Total pages in book: 121
Estimated words: 115198 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 576(@200wpm)___ 461(@250wpm)___ 384(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 115198 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 576(@200wpm)___ 461(@250wpm)___ 384(@300wpm)
“I still feel dread.”
“—but she didn’t close the can first. So, Parmesan cheese is just, like, spraying in these wide arcs over and over out of this canister and throughout the entire apartment. It was like a traveling pinwheel of cheese dust.” She lifts her arm that isn’t hooked through mine and gestures all around. “Cheap cheese, everywhere.”
“Horrible. This is the worst story I’ve ever heard.”
“We had to go to her parents’ house to get a vacuum because I didn’t have one after you left, and it didn’t matter how much we went over the rug, it still smelled so bad.”
“I bet it still smells like dirty socks in there even three years later.”
She laughs. “I bet you’re right.” Anna sighs, resting her head on my shoulder once more.
We sit in silence for a while, just listening to the gentle lapping of waves on the shore.
“You know what sounds amazing right now?” Anna whispers.
“Pizza,” I say.
“Pizza,” she agrees.
* * *
ANNA AND I TIPTOE like bandits from the southwest tip of the island near the bungalows, past Jules Verne, and past the pool complex using the flashlight of my phone to see our path. No mammals live on the island, but the trees are full of waning birdcalls and the odd flapping of wings. Droplets fall from leaf to leaf before landing with a plink on the damp earth. Branches creak and insects click, chirp, and trill; the siren-like call of cicadas pierces the humid air.
The sea greets us as we emerge from the thick foliage of the trail to the northeastern point of the island, where swimming is ill-advised but the most raw, breathtaking views can be found. There’s a small black sand beach in a cove, protected by craggy obsidian cliffs. The tide comes in sideways, breaking foamy and violent and bringing the powerful undertow to a deceptively gentle finish on the shore. Green vines drip from the rock faces, hiding small grottoes and waterfalls. Even in dim light, the vegetation is so lush that it seems to glow.
“How did you even know this was here?” Anna asks, looking at the only structure on this side of the island, a circular teak pavilion, its pitched roof rising out of the darkness. Attached to the back side of it is a small industrial kitchen.
“Dad and I were running over here the other morning. He pointed it out and said this is the beach where they’ll have the ceremony, and the building here is where they’ll have the wedding reception if it rains.”
The door, like every other one on the island, is unlocked, and we slip inside. Darkness swallows us up and I pull my phone from my pocket, turning on the flashlight again. Even through the walls we can hear the ever-present sound of the ocean.
The small banquet room is empty; tables and chairs are stacked neatly against the walls. On the opposite side from where we entered is a span of glass doors that slide open to reveal the views that, right now, just look like blackness outside. But I know from seeing it in daylight that there’s a wide covered patio and, beyond that, the startling black sand beach of the northern tip of Pulau Jingga.
I reach back for Anna’s hand, guiding her after me. “This way.”
“Are we going to get in trouble?” she whispers.
“My mother’s been given free rein of this building. It’s where all the wedding supplies and decor and gifts are being held.”
“Then shouldn’t we turn on the big lights?”
“Where’s the fun in that?”
The kitchen is spotless and stark; our footsteps echo on the tile floor. To the left, there’s a long wall of gas ranges, and in front of us is a stretch of stainless-steel prep counters with a sink at the end of each. At the back of the room are two large walk-in refrigerators and a walk-in freezer. We could certainly order room service and have anything we wanted delivered to our bungalow, but if I’m starting to feel claustrophobic among all the excess, I’m guessing Anna has to be feeling it, too.
“Imagine we get locked in one of those,” Anna says, “and they find us days later, wearing salami and cheese to stay warm.”
“Someone should study your brain,” I say, tugging the freezer door open. A light goes on automatically, illuminating the organized shelves lining three walls.
We take stock of our options, scanning the shelves before striking gold: a tall stack of frozen pizzas. Carefully, we slide a large pepperoni pie from the pile.
Back in the kitchen, Anna hops up on a counter while I crouch to turn an oven on to preheat.
“How did you know how to do that?” she asks.
I stand, brushing off my hands. “How did I know how to turn on an oven?”
She laughs. “A fancy oven. A big-kitchen oven.”