Chapter 34 January 16th The office hums with energy as I step through the glass doors of Adrenaline Junkie four days after getting home, my face still bearded and my stride undeniably different. The open floor plan is alive with chatter, phones are ringing, and the occasional burst of laughter from one of the creative teams reminds me of what a fun environment I've managed to build with my own blood, sweat, and tears. It's good to be back. Truly. But I'd be lying if I said my whole point of view isn't directed through an entirely different lens. Prior to all this shit, I saw Adrenaline Junkie as a freedom-seeking, good-time-having company. We were about the thrill and the chase, but I know now, with renewed energy and a new vision, we could be so much more. A tool for survival. A center for learning and preparedness. A partner in both good and bad and for every situation in between. On my way in, I had to bypass a small army of journalists and paparazzi camped outside the building, waiting for my arrival. In reality, they're a large part of why I'm still sporting the beard. It's a camouflage or a shield of sorts, and a comfort when I start to think I'm emotionally overreacting to what we went through. That didn't stop their cameras, though. They flashed like fireworks, questions being shouted at me from every angle. "Henry, can you tell us about the island?" "What was it like surviving for thirteen days?" "Did you think you were going to die?" I'm hoping all the fanfare will end soon, but I'm not naïve enough to think it'll be instantaneous. The headline is too good, the sensationalism too powerful. By the time I make it to my office in the back corner of the building, I've been stopped and flagged by every employee, slapped on the shoulder at least twenty times, and pulled into a hug by at least five people I wasn't expecting. It's overwhelming, if touching, and when I close the glass door, my skin itches with discomfort. It's not the attention in general I don't like-but the attention and scrutiny on this particular set of life-changing weeks with a woman I'm now dating without anyone knowing that I could do without. The glass walls of my office don't offer much privacy, but at least I can shut the door and pretend the world doesn't exist for a little while. Unfortunately for me, Cara, my assistant, is already hot on my heels, striding into my office behind me with a stack of folders in one hand and her tablet in the other. "Good morning, boss," she says, stopping at the edge of my desk. When her eyes meet mine, I note how her mouth is slightly turned down at the corners. "I heard from Mario's family. They're going to be doing a memorial for him on Sunday." Instantly, my chest tightens with a poignant combination of sadness, grief, and guilt. It's hard to wrap my head around the fact that Avery and I survived but Mario didn't. "Do you think I can attend? Pay my respects?" "I know for a fact they would like that." She nods. "One of his sisters already sent me the information. Address is only about thirty minutes from downtown Miami. Just on the outskirts of Fort Lauderdale." I didn't know Mario well, but from what Cara has been able to find out for me since Avery and I got rescued, he was a single guy in his early sixties with two sisters who loved him dearly and several nieces and nephews who adored him. I know the Coast Guard is still technically trying to find our plane and Mario's remains, but the odds of their being able to achieve that are slim at best. Which, I can't imagine, is an easy thing for his family to face. "Find out if there's anything I can do to help his family," I tell Cara and she's already making a note on her iPad. "On it." And while she's still tapping her fingers across the screen of her tablet, she drops the stack of folders in her other hand onto my desk. I swear, she must have an extra arm somewhere. Either that or she's a goddamn wonder of the world how she can multitask a million things at once. "By the way, you have three meetings this afternoon. One with the production team about the new commercial, one with the finance department about quarterly projections, and one with-" she glances at her tablet "-some new investors. Oh, and by the way, several journalists are still requesting interviews about 'the island survivors.'" "Defer all the interviews," I say, already done with these fucking journalists. I'm not telling them jack shit about what happened on that island with Avery. "Tell them I'm busy." Cara's eyes narrow, and she plants a hand on her hip. "You're always busy." "Yes. I am. So, maybe just keep that in mind for future meeting and interview requests," I reply with a grin. She huffs. "And here I thought you'd be a changed man after surviving off coconuts for thirteen days." "Technically, it was breadfruit." I laugh, leaning back in my chair. "And sorry to disappoint, Cara, but I'm still me. Though, I'll be at all my meetings today. Promise." "Fine." She rolls her eyes but heads for the door. "But I've got my eyes on you. If you try to go MIA for any of those meetings, I'll come in here and drag you out myself." "Noted," I call after her. Most people might be annoyed with how bossy Cara is, but I know better. She's been with me for over three years, and I'd be lost without her. As the door clicks shut behind her, I make a mental note to talk to HR about giving her another raise and scribble down a few notes I want to make sure to bring up to the team about expanding our potential to include more than a regular adrenaline fix. I turn to my computer, but instead of diving into the flagged emails Cara left for me, I open my phone and pull up a popular celebrity gossip site. Sure enough, my face is plastered all over the fucking home page. A photo of me walking into the office this morning, looking pissed off and ignoring the cameras. But what catches my eye the most is another photo farther down the page-of Avery. She's heading into Banks & McKenzie, her dad's marketing firm. She's smiling and waving at the cameras, her attire looking nothing less than effortless, tanned, and completely, fashionably put together once again. I don't miss the fact that it's noted within the short article that she declined any questions or comments, though, and for as insignificant as that may seem, it brings a smile to my lips. Maybe we're both feeling covetous over what happened on the island. Immediately, I find myself switching over to my messages, and I type out a quick one to the one woman I can't get off my mind. Me: I see my fellow "Island Survivor" is also declining to answer questions from these fucking journalist hounds. Avery: My lips are sealed, Henry. They can fuck right off because I'm not telling them anything. It's none of their business. Her words settle something deep inside my chest. There's just something that puts me at complete peace knowing she feels the same as I do. That she wants to keep everything that happened on the island just between us. Avery: Though, I don't mind them taking pictures of me. I mean, it does the bitches in Miami good to see what true fashion looks like. I laugh. I can't help it. Only Avery would say shit like this. But then my laughter fades as my brain connects the dots between the island and the information Cara gave me about Mario. Me: My assistant got in touch with Mario's family. There's going to be a memorial service for him on Sunday. It's only a half hour away from us. You want to go? Avery: Is that even a question? Of course I do. Me: Good. We can go together, then. Avery: Is it just me or...whenever you think of Mario...do you feel guilty in some way? Me: Because we got to come home and he didn't? Avery: Yes. Me: Yeah, I definitely feel that. The psychologist who came in to check on me at the hospital said it was common. He called it survivor's guilt. Avery: Mine said the same thing. When I let myself really think about it, it just feels so fucking sad. I feel like I'm compartmentalizing it all most days. Before I can even respond, another message comes through. Avery: Now, hurry up and change the subject. I don't have waterproof mascara on today. To an outsider, to someone who didn't go through what Avery and I did, they might think it's cold or callous. But I get it. And I also have a quick trigger when it comes to conversation. Me: What are you wearing? It's clichéd as fuck, but I know it'll do the trick. Plus, for as much as I could give a fuck about clothes, she loves them. And since I'm not some dusty, fucking crusty pussy, her interests are now my interests. Avery: Pretty sure you already saw this when you were stalking my paparazzi photos but...Dior Ecru jeans. Gucci white tank. Yves Saint Laurent pumps. Very "old money" take on sophisticated but casual. I shake my head, a grin pulling at my lips. That's Avery, all right. Me: That's nice, honey. But if I'm not mistaken, you forgot to include your panties... What about those? Avery: You saw my panties when I left your apartment for work this morning. My grin widens, my mind flashing back to this morning, waking up with her in my bed, her warm body pressed against mine. We didn't waste any time before tangling ourselves back up together-twice. I'm convinced there's not a single better way to start my day. Me: I think you should take your lunch now and come to my office and show me your panties again. Avery: I don't know. I'm very busy today, Henry. Me: Yeah? Planning on doing actual work today over there at Banks & McKenzie? Avery: Ha. No. I'm not busy at all. I can be there in an hour. A laugh jumps from my lungs. Me: An hour? Avery: I can't leave in the middle of my mani/pedi. I have the strongest sensation I have no fucking clue what I'm getting myself into with this woman, and yet...I like it. I don't think I'll ever know what to expect, and for an adrenaline junkie like me, there's nothing more exciting. Me: See you in an hour. Avery: An hour. But get your tongue ready, okay? My pussy's feeling greedy. Fuck me. Yep. I'm never going to know what to expect.