"You built it yourself?"

"A little at a time. Lugging supplies over to this place was tough. It took a few years, but I like coming out here, working with my hands, having the time alone."

"How MacGyver of you."

"Mac who?"

"MacGyver. It was my father's favorite show, about a bomb technician who could pretty much fix anything with a paper clip and a Swiss army knife. I bet he could have shown you how to install glass in the windows too."

"What makes you think I didn't leave it out deliberately?"

"True. You never did like glass in the windows," I said, thinking of all the times I had to open mine so he could sneak in.

I knew he was recalling the same thing because he didn't move away when I touched the back of his fingers with mine. It was the closest I could get to holding hands with him.

"Remember the yellow flowers that fell from the trees?" I asked.

"Yes."

I smiled, because the rain had collected on the roof and was seeping through the leaves, falling on our faces with big, fat plops, but we stayed there, not wanting to move, pretending they were wet, sunny blossoms.

"Damian," I said, keeping my eyes closed, "I know I have to go back to that other world, the world you abducted me from. And I don't know what happens between now and then, but this right here-this rain, this shack, this island, this moment-I want it to go on forever."

Damian didn't reply, but he moved his fingers away. It was okay though. In fact, it was more than okay, because Damian Caballero was struggling with the one thing that scared the hell out of him. Me.

"READY?" ASKED DAMIAN.

"Are you sure it's safe?" I folded the list of supplies we needed and adjusted my sunglasses.

"It's a touristy town, busy streets, tons of people. I have a beard. Your hair is different. We don't look anything like our photos. No one will notice." Damian slipped on his baseball cap. SD.

So Damnfine Rafael's plan had worked. Finding Damian's discarded phone in Caboras had thrown the search off, but they were running out of leads and the trail was turning cold. It wouldn't be long before they backtracked, but for now, we were okay.

"Don't forget this." Damian handed me the seashell necklace he'd made for me. "Nothing says tourist better than local handicraft."

I slipped it on and checked my reflection. I was wearing a black tank top and the pants I'd had on when Damian had abducted me. The runway look had been bleached out by the sun and heat and humidity. I didn't think twice about sitting my butt down on a mossy tree-trunk, or wearing them on grub-hunting trips in the jungle. Of course, I just held the pail while Damian unearthed the worms. It's one thing to get your hem muddy; but I wasn't about to touch those wiggly suckers.

Damian removed the camouflage roof of palm leaves he'd tied to the boat. It felt odd being back in the space I'd longed to escape from. I felt a sense of freedom now that I could not have imagined then. Being ripped out of my sparkling, tinsel world had been excruciatingly painful, but I didn't know if I could ever go back to being that person again. I was no longer mannequin-plastic, pretty and perfect; I was hacked up, inside and out. My hair was a mess, my nails were a mess, my heart was a mess. But my skin was alive and sun-kissed, and my face glowed from ocean breezes and salt spray.

I watched Damian steer and tried not to stare. The wind molded his shirt to his body, accentuating his shoulders and impeccable abs. He hadn't shaved since we'd been on the island, but his beard wasn't quite full. It made him look free-spirited and bohemian and uber masculine, like he belonged in the pages of a nautical magazine. His face had healed. His stitches were still there, but they were ready to come out, close to the hairline and hidden under his cap. He had a sharp nose, bronze skin stretched tight over his cheekbones, and black lashes that fringed deep, dark eyes. Damn. He had a fine, proud profile.

It was early afternoon when we anchored in a busy port. Cruise ships and yachts dotted the sparkling harbor. Golden beaches backed into sprawling resorts, shops, and restaurants. We cut through the clutter, dodging the hail of pink cabs, the souvenir stores crammed with tanned bodies, the sushi bars and pushy vendors. Crooked alleys opened up to the main square, where shops and banks faced teeming crowds from under deep, arched porticos.

I followed Damian as he zigzagged past the tall buildings, ignoring the supermarkets and chain stores, to the other side of the plaza. There, stretched out for blocks on either side of the street, was an outdoor market-stall after colorful stall filled with just about anything and everything: rows of watermelons and pineapples and oranges, jalapenos the size of small cucumbers, spices heaped in fragrant pyramids, pirated DVDs and CDs, piles of Gap and Hollister knock-offs, headbands with giant penises sticking out of them, and cactus paddles stacked in pillars at least six feet tall.

Damian was right. This dizzying cacophony of sight and sound and smell was the perfect place to disappear into the crowd. We bought eggs and white beans and tomatoes as big as cauliflowers. I sucked on chili-and-sugar coated tamarind balls that made my mouth buzz and my eyes water. We passed rows of seafood on ice: bass and octopus and angry-looking sharks called cazn. Damian picked up some clams with creamy, brown shells.

"Chocolate clams," he said. "For when you want real ceviche."

I made a face and waved another vendor away, wondering why no one was sticking slices of cheese and avocados under Damian's nose.

"You are the worst person to shop with," I said, as he slapped my hand away from the locally crafted bags and shoes. I lingered a few seconds to admire the intricate patterns hand-carved into the leather, before dashing after Damian.

"I'm hungry," I said.

We were standing near the taco stands. I could smell fresh tortillas and wood smoke, roasted vegetables and grilled meat.

"We're almost done."

"But I'm hungry now."

"You are the worst person to shop with," he said.

I trailed him to a couple more stalls before staging a protest.

"For a seasoned shopper, you have a complete lack of focus and discipline." He pulled me off the curb. "Then again, you're used to air-conditioned malls and bubble tea breaks."

"I hate bubble tea," I said, as I followed him down a narrow cobblestoned pathway to a street cart.

"How about Papas Locas? Crazy potatoes?" he asked.

The vendor was roasting large potatoes in foil, mashing them with butter and fresh cheese, and serving them with an endless variety of condiments: grilled beef, pork, bacon, beans, onions, garlic, cilantro, salsa, and guacamole.

"Good?" asked Damian as I dug into the bulging spud.

"Heaven," I replied.

"Want some of this?" He held out his burrito: chargrilled beef with cumin, garlic and lime juice.

"No thanks." It looked delicious, but I wasn't about to admit I wanted his burrito.

I was still smiling at my silly private joke when a loud wedding procession entered the alley: a tipsy bride and groom, followed by a group of giggly children, followed by an entire mariachi band, followed by family and friends. Damian and I pressed into opposite sides of the path to let them through. The trumpets blared in our ears, slightly off-pitch, attacking us with tight bursts of vibrato. My potato quaked in despair and a few green onions slid off. My gaze met Damian's. Suddenly, we were kids again, and we were laughing as men with wide sombreros and twangy violins filed through between us.

He noticed them at the same time I did-the rows and rows of paper stuck to the walls on either side: pink and yellow flyers with our faces printed on them. I couldn't make out what they said, but I'm pretty sure the captions read 'Missing' for me and 'Wanted' for him. It was sobering, seeing ourselves up on display, as the entire wedding procession rambled past us, two at a time. Our eyes remained locked as we held our breaths. The street was so narrow, that two lovers standing on balconies across from each other could have leaned over for a kiss. There was nowhere to run.

We stayed glued to the walls until the last of the wedding party had shuffled through and the guitars had turned into a distant strum.

"Come on." Damian picked up the shopping bags at his feet.

We were making our way to the boat, through a maze of streets, when he stopped outside a walk-in medical clinic.

"I think you should get them to look at your finger," he said.

"It's fine." I waved the splint at him. "There's nothing they can do. Besides, don't you think it's a bit risky? If they've been watching the news they could put two and two together."

"Not if you go in alone. Maybe we should split up."

"And what? Make up a story about what happened?"

"Do what you have to, but get it checked out. Go. I'll wait for you out here."

"It's fine." I started walking away. "The last thing I need is for someone to go poking at it when it's finally healing over."

"Suit yourself." Damian wouldn't budge. "If you're not going in, I will. I need to get my stitches removed."

I wavered for a second. I just wanted to get back to the boat, but he was right. His stitches were ready to come out.

"Wait for me in the supermarket," said Damian. He motioned to the store across the street. "It shouldn't take too long."

"Okay." I started crossing the road, but he pulled me back.

"Here." He handed me some bills. "In case they have chocolate peanut butter ice cream."

"That's way too much for ice cream!" I laughed, but he was already walking into the clinic.

After the jostling crowds from earlier, the supermarket was cool and quiet. "Demons" by Imagine Dragons was playing over the loudspeaker. I wandered over to the freezer section. No chocolate peanut butter ice cream. I was checking out the frozen pancakes when the lyrics made me stop dead in my tracks.

Damian had been way too insistent-the clinic, my finger, his stitches. Any excuse for us to separate.

Maybe we should split up.

The fucker! He was letting me go.

As soon as it's safe, I'm dropping you off at the mainland.

Don't forget this. He made sure I didn't leave the seashell necklace behind.

I ran back across the street, not caring that two cars narrowly missed me. The drivers honked and cursed at me, but all I could see was the door to the clinic. I flung it open and froze. There he was, seated on one of the plastic chairs, shopping bags at his feet, flipping through a magazine.

I backed out slowly, not wanting him to see how panicked I was, how the thought of being cut off from him again was so painful, I could barely breathe. I closed my eyes and breathed.

5, 4, 3, 2, 1 . . .

Again.

5, 4, 3, 2, 1 . . .

Then I went back into the supermarket. For a while, I wandered around, still feeling overwhelmed by the sense of emptiness that had gripped me. I was in love with Damian, completely, utterly, desolately. I had told myself that as long as I stayed with him, he had leverage, a bartering chip to negotiate his safety. Without me, he was an open target. But the truth was, I wanted to stay with him for me, because he had always, always been a part of me. I wanted to stay with him so I could put together all the dented, shattered parts of him, because I could never be whole where he was broken.

I found myself standing before the strawberries. Plump, flame-red strawberries with bright, green caps. I thought of the trampled cake Damian had never gotten to eat and decided I was going to buy all of them. I was going to feed him strawberries and he was going to fall in love with me.

Yes. I loved when I came up with a brilliant, foolproof plan.

I waited inside until the store started closing for the day. When the lights turned off, I headed to the clinic, carrying a shit load of strawberries. Damian wasn't there. No one was seated in the waiting room.

"Is anyone in with the doctor?" I asked the receptionist.

"No, but we're done for the day. Sorry, you'll have to come back tomorrow."

I stumbled back outside, lugging the strawberries behind me.

He'd left me. It had been his plan all along-drop me off at the clinic, have them call it in.

We think it's the same girl. She came in with a severed finger. That's what tipped us off. It's been all over the news, how her father received a piece of it. Gruesome stuff. No sign of the guy.

When that hadn't worked, he'd made up an excuse to go in himself. Maybe he did get his stitches removed. Maybe he came out, saw me waiting with two bags full of strawberries and decided that leaving me was the best thing he could do. For both of us. And yes, that made sense. I should find the nearest police station and contact my father. I could be back in La Jolla tomorrow, in my sweet room that was twice the size of Damian's island house, being fussed over and pampered and catered to. That made sense. Not this. Not me running down the streets that led to the harbor, hailing a cab in the mad hope that I could still catch him, clutching on to cartons of strawberries as they spilled all over the seats.

"Stop! Right here!" I threw some bills at the driver, recognizing the dock where we'd anchored, and got out before he came to a full stop.

I ran to the end of the pier just as Damian's boat was pulling out of the harbor.

"Damian!" I tiptoed at the very edge, as close to him as I could get, trying to catch his attention. "Damian!"

He turned around.

Yes.

There was no clearer way for me to show him that I had forgiven him, that what I felt went way beyond the hurt and pain I'd suffered. I understood the why. I understood him. It was his turn now, to let go, to take a chance, to let me stand up for him, to let me stand with him, come what may.

All you have to do is turn the boat around and come back, Damian.

He heard me, even though I didn't say a word. Our eyes met and I could see everything he felt. For a few, sky-blue, suspended moments, my heart and his were the same; they wanted the same thing. Then he turned back around and continued steering away.

I let go of the stupid strawberries. I let go of the stupid hope that had swelled up in my chest like a big, stupid balloon. I let go of my stupid pride and sat on the stupid pier and let myself stupid cry.

I had chased after Damian's boat, just as he had chased after my car all those years ago. But this was different. This was no dry, dusty road. This was clear day, clear sky. Nothing had obscured me from him. He had seen me, and he had heard me, and he had chosen to keep going. Because where there's hate, there can be no love, and Damian still hated my father.

"You have no right to punish me for it!" I chucked a strawberry after the boat. It was getting smaller and smaller by the minute. I was about to throw another one after him, but he didn't deserve any strawberries so I stuffed it into my mouth and wiped my tears.

"What's the matter, dear?" I felt a warm hand on my shoulder. It was an elderly lady wearing a sheer, fringed kimono over a tube top and long skirt. Her fingers sparkled with chunky cocktail rings.

"I missed my ride." I felt an instant kinship with the big, busty woman. She jingled and jangled from all the colorful necklaces and bracelets she was wearing.

"That one there?" She pointed at Damian's boat.

I nodded.

"It's not too late. We can still catch up. Ken and I were just getting ready to leave. Hop on, we'll give you a ride."

I followed her to a small sailboat on the pier.

"I'm Judy, by the way. And this is my husband, Ken." She gestured to a man with a large, kind face.

"Nice to meet you." I shook hands. If they thought it rude that I'd omitted my name, they didn't say anything. They seemed like nice people, and I didn't want to lie to them, but I wasn't taking any chances, in case they'd heard the news.

"Nothing like a lover's spat on the high seas," said Ken, after Judy explained the situation.

"I didn't say they were lovers. Please excuse my husband." Judy turned to me. Her blond hair was so bright it looked almost white. "All this sun is getting to him. We don't get much in Hamilton."