Tears trickled down my cheeks. “Let it go, Galloway. My answer is no. And it’s final. I’ll be your friend. But that’s all I can offer you.”

I couldn’t stay for the repercussions.

Clutching my notebook, I ran.

.............................

I didn’t run to my hidden patch of bamboo. I didn’t run to the beach to write by moonlight. I swam with guilt, overrun by emotions that wouldn’t stay imprisoned in mere words. Instead, I bolted into the woods, into the green maze that could give us so much more than what we let it.

With tears running down my cheeks, I found the bush I’d marked XI.

I looked over my shoulder.

I cursed myself for denying what I wanted, refusing Galloway, running away from whatever happiness we might’ve had—all because I was too afraid.

I was weak. I wasn’t worthy.

I had to make up for what I’d done.

And this was the only way I could think of.

With shaking hands, I tore off a leaf and stuffed it into my mouth. I should’ve taken the tiniest of bites. Let my system solve the question if it was edible.

But I didn’t.

I couldn’t give him my heart, but I could keep him alive.

I couldn’t sleep with him, but I could give him something to eat.

I disobeyed his commands not to be reckless. I willingly went behind his back because I had no choice.

I’d just broken something good between us.

The least I could do was try to fix it.

I chewed the leaf and swallowed.

The bitter taste lingered on my tongue, warning me I wasn’t used to the flavour.

My body wasn’t savvy on the nutritional value of such a thing.

It could backfire. It could be painful. It could hurt.

It doesn’t matter.

Tearing off another, I ate quickly.

I ate another.

And then three more, ensuring my system had no choice but to accept the foreign food or expel it.

Either way—be it sickness or good health—I’d done what I could to make up for the worst decision of my life.

I’d said no to Galloway. No to him looking after me. No to hugs and kisses and love.

I’d walked away from him and eaten what he’d told me not to.

He would hate me now.

And I’d live with the consequences.

Alone.

Chapter Thirty

...............................................

G A L L O W A Y

......

WHAT THE HELL?

What the ever living goddamn hell?

I let her go.

I’d fought for her. I’d asked her to reconsider. And she’d shot me down. I wouldn’t chase after her like a damn Labrador. I’d tried to win her and failed. That was as far as I was willing to go in terms of handing over my balls to a woman who was so damn contrary she didn’t know what she wanted.

She wanted me as a friend?

Fine.

I’d be her friend. I’d be her acquaintance. I’d be nice when spoken to. I’d be courteous when dealt with. But besides that, forget it.

I’d had some stupid notion that Estelle would accept me. That she’d ignore my mistakes and flaws because of who she saw inside. I’d hoped I could finally find peace knowing whoever I’d been before no longer mattered because Estelle made me better.

But I was wrong.

She knew.

She could tell.

She’d guessed I was no good. Someone not to fall for. Definitely not someone to get physical with.

She’d seen I was bad news. And I couldn’t bloody blame her for running.

That’s it, then.

No matter how long we lived on this island, at least, I knew my place.

I was her friend.

I would protect her, care for her, tend to her needs, and do my best for the kids and our future.

But anything else, I couldn’t do.

As of right now, every desire and trickle of lust would be shot down and destroyed.

I refused to live a life trapped in paradise with a woman who didn’t want me.

My heart couldn’t take it.

My body couldn’t stand it.

The hope I’d stupidly clutched onto was dead.

Chapter Thirty-One

...............................................

E S T E L L E

......

Love is a complicated entity. Love is the worst affliction imaginable.

I’m no longer myself. Love changed me.

I’m no longer happy. Love ruined me.

I’m no longer alive. Love killed me.

I’m no longer breathing. Love consumed me.

Taken from the notepad of E.E.

...

SEVEN WEEKS

––––––––

I’D COUNTED EVERY minute of every day for two weeks—waiting, expecting, hoping Galloway would lose his courteous kindness and demand a different answer to his question.

But he never did.

My secret about eating the leaves hung on my soul like iron shackles. I wanted to tell him what I’d done. I wanted to share the good news that I’d had no adverse reactions. My digestive system had accepted the island salad, and we might have another source of nutrition.

However, because an experiment had to be conducted over and over to ensure correct results (and because I didn’t trust the first success) I ate it again.

And again.

In between the days of physically eating the leaf, I did four more scratch tests with different foliage. Out of the four, only two had swollen. The allergies had been painful and burned rather than itched. The most recent came from a plant with large, lily-pad like leaves. I’d scratched myself with no reaction, but when I’d eaten the leaf, I’d been violently sick. The sharp tang of bitter iron stayed with me for days, and it was only because of a sudden bout of helpless anger that I attacked the plant, ripped it from the soil, and found the tubular crop below.