Chapter 19: Cabin 4, Night 2
The humidity in Cabin 4 clung like a second skin, thick with the scent of male sweat, cheap antiseptic spray, and the lingering tang of adrenaline from the collapsing pit challenge. Sand coated the unfinished plywood floor, crunching underfoot. Briv sat slumped on the edge of the bottom bunk furthest from the door, elbows on his knees, head in his hands. The image of Revan looming over Alya, whispering God-knows-what poison in her ear, played on a loop behind his closed eyelids. That predatory grin, the way Alya had flinched… and then Nicola and Dariana locking lips like it was nothing. Points. Easy points. What if Alya…? His stomach twisted.
"Rough one, huh?" Thomas's voice, soft and surprisingly gentle, cut through Briv's spiraling thoughts. Thomas perched gracefully on the bunk opposite, long legs elegantly crossed at the ankle. His dark eyes held an expression of deep, almost feminine concern as he meticulously cleaned sand from under his fingernails with a folded tissue. "That pit… brutal. You looked like you were trying to dig straight to China, Briv." He offered a small, sympathetic smile. "Teamwork was… challenging today."
Jim burst through the cabin door, tripping slightly on the threshold. Sand scattered from his sneakers. His face was flushed, eyes wide and darting nervously behind his thick-rimmed glasses. "Holy crap, dude! Did you see that?" He wasn't talking to anyone specific. "Dariana and Nicola? Just bam! Kissing! Right there! Like, full-on!" He made a crude smacking sound with his lips, bouncing on the balls of his feet. "For points, man! Insane! I mean, wow! They just went for it. Hot. Super hot." His gaze lingered on the thought, a faint sheen of sweat on his upper lip.
Briv flinched as if struck. He didn't need Jim's breathless recap. He’d seen it. Seen it, and felt the icy claws of jealousy rake down his spine. What if Revan convinced Alya…? His knuckles whitened where he gripped his hair.
Thomas tutted softly, shaking his head at Jim. "Jim, perhaps a little sensitivity? Not everyone processes spectacle the same way." His gaze flickered meaningfully towards Briv's hunched form before returning to Jim with a patient, almost maternal look. "It was strategic. Calculated. Points are the currency here. Survival. Though," he added, tilting his head thoughtfully, "the execution was certainly… bold."
The cabin door opened again, and Carmen ducked in, her tall frame momentarily filling the doorway. Her long brown hair was pulled back in a messy ponytail, tendrils escaping around her pale, flushed face. She looked exhausted but forced a bright, glittering smile. "Hey, roomies! Woof! Sand. It’s like glitter, but meaner. Gets everywhere." She kicked off her sandals, sending another spray of grit across the floor. "That pit was gnarly. Thought Logan was gonna bench-press the whole thing at one point." She flopped onto the bottom bunk next to Briv, the cheap frame groaning. She nudged his shoulder companionably. "You okay, B? You went full mole-person back there. Impressive dedication."
Briv lifted his head, forcing a weak smile. "Yeah. Fine. Just… sand." His eyes kept darting towards the door, as if expecting Alya to materialize.
"Fine? Dude, you look like you swallowed a lemon," Carmen said, her smile softening into genuine concern. She dropped the forced cheer. "Was it… seeing Alya with Revan? That guy’s a walking red flag in leather pants."
Briv’s jaw tightened. "He was all over her. Talking shit. Probably about me." The words tasted bitter.
Thomas leaned forward, resting his chin on his hand. "Revan thrives on provocation, Briv. He’s a predator. He identifies vulnerability and exploits it. Poor Alya must have been terrified." His tone was soothing, layered with understanding. "It’s natural to feel protective. Angry, even."
"Terrified?" Briv scoffed, the jealousy flaring. "Looked like she was just… taking it."
"Whoa, Briv," Carmen interjected, frowning. "Come on. You know Alya. She freezes sometimes. Especially with creepers like Revan breathing down her neck. Remember that sleazy director at the open call?" She rolled her eyes. "Same vibe."
"Did you see Nicola and Dariana?" Jim blurted out again, unable to contain himself. He’d been shifting from foot to foot, eyes wide. "Like, seriously saw? Because, wow. Just… wow. That was… instructional." His gaze shifted to Carmen, then quickly away, a blush creeping up his neck. He adjusted the front of his shorts unnecessarily.
Carmen sighed, a hint of weariness breaking through. "Yeah, Jim. We saw. Points, honey. Just points." She turned back to Briv. "See? It’s strategy. Doesn’t mean anything."
"Easy for you to say," Briv muttered, staring at the gritty floorboards. "You weren't watching the girl you love get cornered by that asshole while two others play tonsil hockey for points." The image of Nicola and Dariana, locked together, fused with the image of Revan whispering to Alya. Strategy. What kind of strategy would Alya use? The thought was a physical ache.
Thomas made another soft, sympathetic noise. "It’s a corrosive environment, Briv. It’s designed to erode trust. To make the strongest bonds feel fragile." He uncrossed his legs and stood, moving with a fluid grace towards Briv. He placed a light, supportive hand on Briv's shoulder. Briv stiffened. "Your feelings are valid. Deeply valid. The pain you’re feeling… it’s the price of genuine connection in this artificial hellscape." His dark eyes held Briv's, intense and seemingly full of shared understanding. "You need to process this. Talk it through. Bottling it up… it festers."
Carmen watched Thomas, a flicker of unease crossing her features. She recognized the tone, the intense focus. It was the same way he’d listened to her talk about her fear of never being loved seriously, just before trying to slide his hand up her thigh after the bonfire last week. "Talking helps," she offered cautiously to Briv, her eyes still on Thomas. "But maybe… maybe just breathe first? Shower off the sand-pocalypse?"
Jim shuffled closer to Carmen’s bunk, his breath quickening slightly. He stared at her bare feet, then her legs, his gaze travelling upwards with blatant, awkward hunger. "Sand does get everywhere," he mumbled, his voice thick. "Like… everywhere." He licked his lips, eyes fixed on the hem of her shorts. "Must be… uncomfortable. You need help? Checking?" He took another step, leaning towards her.
Carmen instantly recoiled, pulling her legs up onto the bunk and wrapping her arms around them. Her smile vanished, replaced by genuine alarm. "Whoa, Jim! No! I’m good. Seriously. All checked out." Her voice was sharp, the prom queen facade gone.
Thomas smoothly inserted himself, stepping subtly between Jim and Carmen. He placed a restraining hand lightly on Jim’s chest. "Jim, my friend," he said, his voice a low, calming murmur that held an unexpected edge of steel beneath the velvet. "Personal space, remember? Carmen said she’s fine. Respect that." His gaze locked onto Jim’s, not blinking, the earlier sympathy replaced by a quiet, unnerving command. "Deep breaths. Think before you… speak. Or act."
Jim blinked, his face flushing crimson. He stumbled back a step, muttering, "Right. Sorry. Space. Yeah." He retreated to the far corner, bumping into the wall, his eyes wide and confused behind his glasses, darting between Carmen’s tense form and Thomas’s implacable presence.
Briv watched the whole exchange unfold through a haze of his own jealousy and suspicion. Thomas’s hand was still on his shoulder. The touch felt cloying now, manipulative, after witnessing how swiftly Thomas had shifted from comforting him to controlling Jim. The cabin walls seemed closer, the air thicker, charged with Jim’s inappropriate hunger, Thomas’s unsettling intensity, and Carmen’s palpable discomfort. His own jealousy curdled into something darker, mixed with a profound sense of isolation. He was surrounded by people, yet utterly alone with the image of Revan’s smirk and the terrifying, tantalizing question: What was Alya doing right now? The screen displaying the points for Nicola and Dariana seemed to burn in his peripheral vision. Strategy. Survival. What was his? The sand gritted beneath his feet, the only constant in the shifting, treacherous ground of the island.