instead.
The shelter sits beneath the palms, patched and reinforced so many times that nothing original remains. The fire pit rests at the center of the clearing, ringed with smooth stones. Beyond that, the sand stretches out until it meets the ocean.
Everything here is familiar.
Every tree. Every stretch of sand. Every narrow path worn into the ground from years of walking the same routes.
We’ve been stranded on this island for eight years. It feels smaller than it used to—like the edges of our world have slowly folded inward until it became this strip of beach and jungle.
And now that there are only two of us left, it somehow feels smaller.
There’s no older brother to cut through the tension with a joke. No younger brother trailing behind us, asking endless questions.
Only silence. And everything we don’t say.
