When I first came to Wavecrest Island, it seemed too good to be true. I needed a break, but I really needed an adventure, and that’s what Wavecrest has given me. It’s given me a chance to see the world without the various soft pressures of modern life.
On the other hand, everyone on the island is trying to fuck me.
Let me backup. A couple of years ago, I learned that a great-uncle I didn’t know about had passed away, and as his last living heir, I’d inherited a farmhouse on this little island in the Caribbean. When I looked it up, that island was supposedly uninhabited. That made it a mystery I couldn’t resist; I booked the next flight to the closest airport, then hired a local fisherman to take me the rest of the way.
In retrospect, I missed a lot of red flags. To be fair, my first few hours on Wavecrest involved a shipwreck and a couple of cryptid sightings, so I was distracted when I met Wavecrest’s mayor Marina. If I’d arrived on the island like a normal person, I’d have wondered why she was so friendly right away, or why she offered a cash reward if I fixed my own bathtub.
Look, I’m not used to other people treating me like a full human being, let alone a potential object of desire. I used to work retail.
That’s probably why I initially wrote everyone on Wavecrest off as “nice neighbors.” Sure, they all made sure I knew they were available. There was that incident in the changing booth, and that other one at the spring festival. I assumed they were kidding about Clothing-Optional Day, but I stayed home after I saw my mailman streak through my yard.
Besides, there were other things to occupy my attention. The soil here is supernaturally fertile; you can raise crops in days, not months. I went fishing the other day and saw a mermaid. My farmer’s almanac mentions a “Day of Flame” that’s coming up, which matches the noises from the island’s inactive volcano. Also, I learned how to make wine, which might explain the mermaid sighting.
Now it’s been almost a year. I haven’t struck up an actual relationship with anyone, but I’m well aware that the option’s on the table. There isn’t anyone on Wavecrest who isn’t a horny single in my area. It’s getting to me.
Don’t get me wrong. I could see myself staying here. Every day, I put in some honest work on my farm, then sit down with my dog for a nice meal that I made myself, from my own home-grown ingredients. The rest of my time is all mine, to read, build furniture, and more often than not, hide from somebody who “just stopped by to visit.”
I like most of my neighbors, but it’d be nice if they didn’t think eye contact was flirty. I’ve talked to the clerk at the general store five times in eleven months and she’s started to unload on me about why her marriage failed. Lady, there is a therapist on the island. He’s really unprofessional, at least around me, but he’s there. I’m not sure why you’re confusing me for him, or why you think a single chicken egg is romantic dynamite.
At this point, I’m assuming the whole island is some deep fetish thing. I got grandfathered into some exclusive club for barely functional sex addicts. I just want to live in my cozy little house, taking life at my own pace, and somehow I’ve shown up in a situation where I’m the pervert.
If this wasn’t the only way I could ever hope to own a home, I swear I’d leave.
