I don’t speak to him as I stagger to my feet and flee from our small camp down the beach to the water’s edge. There, ankle-deep in the shallows, I bend at the waist and dry heave until every ounce of water and bile has vacated my stomach. Until my throat is burning, my eyes are streaming, and my head is pounding.
The physical pain I feel is a flicker next to what I’ve just put Ian through. And it’s nothing at all, compared to the ache in my heart as I stare at my bloody hands and wonder what the hell I’ve done.
Who the hell I’ve become.
Beck gives me space for a few hours.
I sit at the water’s edge, staring out at the waves, mind still ringing with the sound of Ian’s screams. The expanse of water seems to stretch out endlessly in all directions. I’m farther from home than I’ve ever been, not just in distance. I wonder, if a rescue boat appeared on that far-reaching horizon, plucked me from this nightmare, and landed me back in my childhood bedroom, whether I’d even fit there anymore
I’ve always heard that phrase you can’t go home again and dismissed it outright. But sitting here, I think I finally understand. The things I’ve lived through in the span of a few short days have changed me forever. The people I’ve lost have shaken my ever-optimistic view of the world around me. And… the man still with me, standing at my side through all of this, has left an impression I fear I’ll never be able to wipe clean.
Three days.
What will happen in three weeks? Three months? Three years?
I press my palms to my eye sockets, wishing I could summon tears. Crying might release some of these emotions raging inside my head. Might make this burden of horror and heartache inside my chest slightly easier to carry around.
It’s mid-afternoon and the shadows have begun to lengthen when I finally feel his presence at my back. I glance over my shoulder and find him sitting in the sand a few feet away, careful not to encroach on my personal space. His eyes scan my face.
He’s as guarded as he’s ever been, but I’ve learned to read him better — the tiny furrow of his brow when he’s concerned, the slight clenching of his jaw when he’s trying to keep himself in check, the infinitesimal narrowing of his eyes when he’s overcome with rage. The way his left brow quirks up when he’s surprised, and his lips twist at one side when he’s fighting back amusement.
Beck’s face speaks a whole language, if you take the time to learn it.
“You’re red as a beet,” he says finally, breaking the silence.
I glance down at my arms. Sure enough, they’re sunburned.
“I’ll live.”
His brows lift at the apathy in my tone. “What you did earlier…”
“I know.” I cut him off. “It was awful. Reckless. Bloody and messy and worse than I could’ve ever imagined. I know. You don’t have to lecture me.”
There’s a marked pause. “If you’re finished beating yourself up… that wasn’t what I was going to say at all.”
My heart skips. “It… it wasn’t?”
“No. I was going to tell you that, bloody and messy and awful as it was… it was also the bravest thing I’ve ever seen anyone do in the thirty years I’ve been on this planet. And I spent three years in the deserts of Afghanistan and Iraq, taking photos of war zones.”
Suddenly, there are tears in my eyes. I don’t fight them. I let them roll down my cheeks as his words roll around inside my aching chest cavity. There’s something almost unbearable about Beck — gruff, grumpy, curmudgeonly Beck — speaking to me with kindness that shatters the last shred of resolve I’ve been clinging to since I washed the worst of the blood stains from my skin.
This is a man who does not do false praise or fake ego-stroking. He doesn’t do flattery. He barely does basic human decency.
The bravest thing I’ve ever seen.
I recognize these words as a rare gift and feel some warmth creep back into my soul.
Beck watches me weep from a careful distance, his discomfort evident. “I didn’t mean to upset you.”
“You didn’t. I just… I…”
A sob steals my breath. I dash the teardrops from my cheeks, but they continue to fall. I feel completely overwhelmed as all the emotions I forced from my mind while I tended to Ian rush back.
Scooting a bit closer on the sand, Beck reaches out tentatively and pats my hand, as though he’s not quite sure whether touching me will make things better or worse. I get the sense he’s afraid to make any sudden moves. That comforting a crying girl isn’t something in his everyday repertoire.
I look at his large hand covering mine. The stroke of his strong fingers against my skin is lighter than a feather, but I feel it in every atom of my body. Our eyes meet, green on green, and something inside me snaps.
I don’t consider my actions. I don’t talk myself out of it. I don’t give him any warning at all.
In a blur of limbs, I launch myself against his chest and bury my head in the hollow of his shoulder, my whole body convulsing with the strength of my sobs. My arms wind around his neck, my torso aligns with his, my hair splays out in a mahogany curtain.
I don’t care that, up until this moment, I’d have considered him the last man on earth I’d ever go to for comfort. He’s here, and he’s warm, and right now, just for a second, I need someone to put their arms around me and keep me from flying apart into a million pieces.
He goes still, at first, but then… his hands wind their way around me in an embrace, his chin settles against the top of my head, and he holds me so tight, I feel my soul begin to stitch back together.
“You’re not alone,” he whispers when my tears begin to subside from sobs to sniffles. “And Ian…”
I pull back to look into his eyes, not daring to ask.
“His fever broke a half hour ago.”
Chapter Ten
H O P E
Ian’s pallor changes so quickly, I think my eyes are deceiving me. He’s still not awake, but his color is vastly improved. The pale, clammy sheen of fever has faded from his face and, while his breaths are still labored from the pain of his injuries, for the first time since the crash I don’t find myself listening intently to his every wheeze, half-convinced the next one might not come at all.
I spend the remainder of the afternoon by his side, watching him sleep, sponging water and whisky between his dry lips in small increments, and checking his pulse. It’s definitely stronger than it was yesterday. Another good sign.
Up till now, his health has been our main source of anxiety, as well as the focus of almost all our attention. Now that his condition seems to be improving, there are other things to attend to if we’re going to survive here until someone finds us.
Or whatever’s left of us.
That starts with food, shelter, and water. Basic needs, but undeniable ones.