Locked (5 page)

“Dead,” I echo. It's the first time Noah has said that, that he's even implied it. I haven't let myself think it. Because if Ed is dead, it means Maggie— And I won't. Not my sister. “But you said—”

“I know what I said.” He exhales. He looks at me. His face is so stupidly beautiful. He's all angles and shadows under the light of the moon. “What I'm trying to say is…this isn't about the island for me.”

My heart beats faster and faster in my chest. I feel the air between us spark, like it's full of static electricity and I've just pulled a sweater out of the dryer.

“Do you…?” I can't bring myself to finish the sentence, because what if I'm wrong? But what if I'm right? It's just the two of us now. I think about those months before Ed. I think about how much I wanted it to be Noah.

Noah smiles slightly. He takes a hand and touches my cheek. Out of the corner of my eye I see gold sparks light up on my skin like tiny lace fireworks. “Look at you,” he says. “How could I not?”

My heart seems to burst out of my chest. I half expect to see its remains in the sand between us. “You never told me.”

He brings his hand to my neck. My eyes reflexively close. “What would I have said?” he whispers. “You love him.”

I shake my head. I try to swallow. “I do,” I say. “But…” I open my eyes. I look at him. “Noah, I've always—”

And just then, it begins to rain. It's like the heavens themselves, the gods of this island, have conspired to stop whatever was going to happen next. It's pouring, and I flip the blanket around me as Noah offers me his hand and we run up to the house.

By the time we get to the deck, I'm soaked. I drop the water-laden blanket over the wooden railing and run to the door. Noah's hand is pushing it open, and our fingers collide. But he doesn't pull back, and he doesn't push the door open. Instead he loops his arms around my waist and lifts me up, the same way he did last night. My chest is pressed against his, and the rain falls so strong that I can barely see. But I don't need to. My fingers find his face, his jaw, the pulse in his neck. And then his lips land on my skin. I gasp as he kisses my collarbone, and then up, up, until finally his lips meet mine.

How long have I waited to kiss him? My whole life, it seems. I need to be closer. I need to drink him in faster. I reach up and thread my fingers through his hair like I've wanted to do for what feels like forever.

My hands are everywhere as I wrap my legs around his waist. I'm off the ground, held up entirely by him—the circle of his arms. His hands are strong on my back as he kicks the door open. His lips don't leave mine. Kissing him feels like I'm flying—like I've never been more aware of every nerve in my body.

His lips pull back, and I grope forward, but he's buried his face in my neck. He swings my legs over into his arms and carries me through the house, down the hall, and into the bedroom.

He pauses in the doorway, and I lift my lips up to meet his in what I hope he understands is a gesture of encouragement. Yes. Yes, yes.

He sets me down on the bed gently—like I'm a glass figurine that might break.

I sit back on the cushions, and for the first time, for a split second, our bodies separate. With the microscopic distance, I can see his labored breathing. See the way his chest rises and falls, and I feel a crazy, wonderful wave of joy that it's
me
making him feel this way. No one but me.

I move my hands up so my palms are on either side of his face. “It's not because of the island,” I say. I need him to know. “I always wanted you.”

He doesn't say anything, but I feel his chest move above me. And then we're kissing again, and it feels ecstatic, like my whole life has been in anticipation of this one moment. His hands slip underneath my top and roam across my stomach. I feel his fingertips brush my ribs. I reach up and pull his shirt off, and then he leans his body down next to me. He kisses my neck, and I run my hands down his back—feeling the movement of his muscles. The warmth of his skin.

He leans back, just for a moment, and then he's inching my shirt up my torso. I lift my hands above my head and let him peel it off. I want it gone. I want everything separating us gone. He tosses my shirt down, and for a moment I have the impulse to cover myself with my hands.

“You're so beautiful,” he says, and my heart leaps so far in my chest it feels like it jumps straight into my throat.

He leans down to kiss me, and when his skin meets mine, I feel it again—that particular, magical warmth. I look at my torso—it's lit up, like there are lights inside my rib cage shining from the inside out.

“What's happening?” I whisper.

“I don't know,” he says. His breath is strained. “Does it hurt?”

I shake my head. “It feels amazing.”

He kisses me again. The light spreads. Now it's in my arms and my chest. We both look at my shoulder as he trails his fingertips down it. Gold dust follows, like the tail of a shooting star.

“It's incredible,” I say. “I can't believe you can do this.”

He tucks some hair behind my ear. “It's you,” he says.

And then he's kissing me again. I pull him down closer, tighter, so that there is no space between his chest and mine. I feel his heartbeat, frantic against me. I have never felt closer to anyone, I think. Not in my whole life. But I want to be closer. I want to be as close as two people possibly can be.

And that's when lightning strikes. Literally.

There is a sound like the clash of steel on steel—harsh, jarring, deafening. And then the roof is on fire. The canvas above us explodes into flames—so tall they look like they're not even real.

Noah scrambles up with me in his arms. He pulls me behind him as he throws his hands upward, toward the ceiling. He calls out a chant, but nothing happens. Instead, the flames reach higher.

“It's not working,” he shouts.

It's raining just as hard as it was when we were on the beach, but it's not putting the fire out. It's not even making a dent.

Something is wrong.

Noah holds his hands up again. The chant gets louder. But still nothing happens.

I run into the kitchen. Maybe there is something—but what? Water won't work. It's raining. And then it hits me: the island.

I run back into the bedroom. “Noah,” I pant. His chest is drenched in sweat now; the room is heating from the top down. I run to him. “Noah, the island.” We look at each other. He drops his hands. “The island is doing this.”

He looks up, then his eyes come back to meet mine, stern, focused. He has the same look he had when he came back from meeting with the chief yesterday. “Go into the other room,” he says.

“But…”

“Go!” He shakes his head. He steps toward me, puts a hand on my cheek. “Go, and stay until I come get you.”

I nod. “Okay.”

I leave. I walk into the living room. I'm naked, and in here it's cold—forty degrees colder than the bedroom. It's like I stepped into a different world.

I see Noah's blankets folded on the floor and wrap one around me. I'm shaking. I hug my knees up to my chest. I wait.

The fire isn't spreading, but I don't know what Noah is doing in there. What if it has hurt him? I'm about to run back—I was stupid to leave him alone—when he comes out.

He's covered up now. His shirt is back on.

I run to him and throw my arms around his neck, bury my face in his chest, but he doesn't move. He doesn't wrap his arms around me. He doesn't press his lips into my ear and tell me it's all going to be okay. Instead, he peels my hands back and holds them between us. The same way he did on the beach.

“We can't,” he says.

I shake my head. “What are you talking about? What happened to the fire?”

“It's gone.” He drops my hands and goes to sit on a stool by the window. I run back into the bedroom and as I stand in the doorway I see that he's right. There is no fire. There isn't even a trace of one. The canvas roof is whole and untarnished. It has even stopped raining.

I wander back to Noah in a daze. I sit down on the mat next to him. “What did you do?” I ask.

He looks at me. His eyes are unreadable. “I made it stop,” he says.

“How?”

He glances down at his hands. “It wasn't right,” he says. “It wasn't—” He looks at me again, his eyes roaming over my face. “We're not supposed to be together.”

I open my mouth to say something, to protest, but he holds his hand up. “It's true,” he says. “The island—” He lets his hand fall. The one motion seems to signal defeat. “This isn't your destiny, August. However we got called, it was for me, not you. You're not supposed to be here.”

I move toward him. “But I
am
here.” When he doesn't respond, I push on. “So these were your people, so what? It doesn't mean anything. It doesn't mean—” But when Noah's eyes find mine, I know I'm wrong. “Noah,” I say. I think about him denying me last night. He knew then. “What aren't you telling me?”

Noah stands. He walks to the other side of the room, away from me. “I met with the chief today,” he says. “I didn't tell you. I didn't—” He stops, starts again. “The reason I can do that…” He gestures to me.

“Heal,” I say.

He nods. “Heal. Make you glow.” I blush, and Noah turns his head away. “It's because these aren't just my people. I'm some kind of…” He shakes his head, like even the words are ridiculous. “I'm a healer.” He looks at me. “I'm
the
Healer.”

“What do you mean?”

“Every tribe had a designated healer. The Healer had powers,” he says. “He could commune with nature. He could protect his people. He was responsible for the tribe's survival.” I see the apple from that first night turning from brown to brilliant red.

My hands feel cold, and I realize the chill in the air has come back full force. Whatever heat Noah's body lent me is fading fast.

“I'm a part of that lineage.” He runs his hands over his face. “An important part they have been missing. The reason there have been droughts and population decline and why everyone is starving, is because I haven't been here.”

“Your dad,” I say.

Noah swallows. “They've been without help for a long time.”

“You're the only one?”

“Pretty pathetic, huh?” Noah snorts. I want to reach over and touch him, but I'm afraid he'll push me away. “I can't do anything,” he says.

I look at my arm. I remember the gold light there, how his fingers trailed shooting stars.

“Yes, you can,” I whisper. “You saved my life. You said yourself there are more fish now. There was rain.…”

He looks at me, and I see his eyes soften. “I almost killed you.”

“I would have died if you didn't do what you did.”

But Noah just shakes his head. “The island…” He drops his eyes to the floor. “It doesn't want us together.” He slumps to the floor, his elbows flopping over his knees. “The fire. You getting sick. It's trying to keep us apart.”

I feel like laughing. This is so ridiculous, all of it. “Why?”

“Because the closer I am to you the less I want to…help them.”

I sit down in front of him. I don't know what to say. I want to say it's not fair, not at all, but instead what comes out is, “I'm sorry.”

In the next moment he plucks my hand from my lap and brings it to his lips. He kisses my fingertips. I feel my body start to vibrate, like his hands carry an electric current that is sending sparks straight to my heart.

“You have no idea,” he says. For a moment I think he's going to pull me to him, that he's going to say he doesn't care, but he just lets go of my hand. “I have to figure out what this means. I can't risk putting you in danger.”

I open my mouth to say something, protest further, but before I can, he's stood up. “Get some sleep,” he says. “The roof is fixed.” He smiles at me, but it's small, sad. “I'll be right here.”

I turn, walk back into the bedroom, and climb into bed. I can't sleep, though. I just toss and turn thinking about Noah in the other room. How a few hours ago he was here, with me, and now we're further from each other than we ever have been before. And for the first time since we got here, I feel 100 percent completely and positively alone.

I wake up early, before sunrise. Or I should say, I give up on sleeping then. I creep out of the room and look down the hall—Noah is in a corner, curled up, sleeping soundly. I walk past the kitchen, onto the balcony. The sun sets in this direction, so I know I won't see it rise. I've learned that the sun rises in the east, and I know that we're facing west. What are we looking at? What is here that we can't see? And then: How close is the shore?

I drop my legs over the ledge of the balcony, let my feet dangle. The blanket I left last night is almost completely dry, and I pull it off the rail and slide it around me. I look down to the beach. The light is only beginning to sneak into the day, and everything is so still, so quiet. So incredibly beautiful.

“Why don't you want me here?” I whisper, but there is no answer. The trees rustle slightly in the wind. The waves continue to come—slow, steady, eternal.

I think about everything beyond the horizon. Maggie. Ed. If they're even still alive. And what if they did survive? What if they were rescued unharmed? What do they think now? Are they still looking with crews in the sea? Are they still trying to find my body floating among the pieces of metal?

Thinking about Maggie is almost too much to bear. If she's alive, I've left her alone with Dad. What will she do? Who will she go to when she meets a boy? When she falls in love? Who will hug her when she gets an A or has a bad dream? Dad isn't like that. She doesn't deserve this. She doesn't deserve to be alone.

I hear the door open and footsteps on the deck. I know Noah is standing behind me, but I don't turn around. I'm suddenly angry—it's irrational, but he saved me, he brought me here. And now he's leaving me alone on this island. He's leaving me alone even though he's right here with me.

He clears his throat. “Hey,” he says. “You're up early.”

“I couldn't sleep,” I say. The sun is coming up now. Things are beginning to be illuminated around us.

He comes to sit down. I feel him next to me and close my eyes against the memory of last night—his lips on my neck, his chest pressed up against mine.

“I'm sorry,” he says. “There are just some things I have to figure out.”

“Yeah,” I say. I hug my knees into my chest. “I got that part.”

He puts a hand on my shoulder, but I shake him off. “Don't,” I say.

“What's wrong?”

“What's
wrong
?” I turn to face him. “You're not serious, right?”

He holds his gaze to mine. “August, I can't hurt you.”

“You don't get it,” I say. I swing my legs around. I stand up. “This is hurting me. Your leaving is hurting me.”

Noah stands. He puts a hand gently on my jaw and tilts my face up so I have no choice but to look into his eyes—liquid. Warm. I want to fall into them and stay there forever. “I'm right here,” he says.

My eyes well up. I can feel the tears begin to fall—hot and salty as they skim down my cheeks. “No, you're not,” I say. I'm crying now. The sobs get stronger, until I'm shaking. Noah wraps his arms around me, and I fold into him.

“It's okay,” he keeps saying. “I promise I'll get us home.” But I know now, for the first time since we got on this island, that they are just words. He can't. He's right: He doesn't have the power.

I cry until there are no more tears left, and then I wipe my eyes, go inside, and begin forever.

Alone.