Uncharted(20)

“And I suppose screaming our heads off at each other is a good use of energy?” I ask, fingers tightening on the bailer.

He holds his hands up in a defensive gesture and settles back against the side of the raft. His black jeans and v-neck are streaked white with dried salt and ocean spray. In the pale moonlight, I can make out the deep circles beneath his eyes. He’s just as exhausted as I am. Maybe more so — he did pull two people from the ocean. He saved us all.

Still, I think haughtily. That doesn’t give him license to be such a jerk.

A groan of pain from the flight attendant makes me discard the bailer and scramble to his side. His eyelids flutter, but he doesn’t wake. I lay the back of my hand against his forehead. It’s burning with fever. Sweat coats his skin and he shivers with cold.

“He needs water and antibiotics,” Underwood says lowly. He’s moved to the prone man’s other side, his bleak gaze lingering on the ghastly leg wound. “Without them, he won’t last another day.”

My eyes narrow. “That’s a rather callous assessment.”

“It’s a realistic assessment. You need to prepare yourself. If he—”

“Ian,” I interject, jerking my head at the brass name tag still affixed to his white button down. “His name is Ian.”

There’s a heavy pause. Finally, with great effort, he echoes, “Ian.”

As if acknowledging him as a person, with a name and a family and a life, is a burden he’d rather not shoulder.

I shake my head, dumbfounded by his indifference. “Unbelievable.”

“What was that?” he asks sharply.

“Nothing.”

A muscle ticks in his tight-clenched jaw. “Believe this — if he doesn’t get treatment soon, that wound will start to fester.”

“You think…” I curse myself for the tremor in my voice. “You think he’ll lose the leg?”

“The leg? He’ll be lucky if he doesn’t lose his life.” His head shakes. “He isn’t going to last much longer.”

“Stop saying that!”

“What? The truth?” His eyes narrow. “You may not like the situation we’re in, but that doesn’t change a damn thing. You need to prepare yourself for the possibility that this story might not have a happy ending.”

“You think I don’t know that?”

His eyes scan my face, my pretty sundress, the long tendrils of hair falling in a curtain around my shoulders. “I think you still believe life is a fairy tale, because it hasn’t disappointed you yet.”

“This may shock you, since I’m getting the sense you’re pretty much in love with yourself, but being here with you?” I lean in. “Big disappointment.”

“Don’t be a child.”

“Don’t be an ass!” I shoot back. “What does it cost you if I decide to stay positive? Holding onto hope isn’t a crime, except maybe in the totalitarian society you’re trying to institute here.”

“You want to be in charge instead?” he snaps. “You want to make all the tough decisions? Ration the water and food packets so we survive this? Make the call when Ian here is too far gone to continue wasting limited resources on?”

I gasp.

Wasting resources. As if his death is a foregone conclusion.

My hands curl into fists. “I’m not giving up on him, even if you have.”

“I’m not telling you to give up. I’m just saying… I wouldn’t get attached.”

“I know you wouldn’t,” I practically spit, suddenly seething with rage. “You don’t ever get attached, do you?” Before I can stop myself, words are pouring out. I don’t even know where they’re coming from, let alone how to stop them. “No need for names! No personal details! No small talk! Certainly no comfort or kindness, even in the bleakest fucking circumstance!” I’m shaking so hard, salty strands of hair fall into my eyes. “Because god forbid you let anyone inside that fortress you’ve put up around yourself — you might actually start to give a shit about them!”

“You don’t know the first thing about me,” he growls.

“I know nothing affects you,” I retort hotly. “I know you’re a fucking robot, who apparently feels nothing about the fact that we’re in this mess together. From where I sit, it seems like you’d rather be alone on this damn raft! Hell, I bet you regret pulling me from that water!”

He flinches at the accusation. “Don’t be ridiculous.”

“What’s ridiculous is this! Me and you! The twisted fate of ending up stranded with the last man on earth I’d ever choose as a companion!”

“Trust me, sweetheart, you wouldn’t be my first choice either. You’re not exactly Lara Croft.”

Ugh!

I’m burning with rage and righteous indignation. I don’t let myself look too deep at the source, for fear of what I’ll find. Because, even as the vitriol pours fourth from my lips, I’ve begun to suspect this man — this gruff, grumpy, heroic, handsome, infuriating man — is not actually the reason I’m so steaming mad.

But I can’t be mad at a storm in the sky.

I can’t be mad at a plane for crashing.

I can’t be mad at a little girl for letting go.