Page 116 of Cuts like a Knife
“Bex?” I say. What’s happened? She’s been so weird and cagey recently.
“No, Claire. I think she’s in early labor,” he says.
Claire. Who’s pregnant. Who went through something horrible. Who is my sister —in other words, someone who should matter. Not like the people here. Not like the people at work. She’s someone I should care about, not that I’ve been great about showing it, but now’s my chance.
“All the more reason,” I say. “The yacht isn’t supposed to dock back at the hotel for hours. But if I go this way, I’ll be back in ten minutes. You go back to the boat, Drew. I don’t need you. I’m fine on my own.”
I start swimming toward shore, right along the silvery path made by the moon, waves pushing me from behind, helping me along.
I think I hear him calling after me. “Lex, stop! Come back! F—!” But I ignore him.
And ha. I’m right. Soon enough, I’m walking out of the waves onto a sandy curve of beach. I turn back to the water and see the yacht, the disco lights inside visible through the wide windows, shifting and turning against the black night sky. I think there’s a figure standing on the deck, staring out to where I am on the beach. It’s probably Drew. I give whoever it is a wide semaphore-style wave, just in case. No need for him to think I’ve drowned.
Right. So I just have to find the little public access path, and then I’ll be back at the cottage. I start trudging up the wet sand, my ruined dress stuck to me like glue. Oh well. This will all be over soon enough.
I pat myself on the back for my ingenious plan. Sure, jumping off the boat seemed crazy at first. And I embarrassed myself thinking I was going to drown when I definitely wasn’t, but it all worked out. I’ve successfully done something spontaneous, for once. Something smart. I’ve got everything under control. Everything will be fine.
~
Everything will not be fine.
More than an hour later, I still haven’t found my way back to the cottage.
I’d trudged up and down the dark beach for ages, looking for the path and not finding it. I’d finally given up and scuttled through a bushy space between two houses that looked closed up or abandoned. They were dark at any rate.
The prickly bushes scratched up my legs, and I’d stirred up a flurry of some sort of small biting fly, but I’d made my way to the road at last336.
It wasn’t Hooper’s Bay. It was another cove entirely. There’s only one main road on Great Exuma — Queen’s Highway — so I knew at least that much, but I had no idea which way to walk. Without knowing exactly what beach I’d landed on, there was no way to know if I ought to head North-West or South-East.
And the highway was pitch dark — much darker than the beach, where the moonlight reflecting off the water had brightened everything considerably.
So I’d made my best guess and just started walking.
And I’d been walking ever since.
I had no idea what time it was. Late. No cars had gone past. The sparse buildings were all dark and silent.
It was hurricane season on an island that catered primarily to tourists. No one was around.
Eventually, I remembered my phone, tucked into the handy dandy pocket of my infernal dress, which had become a sopping, sticky nightmare.
The phone was dead, of course. Ruined.
Like me.
As I trudge along, two thoughts keep me going. The first is that will get somewhere eventually. A night is only so long and this island is only so big. Eventually, I’ll come to a landmark I recognize, or someone will drive by and help me, or the sun will come up. One of those things will happen. As uncomfortable as this is, it won’t be forever.
The second is that it’s over. The worst has happened. Rian’s spilled the beans, outed me as a plagiarist and most likely ensured that I’ll be fired by the end of the week. Callum heard him. He’s a journalist. It won’t take him long to ferret out more information. The whole sorry tale will be in Lar’s ear at Citidaze by the end of the day. He’ll snap. And that’ll be that.
It’s too late to use some sort of great story get to save myself. Besides, I never really wanted to screw things up for Maylee and Danny. I like them. They’re nice people. Besides, with plagiarist next to my name, burned into my reputation, no matter how good a story idea is, no publication is going to want me to write it. It’s all over for me.
It’s kind of a relief.
I’ll need some kind of job. And fast. Bex can’t cover our rent on her own, but I can always do something anonymous. Be a barista or something. Ask my Dad for a temporary job at the tea factory. I don’t know. Something. It’s not like I’m going to starve.
It’s embarrassing. Deeply, completely, overwhelmingly embarrassing. It hurts. Like a deep cut. Everyone is going to find out. Drew knows. So soon enough, Gray will know, and then the whole Madison clan will know. And they’ll look at me like … what? Like they knew something like this would happen? Like this is what I deserve after being such a sanctimonious, judgmental b—? Like they’re ashamed of me?
I have no idea, but I dread it.
