As Easton secured his boat to the floating dock, the August sun baked its unrelenting heat into his skin. For months, he'd been bringing supplies out to this island in the middle of the river, and for months, he'd wished for cooler temperatures. It would soon be fall, he told himself. The thought cheered him until a darker one took its place: come fall, I might not need to make this trip anymore.

He was always relieved to find Cynthia waiting for him. Despite the afternoon's warmth, she wore jeans and a long-sleeved shirt. Behind her, the cabin lurked in the shade of tall trees. The older woman's clothes were loose upon her frame; she'd lost more weight since his last journey out here.

Easton gave her a friendly wave before turning his attention to the supplies. She paid him to keep her well stocked, and part of his job was carting the groceries and other necessities into the cabin. 

"How are you today?" he asked as she headed in his direction.

Her dark hair, streaked with silver, was pulled back into a messy ponytail. She folded her arms over her chest, inspecting the contents of the boxes he stacked on the dock. Just when Easton had given up on her answering, she said, "I'm about the same." Her face momentarily brightened. "Hey, the store had the brand of applesauce I like."

"They sure did." Easton smiled at her. "I got you three jars."

He thought she might return his smile. Instead, she made a slow retreat back to the cabin. Easton followed her, his arms laden with groceries. He knew from folks in town that Cynthia's parents had owned this island. Looking around, he could imagine it the way it once was, a little vacation spot that offered plenty of privacy. The riverbank was sunny, but a short walk inland enveloped them in shadow. Numerous trees bore NO TRESPASSING signs.

Walking a comfortable distance behind Cynthia, Easton discerned her weakened gait. Wouldn't be long before she couldn't leave the cabin at all. Then what? 

As a twenty-year-old part-time student, he'd taken this job for the easy money. His employer was private to a fault, seemingly devoid of any warmth toward him, but she paid well. Cynthia's move out here had done little to stop town gossip, so Easton knew her marriage of fifteen years had ended shortly after she learned she was terminally ill. Her husband must have been one cruel sonofabitch to leave his wife at her time of greatest need. Though Easton couldn't blame Cynthia for being bitter, he did question her decision to spend the rest of her days alone on this island.

Neither of them spoke while he made several trips between the house and the dock. The river looked invitingly cool, but he had other things on his mind today. Ignoring the occasional boat that sped by, Easton wiped his sweaty face on his shirt and brushed damp strands of sandy-blond hair out of his eyes.

When he finally finished the task he'd been hired to do, he lingered in the front room of the cabin. Cynthia had an envelope full of cash waiting for him. 

Gazing down at it, he solemnly shook his head. "I won't be taking that this time, ma'am."

Her brow furrowed in confusion. "Why not? It's what you're owed."

For weeks, he'd been working up to this moment, but his nerve faltered with little warning. He rubbed the back of his neck while shifting his weight from one foot to the other. "I believe I'll stay here," he blurted out.

The woman's eyes widened. "Like hell you will!" Her expression was far more animated than he'd ever seen it. "You take this money and get out of here, Easton."

Again, he shook his head. It wasn't like him to be defiant, least of all toward a middle-aged woman. Yet his resolve proved stronger than his strict upbringing. "I'm staying," he insisted.

Cynthia gave him an icy glare. "Did one of my relatives put you up to this? Are they offering to pay you more?"

"No, ma'am. I came to this decision all on my own."

The woman was quiet and still for several seconds. When she lunged toward him, he barely had time to react. For someone so obviously ill, she possessed surprising strength. Pressing her hands to his chest, she shoved him hard.

"Get the fuck out!" 

Her shout rang in his ears as he retreated. Just outside the cabin's door, he planted his hands on his hips, waiting for another charge. 

"Out!" Cynthia jabbed her finger in the direction of the dock. "For God's sake, let me die in peace!"

Though Easton flinched at her words, he quickly recovered. "I'm staying here, Cynthia."

"Not in this house, you ain't!" Her chest rose and fell so fast that he could hear her labored breathing.

Easton merely shrugged. "I'll sleep in the boat, then."

Despite her lingering fury, she laughed. "Have fun! The mosquitoes will eat you alive."

With that, she slammed the door in his face.

*****

For days, Easton kept his distance. Covered in bug bites, he spent his time fishing or lounging beneath a tree. Though Cynthia had a cistern, he drank the bottled water he'd brought with him. His meals were eaten cold and straight out of a can. At least she didn't try to prevent him from using the outhouse behind the cabin. 

Whenever he encountered her, she looked right through him. It was eerie, being treated as if he didn't exist. Even his gifts of fresh-caught fish didn't soften her anger. 

Easton's mom had warned him not to go against Cynthia's wishes. "That woman obviously wants to be left alone," she'd said. "If you stay out there, you're liable to make her hate you, son."

But his mother hadn't witnessed Cynthia weakening over the past few months. He couldn't simply take the money and then desert her. 

Almost a week passed before Cynthia brought him a plate of fried fish. He thanked her profusely, but she didn't speak a word in response. After wolfing down the meal, he left his dishes on the cabin's porch. 

He continued to sleep in the boat, and every two weeks, he returned to town for more supplies.  

September arrived, reminding him he should be home. He hadn't bothered to enroll for the fall semester at the community college. The nights grew cooler, prompting him to seek refuge beneath the trees, where he curled up in his sleeping bag. 

Though Easton and Cynthia hadn't spoken since she'd ordered him out of the cabin, he sensed her coming to terms with his constant presence. He often found himself approaching her as he would a wary animal. Patiently, he worked to earn her trust.  

One night shortly before the fall equinox, a rainstorm forced him onto the cabin's covered porch. Huddled in his sleeping bag, he continued to shiver, for the damp air seeped into his very bones. His teeth chattered so hard that he feared they might break. He was tired and miserable, feeling he'd made a mistake by remaining here with this woman who clearly didn't want him around.

The rain became a roar, loud enough to muffle the sound of the cabin's door opening behind him. Easton started when he felt a hand on his shoulder. 

"Come inside!" Cynthia shouted over the downpour.

The cabin had no electricity, but a woodstove provided warmth. Shortly before moving to the island, Cynthia had paid for seasoned firewood to be delivered. As Easton stepped into the house, an oil lamp offered its light.

"You're freezing." She wrapped a heavy blanket around him. He noticed she was wearing only a long-sleeved nightgown. 

Easton wanted to thank her for this kindness, but his violent trembling prevented him from speaking. She made him hot cider, the instant kind. 

"I shouldn't have let you stay out there this long," she murmured. The room's heavy shadows made her deep blue eyes appear even darker. 

"I'm okay," he managed to assure her. 

Once his chills had subsided, Cynthia nodded toward the only other room in the cabin. Easton knew it was her bedroom. He looked from its doorway to her face, not bothering to hide his confusion. 

"Come on," she said, her tone mildly exasperated.

He stayed quiet out of fear that the wrong word would lead to him being banished again. With the blanket still wrapped tightly around his shoulders, he followed her into the room. 

"Get into bed," she ordered.

Easton swallowed hard, then set about undressing. Though his clothes were dirty, he didn't feel right stripping down to his underwear. When he started to lift the covers, Cynthia grabbed his arm.

"You're not sleeping next to me wearing clothes that ain't been washed in who knows how long!" she said. "Take everything off."

His eyes widened a little. "Even my underwear?"

"Especially your underwear."

Cynthia turned her back while he removed the rest of his clothes and got into bed. Curled up beneath the covers, he watched her turn the knob on the lamp to dim its glow. Once the room was completely dark, she lay down next to him. 

"Face the other way," she said. 

His cheeks reddened in embarrassment. He'd been washing in the river, but he feared Cynthia thought he wasn't clean enough. Her voice didn't have its usual harsh edge, though.

Turning onto his other side, he nestled deeper into the pillow. After many nights of sleeping outside, it was a luxury to have a nice cushion for his head.

The sound of Cynthia moving made him tense. He stared into the darkness, so absolute, not daring to breathe.

She pressed her body along the length of his, and her arm slipped around his waist. Despite his shock, he relished the warmth her nearness provided.

It was strange, being held in such an intimate way, and especially by a woman who had never shown even a hint of affection for him. Slowly, Easton relaxed against her, a contented sigh escaping his lips.

"Why were you so damn stubborn, staying here when I ordered you to leave?" Cynthia no longer sounded annoyed, just curious.

Easton carefully considered his response. "I know you told me at the start that you wanted to be alone," he finally said. "You didn't want anyone here with you. But I... I just couldn't bear the thought of that. Maybe I needed to be sure I could still look at myself in the mirror later on, after..." His voice trailed off, but in his mind, he finished that painful sentence: after you're gone. "That probably sounds selfish," he went on. "In any case, I'm here."

Cynthia's hand moved along his arm, and upward to his shoulder. Stroking his cheek, she whispered, "Sometimes being selfish ain't such a bad thing."

Her touch sparked something inside him, as if he had a lamp in his belly and she was intent on feeding its flame. Without being told, he turned back onto his other side. He could feel her breath on his lips. 

She caressed his hair, and when he grew bold enough to wrap an arm around her gaunt frame, she rewarded him by kissing his mouth.

Though that first kiss started out passionless, almost platonic, Easton immediately responded. The moment Cynthia's lips parted, he slid his tongue between them. Still, he was careful, afraid of being too aggressive and turning her off. 

She moaned, her palm traveling over his back and then to his buttock. He delighted in the way she squeezed his flesh. Lowering his lips to her neck, he breathed in her scent. 

It was only when she reached between them and took his hardening cock in her hand that he said, "Are you sure?"

Cynthia's laugh was quiet. "If I wasn't, you'd know. Now be quiet and let me enjoy myself."

Through a grin, Easton replied, "Yes, ma'am."

He cupped her small breast. Beneath the nightgown, her nipple hardened from his attention. Growing more excited, he dipped his head and took that peak into his mouth, suckling through the fabric.

Cynthia's touch, though gentle, had him fully erect in no time. His fierce arousal prompted him to thrust his hips and drive his cock through the circle of her fingers. When she withdrew her hand, he had to subdue a pitiful whimper. Yet he quickly realized she'd stopped only to reach under the covers and remove her panties.

With her nightgown bunched around her waist, Cynthia draped a leg over his thigh. He panted from his lust, and as she guided his cockhead to her opening, a needy shudder traveled through him.

Easton and his former girlfriend had tried out plenty of sexual positions, but he'd never thought to suggest this one. Sideways missionary, with him and Cynthia lying on their sides while facing each other, seemed so natural and right.

He entered her effortlessly, reveling in the slick warmth surrounding him. Cynthia's moans joined his, growing loud enough to compete with the rain striking the roof.

He soon discovered the position made it difficult for him to thrust deeply, but that was probably for the best. If he got carried away with pumping hard and fast, he'd embarrass himself by coming far too soon. Maybe Cynthia had guessed his limitations and decided to work around them.

He took her with a steady rhythm, his pace one of forced leisure. Though he couldn't bury his cock all the way inside her, his tip received plenty of stimulation. Their mouths again met, and Cynthia's tongue was a fervent contrast to Easton's slow, tender lovemaking.

In just minutes, he sensed she was on edge. Her fingers clawed at him as she started to shake. He was now sweating, desperate to last for her. 

When the first contraction rippled through her body, she didn't make a sound. It was Easton who groaned at the feel of her muscles constricting around his cock. Finally, she cried out, surrendering to more spasms. He gritted his teeth, clenching his jaw painfully tight. His thrusts grew shallow, almost frantic.

"Come!" Cynthia urged.

He stiffened upon hearing that command. Her orgasmic aftershocks proved to be his undoing, and he let go with a roar. 

Burying his face in her hair, he made sure his slowly softening cock remained nestled within her walls. For a surprisingly long time, her flesh quivered all around him. He couldn't resist giving a final, instinctual thrust to work his seed deeper inside.

"That was perfect," Cynthia whispered.

He lifted his head to give her another kiss. Satisfaction passed between them, deepening when their tongues met.

After that night, Easton lived with Cynthia in the cabin. He tried to ignore the signs that she was growing weaker and more fatigued, though he realized he would soon be caring for her around the clock. And while she made every effort to hide her pain, he was able to see past her forced smiles. 

He resisted his urge to chatter in order to fill the silence she preferred. As the fall season settled upon that little island, he learned from the woman he'd grown to love. She taught him far more—about living and dying, anger and fear, peace and surrender—than any college professor ever could.

Eventually, Cynthia stopped keeping him at a distance. In the darkness of their bed, she moaned from her anguish and was comforted only by his embrace. As he held her close, she told him in a gentle voice, "No tears when it's time. Promise me."

He feared he might choke on the knot lodged in his throat, yet he managed to say, "I promise."

It was late November when Easton left the island for the last time. The sun, bright in its betrayal, fell upon him while he gently placed Cynthia's body in the bottom of his boat. He'd wrapped her in her favorite quilt, the one her grandmother had made by hand. 

During the trip back to the mainland, he was dry-eyed. There would be plenty of opportunity to cry later, when he was alone. Right now, he resolved to keep the promise he'd made to her: no tears. 

And while remaining at her side, he kept the promise he'd made to himself. 

The promise to stay.