I let out a quiet sigh and stare at the ceiling. Because there’s exactly one person on this island who might actually understand what’s going on. And I can’t ask him.
Lately, every time we get close… he gets weird.
I lie there a while longer, turning it over in my head, trying to solve something I don’t understand well enough to fix.
There has to be some way to figure this out.
Mum would’ve known what to say. She always understood things like this—how people felt, why they acted the way they did. She and Dad could have entire conversations with just a look, like they were speaking a language the rest of us couldn’t hear.
I wish she were here.
But she’s not. Which means if I want answers, I’ll have to find them somewhere else.
My thoughts spin for a bit longer before something clicks into place.
Books.
Mum always had one with her. Didn’t matter where we were—the yacht, the house in Brisbane, long flights—there was always a book in her bag. Sometimes two or three. I remember stacks of them in the cabin when we first got stranded here, paperbacks with bright covers and couples tangled up in dramatic poses.
Ryan used to tease her about them.
Back then, I thought they looked painfully boring. Stories about people falling in love didn’t seem worth the time, so I ignored them.
Now, lying here, that memory suddenly feels a lot more important.
Those books were all about relationships between men and women, and the strange, complicated things that happen between them.
The thought settles in slowly, then clicks into place. Maybe those books hold the answers Mum never got to explain. And if they do, I know exactly where to find them.
By the time I sit up, I’ve already decided. If the books are still on the yacht, they might actually help me make sense of this.
Mum always said stories were about people—how they think, why they do what they do. If that’s true, then somewhere in those pages there has to be something that explains what’s been happening between Dane and me.
Outside, the air is already warm. Sunlight filters through the palms, and the tide is slowly pulling back from the shore. Dane is crouched by the fire, checking a small pot over the coals. He glances up when he hears me.
“Morning.”
“Morning.”
I hesitate, trying to keep my voice casual. “I was thinking about heading over to the yacht. I’d like to go through Mum’s things again.”
He frowns. “We’ve gone through everything a hundred times.”
“I know.” I pick up an empty coconut shell and turn it over in my hands, pretending to study it. “But that was when we were just trying to survive. Maybe we missed something.”
Dane watches me, clearly unconvinced. “That boat’s been picked clean for years, Charlotte.”
“Probably,” I say with a small shrug. “But it won’t hurt to check again.”
That part is true. It’s just not the real reason.
I’m looking for answers. And if Mum’s books are there, I have a feeling the answers might be in them.
Dane doesn’t answer right away. He snaps a dry stick over his knee and tosses it onto the fire, nudging it into place as the flames catch.
“You want me to come with you?”
Lately, anytime I go too far from camp, Dane ends up nearby sooner or later. Usually, I wouldn’t mind. Today, I do. Because explaining why I’m going would be complicated.
