A/N: Another long chapter to make up for another long gap. Sorry, guys. This story is moving according to plan (for once) but we're starting with a flashback this time. It's in italics, and I know you would have known what was going on, but I'm telling you anyway. Thank you a trailerload (brownstoneload?) for all the reviews and comments. I am so happy you're enjoying this story and I hope you like the new chapter!

.-.-.

Some Bright Morning
10. bright shining as the sun

.-.-.

The buzzer interrupts a good-natured argument over whose preferred Thai restaurant is superior. Weiss teases her that she ordered so many times from her spot that the doorman doesn't even call up anymore.

"But see how fast they are," that's what she says as she pulls open the door, "which is why mine is…" and the words die on her lips when she sees it's not Thai food at all. It's Addison, looking very unlike the Addison most people see – Savvy has seen her like this before, but only a few times and not for a while now. Addie's wearing an old jacket too large for her that's clearly Derek's, all her hair stuffed into a battered fishing hat. Her face is free of makeup, blotchy and swollen, her eyes ringed with red.

"Addie, what happened?" she breathes, reaching out a hand to her friend.

"Derek left me," she says in a very small voice, and pulls off the hat. The hair that tumbles out is shockingly bleached blonde, irritated skin along her hairline testifying to how recently she must have done this.

Savvy takes a moment to collect herself – so many questions, so much shock, before calling out to her husband. "Weiss? We're going to need some wine, baby." She glances at Addison again. "A lot of wine," she amends. "Come in, honey."

Addison cries, then drinks, then cries and then drinks some more before Savvy decides there's a fine line between soothing and enabling.

Either way, Addie ends upon her knees in the powder room off the foyer, Savvy holding back her disturbingly bleached hair with one hand and rubbing her back with the other, their positions reminiscent of more than a few parties in their college days.

She finally falls asleep on the floor with her head in Savvy's lap. She's cross-legged on the cold blue-and-cream tile Addison helped her choose when they bought the place, resting one hand on the top of Addie's bleached-blonde head and the other on her back. She can feel it moving faintly, hitching, like she's still crying in her sleep.

"Honey … that can't be comfortable." Weiss is standing in the doorway watching them, gaze laden with concern.

"it's not." Savvy looks up at her husband with tears in her eyes. "But it's worse for her. What are we going to do?"

Her husband crouches next to her and palms her cheek gently, moving some of her hair off her face. "I don't know what we can do, Sav."

"Can you talk to Derek?"

"I can try. Of course I can try." Weiss looks grim for a moment. "It didn't work last time, though."

"Just try," she pleads.

"Sav, I still don't understand what happened. Do you?"

She shakes her head. "I can't get that much out of her. All she keeps saying is that Derek left her."

They speak in hushed voices, Addison unmoving on the fluffy cream-colored rug.

"Did she say why?"

Savvy shakes her head. "Mostly … she just cried."

Weiss's mouth is turned down at the corners, looking at Addison with a worried expression on his face.

"They'll work this out, right?" Savvy hears her voice shaking and instinctively she pulls Addie closer to her.

"I hope so." Weiss moves into the bathroom and drops to his haunches beside the two women. "You know things were…" His voice trails off.

"But this is different."

Weiss follows her gaze to Addie's crumpled form and she can tell what he's thinking. Different … but not unfamiliar.

"Let me help you with her," he offers.

Together they manage to prop a heavily sleeping Addison into a somewhat seated position,

Then Weiss lifts her, grunting under her weight. "Damn it. She's a lot heavier than she looks. Guess alcohol weighs more than blood."

"Or maybe someone needs to work out more," Savvy teases him, resting a hand on his bicep.

"And take time away from my queen? Never." They smile at each other and then Savvy sees her husband's smile fade just as hers does. Making a rueful face, he hefts Addison a little higher in his arms and carries her out of the bathroom.

They bring her to the guest room that Savvy always keeps ready – her mama wouldn't hear of anything different, that's just plain rude – and Weiss sets her on the bed, Savvy pulling off her shoes. They peel the old coat off her arms together.

She doesn't stir until Savvy stands up from the bed, the mattress shifting a little, and then Addison's eyes open.

"Sav?" Her voice is a croak.

"I'm right here, honey." Savvy sits back down on the side of the bed and pushes some of the weird blonde hair off her face. Addie looks like hell, pale under the tear blotches on her face. Hastily, Weiss pushes over the wastebasket just in case.

"I think she's done." Savvy rests a soothing hand on her belly. "Addie? You're going to be okay."

"No, I'm not," she says so softly it's almost inaudible.

Savvy strokes her hair. "Remember when you said that after the Harvard-Yale game when you couldn't decide which tailgate to do so you did both and you were so drunk that you lay down in the quad and said you were going to make snow angels in the leaves because you were dying so you needed angels?"

Addie's lips – they look dry and cracked – move a little almost like she's trying to smile.

"You were so sick. You said you weren't going to be okay. But you were okay." Addison's alcohol tolerance is legendary, but even she has her limits.

"Look, Addie, whatever happened between you and Derek … it'll work out. It always does."

Addison's eyes are bleak. She reaches for Savvy and when she leans forwards obligingly, Addie whispers, "Sav … I slept with Mark," and then she bursts into noisy tears again.

Savvy holds her tightly, both their bodies shaking with her sobs. Addison clings when she tries to shift a little to stretch her back. "Please don't go."

"I'm not going anywhere," Savvy soothes. She glances at Weiss. "I guess I'll, uh…"

He nods, looking helplessly at Addison's weeping form. Finally, he rests a hand on the top of her head and then takes his leave.

Addison can't seem to stop crying. "Sav … it's over … I've ruined everything." Her voice hitches.

"No. You two … you can survive this. You're Addison and Derek," she reminds her.

"He's gone."

"Where?"

"He wouldn't tell me."

"He's blowing off steam," Savvy suggests. Her mind is racing. Addison slept with Mark? How – why – she has so many questions, so many emotions tumbling around inside of her.

"He left his ring," Addie whispers and Savvy feels her heart clench. It's about the rings.

"Try to sleep, Addie. You know what my mama always says – Everything will look better in the morning, and if it doesn't …"

"…then at least you lived 'til the morning," Addison finishes in a husky, tear-choked voice.

Savvy nods, sending up a quick prayer, one that she hopes is strong enough to make it all the way out of her apartment and down the coastline. All the way to the only place she knows that's never let her down.

Just one more time, she thinks, her fingers clenching like she's still holding it in her hand. You've done it before. Just work your magic for her one more time. After all, the island knows when something is meant to be.

.-.-.

A loud clanging rips into her skull and it feels like someone is hammering her eyelids open.

"Make it stop," she moans around the cotton in her mouth, her pulse thrumming at her temples. She's vaguely aware that she's sweating, fabric sticking to her midsection.

But the bell just keeps going. Is it a fire alarm? She weighs the risks of dying against the pain of getting closer to the piercing noise.

If she dies, at least her headache will go away.

She pries her eyelids open with some effort, groaning when hot white sunlight pierces her vision. She's staring up at an unfamiliar ceiling, a bamboo fan with a brass chain blurring slightly, and her head is hanging slightly off the end of … a bed, presumably. Where the hell is she? The faint smell of salt wafts in front of her nostrils. Are they in the Hamptons? Is this too many martinis on the deck and …

At the thought of a martini her stomach suddenly clenches and she manages to heave herself to her feet, ignoring the prone body on the other side of the quilt, desperate for relief and makes it to the bathroom just in time. Kneeling in front of the bowl, she hangs on to porcelain as tightly as she can and hopes she can save a little bit of her stomach lining.

"Make it stop," she moans again. "My head is killing me."

She hears a voice in response. "Can you please … shut … up. You're worse than the bell."

He doesn't sound much better than she does.

She's moaning. "Only if you can make the room stop spinning."

"Can't you keep it down in there?"

"I am sick," she chokes out. "How about a little sympathy?"

"You're hungover," he says dismissively, "not sick." But he says it from the doorway of the bathroom, where he's apparently managed to get to his feet as well. He's wearing boxers and nothing else, his hair sticking up all over his head like he fell asleep on a spinning wheel. There are circles under his eyes, dark on skin the color of oatmeal.

Before she can say anything else she's bent over the toilet again. Finally she feels like she's finished; she flushes and sits back against the clawfoot tub, breathing heavily. There's no way anything is left in her now.

Derek sits on the edge of the tub, looking down at her. She accepts the glass of water he offers and takes a tentative sip. It stays down, cooling her burning throat. She tries to remember how they got here.

"We're on the island," she realizes.

"We're on the island," he confirms. "What the hell is in that … concoction Savvy's family makes?"

"Alcohol," she groans. "Lots and lots of alcohol."

He moves some of her sweaty hair off her face and she wonders if her eyes look as exhausted as his. "Are you going to be okay? Because I heard we're the only doctors on the island … and I may not be as far gone as you are but I'm not really in top shape either."

"I'm … okay." She takes a deep, steadying breath, and is relieved to note that her stomach doesn't turn over. She's exhausted, and holding herself upright is starting to feel like a lot of work. She can't help but notice there's a bare leg just next to her – he's sitting above her on the rim of the clawfoot tub – and then she can't seem to stop her head from sloping down to rest against his thigh. It's warm under her cheek and the release of pressure from her neck feels good. Hopefully he won't shove her off.

He doesn't. After a few moments his hand comes to rest on her head, and then his fingers dig into her scalp like he used to when she got headaches.

She closes her eyes, immensely grateful and feeling more human than she has since the bell woke her. The feel of his thigh against her cheek is soothing and she lifts her hand absently to touch his skin.

And then it all comes slamming back into her mind.

"Derek!" She pulls away, almost losing her balance, and he hauls her back upright.

"What?"

"What happened last night?" She looks down at her tank top. She's wearing the same soft pants she was wearing yesterday, she's not naked, and he's not naked either, strictly speaking, but only wearing boxers …

"Not much," Derek says, looking at her.

"Really?" She's remembering the night in a haze of colors, sounds, sensations. She can recall his lips against hers, the feel of his hands on her back, her arms, the way his body felt underneath hers, and then … nothing.

"Really," he confirms.

"Oh." She looks down at herself, feeling her cheeks flush as she recalls the way she pressed herself against his body, all but throwing herself at him. "Well … why not?"

Derek studies her face. "You're as modest as ever, aren't you."

"I'm just asking! I mean, we were drunk, and we … started to, didn't we? I mean, we-"

"If you must know," he interrupts her, "it turns out you have far less tolerance for … white lightning … than you let on. I haven't seen you like that since Med Ball when you threw up over the side of the Circle Line and Mark and I had to carry you fifteen blocks before we found a cab that would take us."

"Oh." Her cheeks flush further. "Sorry."

"Don't mention it," he says, his tone somewhere between lightness and sarcasm.

"But you're … naked. Or, you know, almost naked."

"You threw up on my clothes," he says matter-of-factly.

Oh, god. "Sorry," she says again, looking around.

"I already washed them, they're drying outside."

"Oh," she says again. "Okay. So we really didn't…"

"No," he says firmly. "We really didn't. Thank god."

"Thank god," she echoes.

He looks down at her. "I wouldn't want you to be unfaithful to Mark," and he says Mark the way their exterminator says roach.

"And I wouldn't want you to be unfaithful to your intern."She pauses. "Are the two of you even exclusive? You know the young people these days, they date, but they're not exclusive. At least that what my interns tell me, but then again I'm not sleeping with them."

"I'm not listening to you," he says loudly.

"That always means you are," she reminds him, and she attempts to smirk but the moment is lost when her stomach clenches and she doubles over.

"Addison?"

"I'm okay." She manages not to throw up, and her stomach has almost settled when bells start ringing loudly again – but in a different rhythm this time.

"Oh, no." She pulls at his hand. "We have to go. Derek, that's the late bell."

"The late bell?"

"The late bell. If we're the last ones to breakfast, then we-" She stops talking. "Let's just hope we're not the last ones."

.-.-.

They're the last ones.

"Shades of Shame," Beau says solemnly when they've finally made their way to the hearth, handing each of them a pair of dark glasses.

"Shades of Shame?" Derek turns them over in his palm as a throng of blond children watch with open-mouthed appreciation.

"Just put them on," Boswell instructs, shaking his head. "They're to remind everyone you couldn't be bothered to get to breakfast on time but … they also help with the hangover," and he whispers that part. "They help with the headache," he adds at full volume.

Derek slides them onto his face and immediately feels better as the sun's glare is dimmed. "Thanks," he says.

"Don't thank us yet. The Shades of Shame are just the beginning."

"Aw, don't be too hard on them, Bos." Beau is grinning. "You know Yankees can't handle white lightning."

"I don't make the rules!" Boswell lifts both hands innocently.

"What rules?" Derek glances from one Beaufort to the other, disliking the way he has to tilt his head back slightly to meet their eyes. Why do they have to be so tall?

"Oh, you'll see. Sav!" Boswell turns away and Derek sees Savvy approaching. She links her arm through Addison's.

"Derek wants to know the rules," Boswell tells his sister.

Savvy looks tired, but rested, Derek notes.

"Just nice to them, Bos," Savvy says firmly, looking from Addison, who is also wearing a pair of Shades of Shame, to Derek.

"I don't make the rules, Sissy!"

He leaves the siblings to debate their fate, wandering toward the smell of coffee.

"Mister Derek!"

He looks down to see a blond boy who looks around seven or eight – then again, considering the height gene in this family, maybe he's a newborn. He's holding out a tin plate with a slab of thick toasted bread, a pile of creamy-looking eggs, and several rashers of bacon. Derek's stomach turns.

"Thank you, um…"

"Wilson."

"Wilson. Right. That's, uh, that's nice of you but I'm not hungry."

"But my mama says this," and he indicates the bowl, "is the best cure for headache."

Derek glances over to where the boy is looking, and sees the cousin he can't help thinking of as the pig-farmer-underwear-model watching them. She raises her eyebrows at him, and then smiles sweetly.

"Your mama is right," Derek concedes. "Thank you, Wilson," and he takes the bowl, prepared to confront his hangover.

"Can I share?" He looks up to see Addison at his side. He can't see her eyes behind the dark glasses.

"I don't know." He holds the bowl just out of her reach. "Are you going to throw up on me again?"

"No promises … but I'll try not to."

"I guess that's all I can ask." He sits on one of the rough log benches around the fire pit and she sits down next to him. They take turns scooping out greasy fingerfuls of egg, bacon and bread – the whole hearth smells smoky and spicy and rich. It's a messy endeavor but three or four bites in he starts to feel a bit more human.

"Coffee," he croaks, suddenly realizing part of the reason for his headache.

"Oh no ... I forgot the mug." Addison's shoulders slump.

"That's okay, we can just …" Derek glances around. He's willing at this point to just put his mouth on the carafe and suck down whatever caffeine is left.

"Here, you can use mine."

Derek looks up to see Savvy's cousin Augie, who looks enough like her to be a sister instead. She's holding out a mug of black coffee.

"Thank you," Addison breathes, taking it from her and swallowing what looks like all of it in about three gulps. "Thank you, thank you, thank you."

"And people say New Yorkers have no manners." Augie takes the log bench below theirs, smiling at them. "How are y'all feeling – other than shamed, and …" She glances around, apparently deciding the children are occupied, "…hungover?"

"We're fine," Addison assures her, though Derek thinks her faintly green complexion isn't particularly reassuring. "Augie," she says softly, and Derek hears her voice break.

"No. Don't do it." Augie holds up a hand. "This isn't my funeral," she says pointedly, and Derek winces at what he's come to recognize as the blunt – and rather black – Beaufort sense of humor. "And I won't have anyone acting like it is. That goes for Savannah too, and I've told her as much."

Addison nods. "I'm sorry."

"Don't be sorry." She rests a hand on Addison's leg. "Just be … regular. You want a refill?"

"I can get it."

Augie stands up and studies Addison for a moment. "I don't know if you can, actually. You'd better stay seated for a little longer. Black again?"

"Cream, please. This cup's for him."

Augie nods and heads toward the giant, bubbling coffee percolator.

Coffee and what can only be called a bowl of grease do the trick, and Derek can tell Addison is feeling almost as much better as he is by the time breakfasts winds to a slow, sunny halt. Time seems flexible on the island – late breakfast bells and Shades of Shame aside – and the meal ends as every other one has: vaguely, even gently, with various groups breaking off to talk, reminisce, scatter down the beach. Children run through the reeds and poke in the golden sand beyond. Derek can see a few blond heads at the water's edge, crouching down and then standing up again.

"What are they doing?"

Addison glances over at him. "Looking for starfish, probably."

"Starfish?"

"Yeah, it's kind of a ... thing." She shrugs a little and when he's silent she keeps going. "They wash up on the island very rarely, um, and when they do, you can make a wish on them and put them back in the ocean. Give to get. They say if it's meant to be it will come true. A long time ago, I … " she stops talking. "Sorry, this probably sounds really stupid."

"It doesn't."

She glances at him.

He considers her words, a long time ago. "Addie … the last time you were on the island-"

"Hey, Shameful Shepherds! Time to pay the piper."

Derek looks up at the loud voice. Boswell is standing in front of them, hands propped on his hips, looking nothing short of gleeful.

"Pay the piper?" Derek wishes his voice could sound a little less faint.

"Oh, yeah. The Shades of Shame were nothing compared to what you'll have to do next."

.-.-.

"Dish duty," Addison says bravely.

"Dish duty," Derek repeats.

The words sound so innocuous considering they're standing in what feels like a giant cement prison cell – the warehouse, that's what they call it, they have a name for everything, with a sink the size of two bathtubs bubbling mounds of foam, a huge handheld faucet, and elbow length black rubber gloves that make him feel like an alien.

"How many dishes does one family need? How many people are here, anyway? They seem to multiply," he adds before she can answer. And half of them seem to be Boswell or Beau, but he doesn't say that part out loud.

"There aren't that many." Addison looks around, then her face seems to fall. "Okay, there are a lot. But there were a lot of dishes when we'd go to your mother's, too," she reminds him.

He tries to summon an image of the kitchen at a Shepherd family gathering.

"Oh." She seems to read his expression. "I forgot, you'd have to actually wash a dish to know that, but your mother preferred for you to relax while the rest of us washed."

"I know how to wash dishes." He reaches indignantly into the giant sink and pulls up a greasy-looking metal bowl. His stomach turns, but he pumps out some sticky green soap and reaches for the flexible metal faucet head. "Where's the water?"

"What do you mean?"

He turns the handheld faucet around, peering into it. "I mean, how do I turn on the-" and the rest of his sentence turns into a garbled shout as ice cold water shoots out of the faucet into his face.

"Addison!"

"Sorry!" Addison is standing in front of him when his vision clears. "I didn't mean to! It's a foot pump, I didn't realize you were holding the thing."

"Of course I was holding the thing, that's why I wanted to turn on the water!"

"Well, why would you aim the thing at your face?"

"It's not a gun!"

"You yelled loudly enough that it seemed like one," she retorts, sounding amused.

"It was cold," he snaps. "It was very cold." He pauses. "Hey, Addison. You said it was a foot pedal."

"Yes." She looks up. "Why –"

Her scream is even louder than his.

Very satisfying.

"You ass!" She gasps as she wipes streams of water off her face. "I didn't splash you on purpose!"

"But you have, in the past," he reminds her, "many times." Many pools, many lakes. The ocean. "Consider this payback."

"Oh, we're on payback now?"

He doesn't answer. She seems to be sizing him up, but he has the faucet in hand – facing the sink – and he's blocking the foot pedal, so he feels safe, unless she has some other plan.

Looking him right in the eye, she reaches into the massive sink and scoops out a handful of foamy white soap bubbles.

"Don't you dare."

"Or what?"

He aims the faucet at her. "Or I'll shoot."

They face off for a few long moments and then she draws her hand back, preparing to throw. His foot darts toward the pedal, and at the same time white foamy suds hit his face, she ducks and the stream of cold water hits the opposite wall instead of her face.

He sets down the flexible faucet to wipe the soap off his face. "Very mature."

"You splashed me first!" And she darts in quickly to grab the flexible faucet.

"Oh, I don't think so." He grabs it too, and they wrestle back and forth for a few moments until he lets go without warning and she skids backwards on the soapy floor.

He grabs her before she can fall.

"That was a dirty trick, Derek," she scowls as he pulls her upright. "The floor is cement!"

"I'm sorry," he says sincerely. "I didn't think you'd actually fall."

She looks a little shaken up, and he feels bad. "Addie…"

And then another glob of soap hits him right between the eyes.

"Really, Addison?"

"You almost cracked my skull!"

"I saved your skull!"

"Yeah, after you almost cracked it!"

He grabs a handful of soap and flings it at her instead of answering. Most of it lands in her long hair.

"Derek. Cut it out."

He raises his eyebrows. "You want a truce?"

She studies his face for a moment, then grabs two handfuls of suds and throws them at him. He stands there with soap dripping down his chin and soaking into his shirt and she smiles sweetly.

"Now I want a truce," she says.

"Yeah? Too bad. I withdraw my offer."

With that, both of them reach into the sink at the same time, and then he can't see much except bubbles as she shoves handfuls of soap into his hair. In response, he channels his sisters' notorious water fights at campgrounds and grabs her, shoving a handful of soap down the back of her shirt before she can wriggle away.

"Derek!"

"Sorry about that," he says. "I'll help you ... rinse it off."

And then he grabs the flexible faucet, but she blocks the foot pedal, then reaches behind her for more soap. He traps her against the sink, holding the flexible faucet out of reach and attempting to reach around her with his leg for the foot pedal. She shoves at his chest, demanding that he release her and then finally just dumping a handful of soap down the front of his shirt.

…which is worth it because in the melee he manages to move her away from the foot pedal and then his foot is hovering over it.

"Derek!"

He holds her in place with his body and one of his hands while he aims the flexible faucet at her.

"Don't shoot," she pleads, half-laughing.

He considers it. "What'll you give me?"

She looks up at him, a little shorter in her flat shoes. "I don't know, what do you want?"

Her eyes are very blue and he's suddenly conscious of how close he's standing to her. He still has her pressed up against the sink, one of his hands holding one of her arms, the other tight against her body on the other side. He feels his breath start to quicken in spite of himself and sees the moment that registers in her eyes. Her face softens slightly and she tilts her chin. Not quite sure he can trust her not to try to throw him into the sink, he nonetheless inclines his own head forward just a little. Her lips are slightly parted; there's a strand of wet hair plastered to one of her cheeks and soap suds decorating her throat. And there's very little space left between them now. Maybe two inches. Maybe an inch. Maybe even less …

"I see you're getting a lot of work done in here."

They both turn around at the unexpected interruption, jumping apart, more suds splattering off each of their gloves. Suds are running down both their faces, dark spots of water all over their clothing, Addison's wet hair stuck to her soapy cheeks. Derek can't see his own hair but knows it's matted with soap. Derek coughs out some soap while Addison whacks his back with her rubber glove.

Boswell looks from one of them to the other. "You okay?"

"We're fine," Derek says hoarsely, coughing again, and Addison nods.

"All right, then. I brought y'all something that should help, anyway." He holds out a mason jar. "Hair of the dog," he announces.

"Oh, no." Derek takes a step back. "I'm never drinking that stuff again."

"You should if you want to feel better. It's diluted," He assures him. "Look, the only cure for white lightning is white lightning."

Derek glances nervously at Addison, who looks resigned.

"Island drink, island cure." Boswell holds out the mason jar again. "Go on."

They each shed their long black rubber gloves to take a few sips until Boswell finally seems satisfied. He leaves the rest of the mason jar on one of the counters lining the warehouse. "I hope I wasn't interrupting anything," he adds casually over his shoulder as he leaves.

Derek waits for the door to close behind Boswell before he turns to Addison. "Do you think Savvy would mind if I drowned him?"

Addison laughs and Derek finds himself enjoying the sound.

"I think Casey would mind," she says.

Oh, right. "I still haven't met her," Derek says.

"Who?"

"Casey," Derek says. "Boswell's wife?"

Her brow is furrowed. "What do you…"

"Boswell mentioned her when we were out fishing."

"Oh," Addison says again. "Well, I'll just – introduce you next time Casey's in the same place we are."

He nods. "We should probably get back to the dishes if we ever want to get out of here."

She gives him a sidelong glance. "I don't know," she says quietly. "I kind of like it in here."

"Addie ... you're covered in soap."

"Well, so are you."

"True." He leans back against the sink, not really minding the water anymore. Then she's standing in front of him, and his hand rises almost of its own accord to play with the belt loop closest to him on her jeans. She lowers her eyes, watching him. His thumb traces the seam on her pocket, her skin warm through the denim, and he hears her let out a breath.

"Derek…"

"Yeah?" He moves his hand slightly, the jut of her hip filling his palm.

But whatever she was going to say is interrupted by a buzzing sound.

That he realizes is coming from her jeans.

"You're being paged," he teases her, pulling her closer by her belt loop to reach into her pockets. "The question is from where."

He pretends to frisk her and she's protesting but laughing at the same time. "No, Derek … " She makes one last attempt to pull away but he captures the blackberry from her back pocket and holds it up triumphantly.

And then sees the name on the screen.

MARK

Revulsion courses through him, his heart speeding up for an entirely different reason.

"Derek-"

He tosses the blackberry to her before she can say anything else and she has to scramble to catch it; in the meantime, he slaps his wet gloves down on the ground. "Just wash half of the dishes and then I'll come wash the other half," he says coldly. "There's no island rule that we have to be in here together."

"Derek!" She sounds hurt. "Come on, can't we -"

"No," he says sharply.

"But we were just-"

"We were just nothing, Addison." He shakes his head. "I forgot who I was dealing with." He looks her up and down with disgust. "Have a nice conversation with your boyfriend," he says bitingly before he stalks away from her on the cement floor, some dignity lost to the squelching sound emanating from his wet shoes.

"Derek, wait …"

Her cry follows him, but he slams the door behind him, cutting off whatever else she was going to say.

Goddamn it. He's starting to think this island isn't magic – more like poison.

To be continued, of course. Hopefully fast. Faster if you review. Yes, that's mean, I'm sorry. I'm sending all of you virtual hugs, virtual white lightning to make up for it. So ... review? Pretty please and thank you so much!