EverHeart

Chapter 11: Island Rules

LUCY

By the end of his first week on Moira, Marco had acquired opinions.

This was unfortunate.

“You can't leave bread in the refrigerator.”

“You can.”

“You shouldn't.”

“It lasts longer.”

“It tastes worse.”

“That sounds subjective.”

“It's bread, Lucy. There are standards.”

I looked over my book.

Marco stood in front of the open refrigerator holding the loaf as though I'd personally mistreated it.

Morning light filled the kitchen. Rain had passed before dawn, leaving the shutters damp and the garden aggressively green.

“Put it back.”

“No.”

“Marco.”

“I'm saving it.”

“From refrigeration?”

“From you.”

He moved the bread to the cupboard.

I lowered my book.

“That cupboard sticks.”

“I fixed it.”

“When?”

“Yesterday.”

I got up and tried the door.

It opened smoothly.

I stared at it.

Marco poured coffee.

“That expression is very rewarding.”

“You're becoming irritating.”

“Becoming?”

He put my cup beside my book.

Black.

No sugar.

Cool enough that I didn't have to wait before drinking it.

I looked at the coffee.

Then at him.

He smiled.

I drank it.

Marco took that as victory.

---

There were rules to living on Moira.

Some were written.

Most were not.

You returned glass bottles.

You did not buy mangoes from the harbor stall on Mondays because the good shipment arrived Tuesday morning.

You greeted Mrs. Alvarez even if you were late.

You did not step over the old harbor ward-stones while they were being renewed, even if going around meant crossing the street.

You did not ask Nico to repair anything involving wiring.

You accepted food from Mrs. Laurent because refusing only resulted in receiving more later.

And if rain began while the sun was still shining, you brought the laundry inside before doing anything else.

Marco learned the last rule at approximately two in the afternoon.

“Laundry!”

I looked up from the sofa.

He was already running.

Rain hammered the roof a second later.

By the time I reached the back door, Marco was in the yard pulling shirts from the line while warm rain came down in sheets.

“Basket!” he shouted.

I picked it up.

“You could bring the line in.”

“What?”

“The line!”

He looked at it.

Then me.

Then unhooked the entire thing.

Wet clothes collapsed onto his head.

I laughed.

Marco emerged from beneath one of my shirts.

“You knew that would happen.”

“I suspected.”

“You could've warned me.”

“You were very confident.”

“That is not a reason.”

“It was educational.”

He dragged the line beneath the awning, soaked through.

I handed him the basket.

He stared at me.

“You're dry.”

“Yes.”

“That bothers me.”

“You ran outside before thinking.”

“There was an emergency.”

“It was laundry.”

“Our laundry.”

The words slipped past both of us.

Marco seemed not to notice.

I did.

He bent for a towel.

I reached for the other end.

He looked up.

“What?”

“Nothing.”

“That's your suspicious nothing.”

“You have categories now?”

“I have several.”

“That seems like a poor use of your time.”

“I have no job.”

I took the towel.

“You have laundry.”

“Cruel.”

Thunder rolled over the hills.

We worked beneath the awning while the rain turned the garden silver.

---

By four, the storm had disappeared.

Moira steamed.

We walked into town because Marco claimed the rain had made him hungry.

I informed him the rain had nothing to do with it.

He agreed.

At the bakery, the woman behind the counter smiled when we entered.

“Marco.”

He put a hand to his chest.

“She remembers me.”

“You've been here four times.”

“Still.”

The baker pointed toward a fresh tray.

Marco's entire expression changed.

“No,” I said.

“You don't even know what I'm looking at.”

“Yes, I do.”

“Lucy.”

“We have food at home.”

“That isn't the same as pastry.”

“You ate an hour ago.”

“That isn't the same as now.”

The baker laughed.

Marco ordered two.

I paid.

He noticed.

“I could've—”

“With what?”

His mouth closed.

The pleasure vanished quickly enough that I regretted saying it.

I handed him the bag.

“Carry them.”

He took it.

We made it half a block before he spoke.

“I hate that.”

“I know.”

“I don't even have enough money to buy you a pastry.”

“You don't need to buy me pastries.”

“You buy me things.”

“You currently have nothing.”

“Exactly.”

One hand disappeared into his pocket.

The dependence.

We had already discussed it.

Apparently discussing a wound once did not make it disappear.

Annoying.

“You fixed my cupboard.”

Marco glanced at me.

“And the tap.”

“It was leaking.”

“The shutter.”

“Broken.”

“You cook.”

“You'd survive without me.”

“Probably.”

“Lucy.”

“You do the laundry.”

“Badly.”

“Improving.”

His mouth twitched.

“You've also carried approximately your body weight in groceries.”

“Because I eat approximately my body weight in groceries.”

“Still counts.”

He went quiet.

Then held out the paper bag.

“What?”

“One is yours.”

“I thought they were both yours.”

“They were.”

I took it.

“Payment?”

“No.”

“Good.”

He bit into his pastry.

“Because mine was more expensive.”

I stopped.

Marco kept walking.

Then looked back.

“What?”

“You're terrible.”

His grin returned.

Better.

I caught up.

---

We found Cami near the harbor collecting strangers.

There was no other reasonable description for it.

Two tourists sat with her on the seawall. Within minutes, Cami knew where they were staying, how long they were on Moira and where one of them was considering moving for work.

When they finally left, Marco stared at her.

“How do you do that?”

“Do what?”

“You know their lives.”

“They told me.”

“You asked.”

“Yes.”

“I've known Lucy a week and still don't know what kind of administrator she is.”

Cami laughed.

I did not.

“Example,” Marco said.

“You ask too many questions.”

“I don't ask enough.”

“That's true,” Cami said.

I looked at her.

She smiled.

Marco sat on the seawall.

“Okay. Island question.”

“No.”

“I haven't asked it.”

“Preventive measure.”

“I'll answer,” Cami said.

“Why does everyone here know everyone?”

“They don't.”

“It feels like they do.”

Cami looked across the harbor.

“Small place. People notice when you're missing.”

Something about that stayed with me.

Marco's gaze moved toward the water.

“And when you're new.”

“That too.”

“Is that why everyone knows me?”

Cami smiled.

“No. Everyone knows you because Lucy found you half-dead on a beach.”

I sighed.

Marco nodded.

“Right. Beach boy.”

“You're never escaping that.”

“I survived the ocean for this.”

“Apparently.”

He laughed.

His shoulders remained loose.

The water didn't seem to bother him today.

I noticed.

I said nothing.

---

Marco took the longer road home.

“You missed the turn.”

“I know.”

“Then why are we going this way?”

He pointed ahead.

“View.”

“You've seen the sea.”

“Not from there.”

I followed.

The road climbed to a low stone wall overlooking Puerto Espera.

Roofs descended toward the harbor in uneven rows. Beyond them, the late sun turned the sea almost white.

Marco leaned against the wall.

For a while, neither of us spoke.

Then—

“I think I'm starting to know this place.”

“You've been here a week.”

“I know.”

“That's not long.”

“No.”

He watched a ferry move toward the harbor.

“I know which bakery sells the good bread.”

“According to you.”

“Objectively.”

“There is no objective bread.”

“That's a terrible thing to say.”

His smile faded slowly.

“I know Cami will show up without warning.”

“Yes.”

“Nico shouldn't touch wiring.”

“Correct.”

“Mrs. Laurent will feed me whether I'm hungry or not.”

“You're always hungry.”

“Not the point.”

He looked toward town.

“I know which floorboard in the hallway makes noise.”

My fingers tightened against the stone.

“Which cupboard sticks.”

“Not anymore.”

“Which side of the bed gets morning sun.”

The guest bed.

He meant the guest bed.

“And how you take your coffee.”

I looked at him.

“These are stupid things,” he said.

“No.”

His gaze shifted to mine.

I'd answered too quickly.

I looked back toward the harbor.

“They're ordinary things.”

“Yeah.”

“That isn't the same as stupid.”

Silence.

Then Marco said, “I like ordinary.”

The breeze moved between us.

Somewhere below, a harbor bell rang.

I understood him.

That was the dangerous part.

Ordinary had a way of becoming precious when you'd spent too long without it.

“There's another island rule.”

He looked interested.

“What?”

“Don't get sentimental before dinner.”

He stared.

“That is not a rule.”

“It is now.”

“Who made you island government?”

“Administration.”

He laughed.

I started downhill.

A second later, his footsteps followed.

“Lucy.”

“What?”

“You know I'm going to find out what kind eventually.”

“No, you aren't.”

“I absolutely am.”

“Good luck.”

“I have time.”

The words came lightly.

Neither of us reacted to them.

Not then.

The road home was still damp from the rain. Cicadas had started in the trees, and somewhere ahead, someone was cooking with garlic.

Marco fell into step beside me.

Not behind.

Not following.

Beside.

I didn't tell him that was another thing I had started knowing.

I didn't make a rule for it either.