CHAPTER 6
Isabella
As I wandered down a path that ran beside a canal, I found myself checking out every guy I passed by. Not because I found them attractive. Just because I hoped they’d be Jimmy.
I’d been trying to decipher whether my newly acquired obsession with the boatman was truly about him or whether it was about the experience of being wild, free, and completely uninhibited when I was with him. It was difficult to distinguish between the two since each of our encounters had been so sexual in nature.
Last night, as soon as we walked down the ramp coming off the Ferris wheel, Jimmy was approached by a group of beautiful women who appeared very happy to see him. Between their squeals, I’d been able to gather that the group came to Firefly Island every year and Jimmy was one of the reasons why they made the annual trip. I’d slipped away when he was distracted.
It was the second time that I’d pulled a disappearing act, but in my defense, both times had been after very intimate encounters where I’d been out of my depth. It wasn’t that I regretted them. Far from it. I couldn’t have been happier that they’d happened, and I was even proud of myself that I’d initiated both of them.
Well, that wasn’t entirely true. I did have one regret. Yesterday, we’d both had orgasms at the hand, or mouth, of the other and we hadn’t even kissed yet. My experience was definitely lacking, I realized that—but, still. I didn’t think that was normal. And even if it were, I just wanted to know what Jimmy’s lips would feel like pressed against mine.
But I had no regrets over my out of character behavior. I’d wanted something and I’d asked for it. It was liberating. Not to mention very pleasurable. It made me wonder how different my life would’ve been if I’d always been living it like this.
For so many years, I’d lived in a world of worry and fear. Fear that I would disappoint my father, worry that he would never love me. And none of it had made him love me, or stopped him from being disappointed in me.
It was no way to live. This was much better.
“Isabella?”
I heard my name and looked up.
I blinked several times before recognizing the person who’d called my name. It wasn’t that I hadn’t known who it was, it just took my brain a few moments to place her in this unexpected environment.
“Cheyenne?” I hadn’t seen the girl standing in front of me in at least ten years.
We’d both attended St. Finbar’s, an exclusive private academy for girls. I’d left school in my sophomore year because my father felt my education was lacking, or so he’d said. I’d had private tutors come to the house from then on.
I’d been devastated when my father pulled me out of school. I’d felt so alone. So isolated. Not that I’d had many friends at school. Most of the girls at the academy weren’t very nice to me, although I couldn’t say that I blamed them. I was definitely socially awkward.
Added to that was the fact that my father had taken being strict to an entirely different level than most parents. I hadn’t ever been allowed to hang out in the mall or participate in any afterschool activities. There was an unspoken rule that I was not to have guests at my house.
Unspoken, yes—but it was written down. I started to get suspicious when each and every time I broached the subject with whoever was running the household staff, I was told that it wasn’t a good idea. It didn’t matter if it was their first day on the job or their last, if they worked for my father, they were under strict instructions that I was, “not to fraternize with my peers.”
I only knew that because I’d found a contract that one of my last handlers had accidentally left out, and I saw the words in black and white.
Because of my lack of social engagement, most of the girls at the private school had treated me like an outcast. I was ostracized, either because they didn’t like me or they thought I was standoffish, I never knew for sure.
But Cheyenne had always been different. She was kind. If she saw me sitting alone, she’d invite me to sit with her and her friends. If I missed a day of school, she made sure I had the correct homework assignments. And no matter how many times I turned her down, she always asked me to go to the ice cream shop, or the movies, or wherever she and her friends were hanging out on the weekends or after school.
We’d bonded the first week of sixth grade, during a family tree project in social studies, when we discovered that both of our mothers had passed away when we were young. The parent-died-when-you’re-a-child club was not one that anyone wanted to belong to, but it was oddly comforting to know someone else who was in it. It was just one of those things that only people that had experienced it could relate to.
“What are you doing here?” we both blurted out at the same time, then chuckled.
“I’m from here,” Cheyenne explained.
“You are?” That was strange, I’d thought she was from Greenwich.
“Yes. I was born here, but I moved to Connecticut after my mom died.”
“Oh, that’s right.” She’d told me that she lived with her grandparents, but I’d never asked where her father was. Not because I hadn’t been curious, it was just a byproduct of that pesky social awkwardness.
“What are you doing here?” she asked.
Other than having hot sexual encounters with a mystery man?
“I’m visiting someone.” I started to tell her who, but I stopped myself, thinking she wouldn’t care what I had to say.