Daniel lets me go and stares at Cy’s outstretched hand.
“Cy?” he says. “Like shy but Cy?”
“Yeah,” I say with a grin, swiping my hand across my eyes. Daniel’s still starting at Cy’s hand.
“Daniel, it’s proper to shake hands like a man,” I tell him.
Nodding, he shakes Cy’s hand. “Hi,” he says. “I’m Daniel.”
“Good job,” I whisper, my voice still shaking. “Well done.”
My heart is full. So damn full.
“Nice to meet you, Daniel,” Cy says. “And happy birthday.”Chapter 14Cy
One month laterI think we take for granted what it’s like to live among civilized people. We don’t think about turning the light on when we use the bathroom. We don’t think about the running water when we turn on the faucet. We don’t even think about the fact that our cell phones connect to the internet, or we can communicate with people halfway across the world with the touch of a button. We don’t think of any of that until it’s taken away from us.
But there’s more to it than that. We don’t think about the breath we take, the way our lungs fill with life-giving air and oxygen. We don’t think about how our bodies need food and water and nourishment, because so few of us ever have to worry about where our next meal will come from. We take the shelters over our heads and ground beneath our feet as a God-given right. But Jesus, it’s not a right. None of it is. It’s a goddamn gift, from the breath we take to the sun rising in the morning.
And every damn day I’m off that island, I revel in that gift. We both do. We sit in long silences, sometimes, just the two of us, on that peaceful porch swing she’s got outside her pretty little house. It’s like a little patch of heaven, this home she’s built. And the second I stepped foot in it, I knew. I was home.
Pale, “robin’s egg blue,” Harper calls it, her house is the prettiest little thing. There’s a beautiful, sunny, expansive porch with two rockers that speak peace and tranquility, and wildflowers that flank the path that leads to her house. Window boxes overflow with vibrant yellows and reds, and large, sturdy willow trees line her back yard. Through the front door is a spacious living area, with comfortable furniture, a fireplace, and shelves teaming with books. The open floor plan makes the small space feel roomy and comfortable.
When she stepped foot in her house, a peace washed over her face and she sighed in contentment. “Home, Cy,” she whispered. “And you’re here.”
Several reporters had the goddamn audacity to follow us here, but they’re quickly dealt with. I have no qualms about telling them where to go and how to get there, and soon word gets out that any trespassers deal with me.
We do interviews. So many, I get sick of answering the questions, but we’re eager to shed light on what happened on the island. And we do them together. It’s kinda cool how the whole damn nation rejoices when we announce our engagement.
It took a few weeks to get back into solid physical shape, both of us. But we’re thriving now. We both no longer have a taste for processed foods, though Harper goes back to her coffee with childlike glee. An anonymous person sends her an island mug. We get weird mail from people. When she opens it, she throws it across the kitchen. I watch it smash into shards, before she turns to look at me.
“They act like it was a fucking vacation,” she says, her voice tight with anger, her hands clenched in fists.
I walk to her and pull her to me. “I know, baby,” I say. “They have no idea. Like anyone would send you a mug with a prison on it.”
She laughs and lets me hold her. “I’m so glad you get it,” she says. “No one else would.”
“Of course, I do,” I tell her. In silence, we clean up the damn glass, and that day I get a P.O. Box and take our names and addresses out of the public register.
She loves being near Daniel again. I love the guy myself. He’s sweet and honest and has a sense of humor I don’t think many people would get. We play chess together when he comes to visit us on the weekends, while Harper types away at her keyboard. The look she gets when she comes downstairs and sees us together is worth goddamn everything I own.
“Cy,” Harper says one day, after I come in from mending her fence. I have a crazy sense of purpose and fulfillment fixing things around this house. She’s thrilled I’m handy.
But before she can speak, her phone rings. Her eyes go wide when she listens, then she covers the mouthpiece and leans toward me.