Sacrifice Island by Kristin Dearborn Page A

her to her room”—Terry reached for her hand again—“but we can’t touch her skin.”
    Alex lifted her into a chair. “Here are your gloves, sweetie.”
    He only talked to her like this when she lingered in this misty pain place, when she saw everything through gauze and haze and her body felt like she’d been used all over and in every pore.
    She took the gloves. She had to put them on by herself. Unless she let him. He’d offered, after all.
    She pulled them on.
    “I need to lie down,” she whispered.
    “Gotta drink something first.” Alex turned to Terry. “Orange juice? Something really sweet.”
    She drifted away for a moment and woke as Alex shook her shoulder. His touch—through her shirt—was brief and hesitant. “Here, we’re almost done.” Could she really have touch all the time if she let him?
    The horrible juice, warm, thick, syrupy, and painfully sweet, dribbled down her chin. Her shoulder, tender from the pain, throbbed where Alex had touched her.
    Old feelings flared: She wanted touch again, wanted a hug. At first she thought keeping herself dressed, always covered, would help—but there had been accidents. It was easier to avoid everyone and everything. No one would want to touch her anyway. It was better, easier, simpler this way.
    “Can you get up?” Alex asked.
    Terry seemed to have gone, and they were alone in the restaurant.
    “I don’t know.”
    “We’ll get you up, walk a little bit, and then you can sleep it off as long as you need to.”
    As if she were drunk, as if she’d done something bad.
    But she was tired.
    “Did you see anything?” he asked.
    She nodded. “I saw everything.” She couldn’t organize it, though. Couldn’t make sense of it yet. Needed to digest the images she’d seen—flashes of palm trees, starry skies, screams, hot winds, and a gaping loneliness that threatened to consume Terry, and now consume her. She needed sleep. Needed her body and mind to begin to sort what was Terry’s and what was hers.

19
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
    Alex closed the door on Jemma’s cabin. Above his head, fluffy white clouds punctuated the blue sky. He’d helped her get into bed as best he could, tried to make her comfortable. Now he would leave her alone, would…what? What the hell could he do? He walked to his own cabin, kicking at small stones. He wished she’d told him something, something to go on, start researching, get some balls rolling. Instead he could only wait, with the knowledge he’d caused his best friend pain. He hoped it wasn’t as bad, considering she’d dumped all her bullshit on him the day before.
    No. That wasn’t fair. He’d done it to himself. And if he were really brave, once he had her back in her room, he would have touched her, and taken some of the pain himself. Doing what she asked seemed like a cop out.
    He slid in through the cabin door, closed it behind him. No power. He took a moment to listen. Motorbikes and cars passed on the street, happy voices shouted in a language he didn’t understand. Dogs barked outside. He couldn’t help but feel responsible. The sensation churned in his gut. He wanted to go to her, take her in his arms, tell her he loved her. Console her. Make love to her.
    An impossible dream. Always had been.
    Prowling, he went out and paced in front of her cabin again. He scribbled her a note, said he was going into town, to use her cell phone despite the roaming charges and to call him if she needed anything.
    Alex overpaid for a trike ride, got out at Louie’s Backyard, and headed up the stairs. Soon he’d miss the sunset near Vista Breeze. He didn’t care. He didn’t want a sunset. He wanted Jemma, but it would never, ever happen.
    Alex ordered a drink from a brassy American woman. She introduced herself as the owner of the place, and he made halfhearted small talk. The overpriced drink made him feel better about overpaying the driver.
    He took his drink out on the porch and gazed down at the crowded