Journey

The Sarawak jungle steamed with the day’s last fever, all of it condensing against the cheap glass panes of the river shack. Inside, Skye stretched out on the simple bamboo framed bed Bman had made himself, sticky with sweat and a little sunburned, a lizard in human form basting herself in the gold of late afternoon. Her singlet, once white, clung to her in patches, sweat tracing curves in defiance of modesty, and the thin cotton of her shorts hugged the sharpness of her hipbones. Her hair, too long and heavy for the equator, fanned damply behind her as she let her fingers trace the irregularities of the bed head: splinters, dry saps, a single ant scaling the terrain as if she, too, was prey worth conquering.

The river ran slow, brown and thick, just feet from her prone body. Even now, Skye heard the yawning bellow of distant hornbills and the slow lap of water against the pilings, as if nature itself was trying to lull her into a forgetful trance. She wanted to let it work, wanted to give in to the ambient seduction of heat and wet, but her skin remembered touch too well. The friction of air alone was never enough.

She thought of Bman and her body tensed instinctively, the memory of him not a memory so much as a provocation. He was somewhere up in the loft, she assumed—she’d caught the ragged ends of his voice on a satellite call hours ago, low and private and punctuated by the kind of silences that filled her with wild speculation. He’d said nothing to her since returning, no casual brush of his hand, no “hey Skye” with that little rill of affection she pretended not to notice. Last night just after dusk at the jetty he had not said a word. The longboat captain had cut the engine and she’d barely had time to find her footing on the dock before Bman’s hands closed around her waist and lifted her, just lifted her, as if she weighed nothing, as if he had been rehearsing it. She remembered the captain’s face going carefully blank, the way a man looks when he has decided not to see something. She had said his name once, and he had said nothing back. She wondered if he was punishing her for her arrogance—and then wondered if she was only calling it arrogance because the alternative, that she had simply miscalculated, was worse. Or maybe there was no punishment. Maybe he was just a man who had learned to wait, and she was the one who couldn’t.

A creak nearby told her he was moving now, careful with his weight so as not to wake her. She kept her eyes shut and let him think it was working. The night came back without invitation: the low light, the heat of it compounding the jungle’s own, the moment she had stopped being careful and started being something else entirely. She had never made sounds like that before. She hadn’t known she could. The feather found her stomach and she let it trace a slow line up her ribs before twisting away and grabbing for it. “Stop—“ she managed, breathless, “—enough.” Every muscle in her body ached in a way that made her want to stay exactly where she was forever. She stretched her arms above her head anyway, arching her back, and opened her eyes.

“Morning, beautiful. Your coffee is ready.”

She rolled over, letting one leg dangle off the edge of the bed, and looked up through the mozzie net to see him framed against the darkening sky. He was ten years older than her and it showed in the right ways—the authority in his posture, the ease of a man who had long since stopped needing to prove anything with his body. He wore nothing but the sarong she’d bought him in Kuching now battered, the waistband riding low, and his chest carried just enough hair to fist in one hand. His skin held the faint, even warmth of years spent outdoors—not weathered, not leathered, just kissed by it, the way a thing is changed by long exposure to something it loves. He made no apology for it. He was, in all things, a man who met his own discomfort without complaint—except, perhaps, for the discomfort she provided.

“You’re a mess,” he said, crouching to her level. The words should have been a jab, but the way he said it was almost reverent. He touched her face, dragging his thumb along her cheekbone to chase a bead of sweat.

“Better than dead,” she said. “Besides, you love me a mess.”

He let the moment hang, thumb still against her skin. “You only have half the idea Skye.”“Better than dead,” she said. “Besides, you love me a mess.”

He let the moment hang, thumb still against her skin. He glanced once at the sheets, then back at her, a wry smile forming. “You have only about half the idea, Skye.“”

She shivered, the involuntary goose pimples raising themselves in defiance of the stifling heat. She’d never been able to help it—any hint of intent from him, no matter how subtle, sent her biology spiraling. Maybe he knew, maybe he didn’t. Maybe it was the one thing he still held over her.

She propped herself on her elbows, pushing her chin out like an offering. “Thought you were working.”

He shrugged. “Satellite’s down. Rain took out the relays again.” The corner of his mouth quirked. “You don’t care about the work.”

It wasn’t true, but she let it ride. “What do I care about, then?”

He let his hand drop to her neck, thumb tracing the fragile line of her throat. “This,” he said. “The way you look at me when you think I’m not paying attention. The way you bite your tongue until it bleeds, just so you can say you didn’t break first.”

She could have laughed it off, could have played at not caring. But he was too close, and the air between them buzzed with the static of months of compressed wanting. “You’re going to have to do better than that,” she said, lips barely moving.

His fingers slipped behind her ear, pulling her closer, not hard, just insistent. “Am I?”

She waited for him to kiss her, waited for that beautiful surrender, but he just looked at her, eyes hooded, breath even. The moment stretched, then snapped; he stood, pulling her up with him, hand locked around her wrist.

“C’mon,” he said. “We need to bathe.”

She laughed, a sharp, feral thing. “Together?”

“Always.” He didn’t let go as he led her to the deck, their steps in unison, his grip a casual claim. The river, tepid and opaline in the evening light, waited below, patient and unjudging.

She let him lead. She always did, in the end.