“How can you love me?” I whispered. I'm not even sure why I asked. You wouldn't have gone to such great lengths to take me away from my home and family if you weren't convinced that you loved me or needed me in some distorted way.

At least now I was fairly certain that you weren't going to kill me, after you'd gone to so much trouble to get me here. But I still felt compelled to ask, “How do I know you're not going to kill me or torture me or rape me?”

You sat there for a long time, looking like you were deep in thought. And then finally you said, "I won't. I promised I wouldn't hurt you." I kept looking at you, expecting more of an answer than that. And then you said, "Can you just trust me?"

“How do you expect me to trust you? You followed me, spied on me and then you kidnapped me. That's not a great start."

“Have I ever hurt you? Or even tried to hurt you?” You reasoned.

“Yes, you have hurt me. Not physically, but this hurts,” I said, gesturing to my surroundings. “Being here without my family and friends.”

You continued to look at me with a blank expression.

“I don't want to be here, Zayn. You're hurting me by keeping me against my will.”

You gave the slightest nod. Maybe you had built me up in your mind, thinking I would be eternally grateful to you for “rescuing” me from my pathetic life. Maybe you assumed that I would just fall instantly in love with you. But, in that moment, it looked like you were beginning to comprehend the gravity of your mistakes.

“How long were you planning to keep me out here? Until you could brainwash me? Until I fell in love with you?”

“I hoped you'd want to stay...you know, forever,” you said, looking down at your fingers.

“That's not realistic. I can't live up here. And you can't just force me to love you.” I don't know why, but I was trying to choose my words carefully because I didn't want them to hurt you.

“I know,” you admitted.

Wow, that was easy. I was already making progress.

I took a deep breath and then I asked. “So, will you take me home?”

“I can't,” you said.

“Why not?” I swallowed hard and blinked back the tears.

“Because there's no way out.”

You were always so cryptic with your answers, so I decided not to press the issue. Instead, I tried to turn it around, to seem more willing, to compromise.

“I have a proposal,” I said.

You looked at me hopefully.

“I will stay with you willingly until our supplies run low.” I didn't really know what I was getting myself into because I had no idea how long our supplies would last. “But on two conditions.”

“Anything, love.”

“The next time you fly out of here, you take me home. And, you let me read the rest of your journal.”

“That sounds fair,” you said. And you smiled for the first time in days. I absolutely loved your smile. Despite everything you'd done to me, I still couldn't deny that you were extremely attractive.

I had to just force myself to accept the fact that there was nothing I could do about my family's grief for the time being. I would just have to explain it all when I saw them again. But, to be honest, I was beginning to think of this as an adventure. I didn't really want you to know that, but I loved the outdoors, and I thought it would be a challenging, in an enjoyable sort of way, to live this rustic life you had carved out for a while.

“Would you like some food? I'll fry up the fish I caught this morning,” you offered.

I then realized that I was famished. I gladly accepted the offer of food, but I decided to take a shower while you cooked the fish.

I turned on the shower and undressed in the bathroom, shivering until the heat from the water made everything warmer. When I stepped inside, I laughed to think about the last time I was in there. I never would have thought I'd be staying long enough to take another shower.

After my shower, I enjoyed the fish that you'd prepared. You were actually quite a good cook. But, again, I didn't want to give you the satisfaction of knowing that.

The next day, after we had eaten breakfast and cleaned up the food, I retrieved the journal from the loft and sat down by the fire to read.

June 18, 2011

I wonder what you're doing now, my love. It's summer and you're not in school. Do you spend the whole summer traveling the world with your parents?

You're so exquisite, I wouldn't doubt that you've caught the eye of every boy in every locale. I hope that none of them has malevolent intentions toward you. You are a delicate flower and you deserve the care of someone who will shield you from harsh wind and driving rain.

My grandfather has fallen ill and I must attend to his health before I can come to you. He is all I have left.

Besides you.

June 22, 2011

O my Luve's like a red, red rose,

That's newly sprung in June:

O my Luve's like the melodie

That's sweetly play'd in tune. 

As fair art thou, my bonnie lass,

So deep in luve am I;

And I will luve thee still, my dear,

Till a' the seas gang dry. 

Till a' the seas gang dry, my dear,

And the rocks melt wi' the sun;

And I will luve thee, still, my dear

While the sands o' life shall run. 

And fare-thee-weel, my only Luve!

And fare-thee-wee, a while!

And I will come again, my Luve,

Tho' 'twere ten thousand mile!

I had to admit to myself that, even though your devotion to me was creepy, I loved the fact that you enjoyed poetry.

June 30, 2011

My grandfather is dying. I bore the pain of my parents' death alone. Grandfather never knew the horrors of of their passing. And now I will bear the pain of his death alone, too. He has a hospice nurse caring for him now, and it's only a matter of time.

When he's gone, I will sell the house. There's nothing here for me.

I comfort myself with thoughts of finding you. I found your address. I sent you a postcard with a sailboat on it to remind you of Leigh-on-Sea. I hope you're not afraid of me. I promise I will never hurt you.

I remembered the postcard. It had arrived on a day when I felt particularly nostalgic for England, about halfway through the summer. I thought that maybe the hotel staff had sent it, as a thank you for having stayed there. I thought it kind of odd that it was addressed to me and not my whole family, but I didn't dwell on it. I had eventually thrown it away, preferring to browse the pictures I had actually taken at Leigh-on-Sea instead of looking at a generic postcard.

July 17, 2011

My grandfather is gone. He died on July 4, your Independence Day. I had a small funeral for him. Some of his friends attended and that comforted me. We have distant relatives in the north of England. I didn't even let them know. They hadn't come when my parents died, so I assumed they wouldn't come for my grandfather.

I feel so empty, River. So empty. My grandfather wasn't truly here when he was alive, but when I sat next to him and felt his warmth, I felt like I still had a family. Now he's gone and it's so cold, even though it's summer. But when I think of your golden hair and your delightful smile, I feel warm inside. I can imagine your smile would keep me warm in any climate.

I miss you.

I felt sad for you when I read how alone you were. It reminded me of how alone I felt when my grandma died. I think I even felt a tear or two sting my eyes, but I wiped them away quickly, not wanting you to notice that something in your journal had moved me to tears.

I read for hours about how you sold your family's home and made arrangements to come to the United States to find me. It began to feel like I was reading a fascinating novel instead of reading the accounts of a person who kidnapped me. And I had to admit that I was flattered by your descriptions of my beauty. 

The light in the cabin was dwindling, so I knew it was near dusk. I realized that I hadn't actually heard you or seen you in several hours. I got up to switch on some lights and then went to use the bathroom. I pushed the door open and I was startled to see you standing there with your shirt off and the first aid box perched on the sink.

My first instinct was to avert my eyes, but I couldn't tear them away from your hard and tight muscles or the fact that there were several large bruises scattered over your torso. There were two particularly prominent bruises - large and purplish-brown - between your pecs and your shoulders. Right where my fists had hit you repeatedly.

When you turned toward me, I caught sight of another long bruise in the mirror - it was angled across your back. It was a wide, deep purple strip with yellows and browns fanning out from either side of it. 

“Did I do that?” I asked in a shocked whisper.

You looked at me like you didn't want to tell me the answer, but I already knew.

“Do you need any help?” I asked.

“Can you help me replace my bandage?” You asked, motioning to a gauze strip high up on your back near your neck. I nodded, feeling a little awkward about having to touch you. But I complied and I gently pulled the existing bandage away and I was faced with an ugly red laceration about three inches in length. I gasped at the sight of it, because the warm red skin around it and the white pus forming in the center of the cut told me that it was infected.

“How did this happen?” I asked, gulping back a sick feeling in my throat. I was never very good around blood.

“Umm,” you hesitated. “When you pushed me, there was a nail sticking out of the door frame.”

“I'm sorry,” I whispered. I didn't want to say that, but it was a knee-jerk reaction. I had never hit anyone in my life, so seeing the damage I did to you was shocking. I couldn't prevent myself from saying it again. “I'm so sorry.” And then I dissolved into tears.

You turned and pulled me into a warm and very masculine-scented hug. “It's okay, love. I guess I deserved it.” My face was pressed against your bare skin, and my arms slipped around your waist as you continued to hold me. Your skin felt so smooth and warm under my hands. I moved them slowly over your muscles, in spite of myself. You smelled so good, I didn't want to let go, but I forced myself to pull away.

“You need to let me clean that up,” I told you. “It's infected.”

I dug through the first aid box and pulled out a bottle of peroxide. I soaked a cotton ball with peroxide and started to dab it along the length of the cut.

You sucked your breath in sharply, so I knew it hurt. Funny, because I had wanted to kill you a few days ago, and now I actually wanted to help you. I still didn't agree with what you had done, but I didn't want you to be in pain.

“I'm sorry,” I whispered. “I know it hurts.”

I kept blotting the peroxide along the cut until it looked like most of the pus had been cleaned out. Then I spread some of the antibacterial cream around the cut. I didn't want to put any directly into the cut, so I also spread some on the gauze. Then I realized I could finally ask about a pair of scissors.

“Do you have anything I can use to cut the gauze?” I asked.

You dug into the pocket of your jeans and pulled out an impressive Swiss Army Knife. You opened it and pulled out a miniature pair of scissors. I grabbed them from you, snipping the gauze. Then I bandaged the wound, sealing it with first aid tape. Before I announced that I was finished, I let my eyes wander over your back, noting how muscular you were. You weren't a particularly large man, but now I could understand why you were so strong.

“Do you have any knives?” I asked.

You chuckled a little bit and then asked, “Why, do you want to stab me?”

“I did a few days ago,” I admitted. “I just wondered why you don't have anything sharp because I looked everywhere for a pair of scissors or a knife when I was bandaging my feet. How can you survive out here with only a pocket knife?”

“I have some knives and other things outside.”

“Outside?” I asked. That seemed odd.

“There's a small closet that opens to the outside of the house. I keep all my tools out there.”

“So you keep your cooking knives out there, too?”

“Well, to be honest, I thought you might actually try to hurt me when I first brought you out here. So I hid everything dangerous out there.” You sounded embarrassed.

“Do you have a gun?” I asked.

You nodded.

“How do you know I won't try to hurt you now?” I asked with a little smirk. If I didn't know better, I would think I was actually flirting.

“I guess I have to trust you,” you said, and you smiled wide, making your eyes sparkle. Then you pulled on your shirt and we left the bathroom.

I felt fairly certain that your cut would heal if it was kept clean and bandaged. But it made me think. "Zayn, what would you do if there was an emergency out here?"

"What do you mean?" You asked.

"An emergency, like that cut turning into an infection that needed antibiotics. Or needing stitches. Or what if one of us became deathly ill?"

You stood there and bit your lip, like you hadn't actually thought it through.

"Where is the plane?" I demanded.

"It's not here," you deadpanned.

"Tell me what I want to know!" I screamed in frustration, getting so tired of your short answers.

"I've arranged for the pilot to come back in six months' time."

"Six months?!" I yelled. "What the hell were you thinking?!" That was a stupid question - you obviously weren't thinking through all the possibilities.

"I wanted you to give this a chance."

"But what if something happened to you? Or to me? Do you have a backup plan?"

You nodded slowly and I was about to ask what it was because you were so stingy with your answers, but then you said, "I have a satellite phone."

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The picture on the side is River, the way Zayn remembered her while he was writing in his journal.