Johnny & I : The Island by Daria Paus (hardest books to read txt) 📕

here, in the middle of the ocean, on a small island far away from the rest of the world wasn’t some fairytale. And by the looks of him, I was sure the reasons were of a much darker sort.

“I’ve seen the tabloids,” I blurted, and he grimaced.

“What they say, it’s—"

“Don’t!” he snapped. “I don’t wanna talk about it.” He grabbed the bottle from the table and drank straight from it.

“Sorry.” Tearing my gaze away from him, I watched the fire devour the wood in a slow but steady dance of crackles and sparks.

I couldn’t stop my thoughts from wandering. Did my family know about the accident? How much time had passed? Did they think I was dead? A shiver rippled through me as the thought crossed my mind. I imagined my family, devastated and crying. My sister, my mom—maybe the news had even reached my dad? Even though Lissa wasn’t my real sister, I could feel her pain. She was my best friend and it didn’t matter that we didn’t share the same blood; she was my sister in every way that counted. Lissa had been a part of my life for more than ten years. I had been twelve when I first saw her, now I was twenty-seven, and I couldn’t imagine my life without her. I was sure the feeling was mutual.

“Brianna.”

Johnny’s voice brought me back to the moment. I glanced back at him, trying to shake the sadness.

“I’m sorry—" He ran a hand through his hair, then sighed. “I didn’t expect company. I’m not—”

“Maybe you need it?”

He raised an eyebrow in question and I rushed to explain. “Company, I mean. You look like you could need it.”

“I’m fine.”

He was lying, I didn’t need to know him to figure that out. He was in the middle of a huge scandal, facing charges of sexual assault. Yes, I knew what the headlines said. I’d read it all. Hell, I’d even cried over the news. Both Lissa and I had tried to hide our tears as we watched him on live television, struggling to explain that the whole thing was just a horrible misunderstanding. No matter what the press, or the woman, said about him, I was certain none of it was true. It just didn’t match my image of the man who used to visit orphanages to read for the kids, and taught acting in schools on his free time.

“I’m sorry,” I said. “What they say, it’s—”

“Bloody hell, Brianna!” He slammed the bottle down onto the table, making me jump from the sudden sound. “I don’t want to talk about it. What part of that don’t you understand?”

“Sorry,” I breathed. “It’s the whiskey.” I was horrified. For some reason I couldn’t keep my mouth shut, and everything that came out of it was stupid. I started to regret drinking with him. But if I hadn’t, I would’ve died from stress instead of embarrassment.

He gave me an amused shake of his head.

“And it’s Bree,” I said.

“What is?”

“My name. Call me Bree.”

He nodded. “Got it.”

“I know it’s not true.”

His voice was just a weak whisper. “Please.” He got up on his feet, stood there for a moment, and glared down at me.

I clamped my mouth shut. What was wrong with me? I had the uncanny ability to babble lots of nonsense when I was nervous, but this took the price. If I continued like this, he’d throw me back out into the storm.

“I’m sorry! I won’t mention it again.”

He tried to fool me with a smile. If there was one thing I was good at, it was reading people.

He sat again, took another swig of whiskey, then closed his eyes and leaned his head back as he let out a deep exhale.

I watched him in silence, for the first time noticing the dark circles under his eyes and the disheveled hair. It looked like he hadn’t brushed it for days. He emptied the bottle without looking at me, set it aside on the table before reaching for the next one, only to realize it, too, was empty. I pretended not to hear the curses he muttered under his breath. He got to his feet, staggered, but regained his balance and offered me an almost inaudible, “Excuse me,” before leaving the room.

He came back, holding a new bottle of the same brand. “More?” he asked and I was quick to shake my head.

“You shouldn’t . . .” My voice trailed off. Who was I to judge him?

He collapsed onto the sofa, leaning back in a half prone position. When he opened the bottle, the cap rolled over the leather and down to the floor. I couldn’t keep silent any longer.

“It ain’t good for you to drink that much.”

“You weren’t supposed to be here,” he muttered. “I can’t do it like this.”

“Do what?”

His eyes landed on me, and for a moment it looked like he was about to speak. Changing his mind, he took a couple of long gulps.

“Forget it.” He drank again. “Just—go to sleep. Pretend I’m not here.”

My eyes grew wide.

“Please,” he begged.

It was his house. I was just an uninvited guest. If he wanted to be alone, I had no right to deny him that.

“Ok.” I stood on shaky legs. “Just . . .” I cautiously gestured to the bottle. “Be careful with that.”

He whispered a small, “Yeah,” which made me feel like he had no intention of obeying.

I stared into the bathroom mirror trying to decide what to do. How could I sleep? I’d found a guest room. The empty bottle of whiskey on the table beside his bed was a dead giveaway. But I couldn’t bring myself to go to sleep, no matter how exhausted I was. My thoughts were with Johnny. The amount of alcohol he’d already drunk would have floored a normal man long ago, and he was still drinking.

Minutes ticked by too slow. My eyes were blurry as I focused on my reflection. I wasn’t sure whether it was from tiredness, too much saltwater, or