Page 65 of Bad Saint
Saint carries a spear he’s carved from a tree branch over his shoulder. It seems he’s a good fisherman as he’s caught a few fish. When he sees the fire, he arches a brow. I wait for him to acknowledge it, but I get nothing.
The restlessness I’ve felt all day gets amped up.
Saint stands by the fire, peering around for what I assume are smaller sticks to roast our dinner on. I pass him two from Harriet Pot Pie’s coop, seeing as she isn’t using it. He accepts them with a nod.
This silence is killing me. I would even settle for him barking orders or telling me to kneel. I then realize he hasn’t called me ah??? lately. It bugs me. It shouldn’t, but it does.
“Do you want something to drink?” I ask, needing to fill the static. “I brought the bottled water down from the hut and stored it in the water like you said.” Oh, my god. I sound pathetic. Seeking praise.
Saint peers at the bottled water, which I’ve secured by his shirt to a tree stump protruding from the sand so it doesn’t float away. “I’ll have some rum.” When he stops stabbing the fishes onto the branches and makes a move for the drum, I dance to the left.
“I’ll get it.”
The tiny jerk to his brow is the only sign he gives that he’s impressed with my submission. But he continues spearing the fish onto the sticks and places them over the fire.
I make my way to the barrel, unsure why I have this desperate need to seek his approval. It hasn’t mattered in the past, but here, the dynamics have changed. Thankfully, there is a nozzle I can use to pour our drinks. Using the coconut shells as our cups, I carefully turn the tap, not wanting to waste a drop.
The strong smell of alcohol hits my nose, and my queasy stomach turns. I’m not a big drinker—how can I be when it’s done nothing but cause me pain—but for tonight, I decide to forget my reservations. Saint’s share is a lot more generous than mine, which is fine. I feel drunk from the smell alone.
Once I’m done, I make my way over to the fire where he’s cooking our dinner. “Here.”
He accepts the drink, pulling a face when he smells the strong liquor. “Thanks.”
Feeling ridiculous standing around, I sit down near the fire and sip my drink. The moment the bitterness hits my throat, I cough madly, thumping my chest to help swallow down the poison.
Saint peers at me over the fire. “There’s a lagoon a mile or so up the beach.”
Once I think I can talk without wheezing, I reply, “Did you see anything else?”
“No. Tomorrow I’ll venture farther inland to see if I can find anything. There might be more caves. I don’t know. It’s worth a try.” The terrain farther inland is rocky and dangerous. The hills are steep, and without proper supplies, Saint could end up hurt or, worse still, dead.
Once upon a time, that prospect wouldn’t bother me as much as it does now. If something happens to him, I will be stuck here, alone. My palms begin to sweat. “Okay. Maybe you can show me where the lagoon is, and I can catch some fish. Or rummage for crabs.”
He looks skeptical of my skills, which tips me over the edge.
“I know you think I’m some bimbo who can only make a living using my looks, but I’ll have you know I’m a lot more than that. I grew up on a ranch in Texas, and I’m not afraid to get my hands dirty. I used to get up with my father every morning at sunup and help him tend to the animals. I also rode a quad bike instead of a horse,” I add smartly, my Texan accent coming through, just as it does anytime I get mad. I don’t know why I told him this. I guess I somehow need to prove my badassness.
Once my rant is over, I feel better until a lopsided smirk tugs at Saint’s lips. “I don’t think you’re a bimbo.”
“Oh?” My cheeks turn a beet red. Well, this isn’t at all awkward.
“A pain in the ass, yes”—my mouth hinges open—“but a bimbo, no.”
This is the first time Saint has openly shared his feelings about me, and they weren’t as insulting as I thought they would be.
“So you grew up on a ranch?”
I don’t question his inquisitiveness as it feels nice to discuss everyday normal things when we are living anything but. “Yes. In a small town where everyone knew everyone else’s business. You can just imagine how my mom and I were the talk of the town when the wife of a Baptist minister was seen in the next town over, consorting withungodly characters,” I mock with a deep Southern drawl.
“Thanks to my mom’s indiscretions, the town began to believe the apple didn’t fall from the tree. I was suddenly the most popular girl…but for all the wrong reasons. It sucked, and I was happy to get the fuck out of that town when I was almost sixteen.”
I don’t feel the need to share any more about Kenny or my mom because they don’t deserve a second of my time. Besides, I’ve already shared what happened with Kenny.
“Where did you grow up?” It’s out before I can stop myself.
I know absolutely nothing about Saint. Our circumstances bound us together unconventionally, but the fact we’re stuck here, with no idea if or when we will ever get off this island, means all we have is time. And what better way to kill time than by playing twenty questions.
His poker face is in play as he draws the fish toward him so he can take a closer look. Satisfied it’s cooked, he passes me the stick, freshly roasted fish attached. “Thank you.”