Johnny & I : The Island by Daria Paus (best novels to read txt) 📗

is beautiful; the whole island is. I’d give anything to own a place like this."

On the fifteen-minute walk from the house, we’d passed a lagoon with the clearest and bluest water I’d ever seen. Then suddenly, when the jungle of palm trees thinned out, there was this little beach hidden away from the rest of the world.

"Yeah.” He placed a hand at the small of my back. "I love it here,” he said. “It's probably the only place where I can be left alone,” he added, and I caught a touch of sadness in his voice.

“Come, let's sit.” He guided me to a piece of stone that looked like a natural sofa with its flat smooth surface. We climbed up and sat. The waves tried to catch our feet but couldn’t quite reach, and I couldn’t help but smile.

"It must be hard bein' the center of attention all the time.” It was more like a statement than a question, but he shrugged.

"I chose this life." He ran a hand through his hair to keep it from falling into his eyes, then let the hand drop back onto his lap and scoffed. "I never imagined this though."

"What?"

"Fans," he said. "It's too much."

I could only smile, knowing that if I began to protest, saying I knew exactly why everyone was so madly in love with him, it would make him feel awkward. That was one of the things I loved most about Johnny. How modest and down to earth he was. It was like he didn't know how special he was. He didn't seem to understand what people saw in him. I was certain that most celebrities were the opposite. I couldn’t stand people who bragged about how amazing they were, and liked to show off—who were convinced they were God’s gift to women.

“You must know how special you are.”

He was silent for a long time, then he shook his head. I believed he wasn't saying it out of some sort of shyness. He truly didn't know. I shook my head in bewilderment. Had this guy never looked into a mirror? How could such an obvious thing as his hot looks go unnoticed by him? How could he not know he had the lead role in every girl's secret fantasies. Including mine. How could he not know of his talent?

"Seriously?"

Another nod, and a genuinely confused look.

"Geez," I shook my head.

"What about you then?" He turned his eyes on me. "You're a fan?"

I let out a breath, cutting off a laugh. "Somethin' like that." Hell of a lot more than that, I wanted to add, but clamped my mouth shut before I could say something stupid.

“What made you choose this . . . work?"

He chuckled at my choice of word. "What made you choose yours?"

"I uh—" I hadn't expected the question to ricochet back at me. “It just happened like that. You know. I grew up on the farm; it was natural to stay.”

"But you enjoy it?"

I nodded, and when I was about to speak it occurred to me that he was trying to make the conversation about me again. Irritation grew inside of me and I forgot to answer his question and instead snapped.

"Why do you do that?"

His eyes widened.

"Avoid questions," I clarified, this time in a softer voice.

"You would, too, if you were me,” he said and I regretted snapping at him. It made sense. But I was not the press. I was not some nosy magazine hoping to expose his deepest secrets to sell copies. I just wanted to be his friend.

"Point taken," I said. "But—"

"But what?" There was a smile on his lips this time and I decided to push it a bit further.

"It's not even a personal question."

He seemed to think, then finally let out a breath and shook his head. I frowned, not sure what was going on.

"I grew up in—" He cut himself off as he must have seen my eyes widen in surprise. "What?"

"Nothin’! Go on."

He was silent for such a long time that I started to think he’d changed his mind, but then he spoke.

"My family was . . ." He trailed off as if he didn't know how to put it. "Troubled," he settled with, but the look on his face made me suspect there was more to it than that. I reached out, placing my hand on his arm and his eyes traveled down to study it.

"I turned to acting as a way to—" He fell silent, absentmindedly twisting the tip of his scarf around his fingers. “To escape reality," he said at last. "I was good at it. It felt good. And it just . . . continued somehow. I don’t even know what happened to get me to where I am now, I was too fucked up to remember much of that time, but—" He abruptly cut himself off, as if he’d realized he’d said too much. When his eyes met mine there was a shine in them that I hadn't seen before. I slid my hand down his arm and took his hand in mine.

"You never talked about this officially?"

He shook his head. “Fuck no."

I smiled despite the obvious sadness hanging in the air.

"Thanks.” I squeezed his hand.

“For what?”

“Telling me.”

He gave me a small smile, then turned his gaze toward the sea. I studied him, running a hand up and down his arm. My fingers stopped at the black anchor, and curiosity got the better of me. “Why did you choose this design?” I’d always wondered, but never managed to find any online information that explained the tattoo.

He didn’t look at me, but spoke turned to the sea.

“A reminder.”

I frowned. “Of what?”

“To stand firm in any storm.” He let out a cold laugh. “Which, obviously I don’t. It’s a fucking reminder of the person I’ll never be.” He scoffed, shaking his head. “A bloody joke, a curse—like me.”

I bit back a gasp.

“A fouled anchor?” I asked, tracing a finger along the rope curling around it. “Was it a part