Uncharted(35)

“What?” I demand suspiciously. “If you’re going to complain about eating with your fingers, save it. I didn’t have time to make utensils today. This was the best I could do on a deadline. Maybe if I’d had more time—”

“Violet.” He cuts me off, lips twitching as he accepts the bowl.

“Yeah?”

“The only thing I have to say right now is thank you.”

“Oh.” My cheeks flame. “Well. Whatever. It’s just a few mussels. No big deal.”

“I don’t just mean for dinner.” His throat muscles convulse. “Thank you for making a place that could be pure hell feel a bit like… home.”

With that, he dives into his dinner. I sit stock-still, processing those words, but after a moment the smell of the mussels hits my nose, my stomach makes its impatience well known, and I dig in. There are no spices or seasonings, no butter or garlic, no slices of toasted bread to eat them with, like Mom and I used to back home in the summertime…

Still, I swear it’s the best dinner I’ve ever had.

We feast like kings, until our stomachs are near to bursting and the sun has dipped below the horizon. Appetite sated for the first time in days, I slump back on my pallet with my elbows braced behind me and stare up at the night sky. I can’t pick out a single constellation in the blanket of brilliant stars. The unfamiliar celestial map only adds to the sensation that I’ve somehow washed ashore on a whole new planet, rather than a new hemisphere.

I hear the metallic sound of a cap twisting and look over in time to see Beck take a swig of whisky. Feeling my attention on his face, he extends the flask in my direction. I’m pulled instantly back to another moment in the dark, on a private plane flying through a turbulent storm, when the same stranger offered me a swallow to settle my nerves.

I turned him down flat, then.

This time, I don’t hesitate as I clasp my fingers around the smooth metal of the flask and lift it to my lips. The alcohol burns a fiery path down my throat, then pools in my stomach like a warm cup of tea. Heat sinks into my bones, radiating from the inside out. It’s my first sip of whisky, and I enjoy it far more than I ever would’ve anticipated. I badly want to take another sip, but as I test the half-empty flask’s weight in my hands, I know we need to ration the rest for Ian. When he regains consciousness, he’ll need it far more than I do.

With a regretful sigh, I pass it back to Beck before I can change my mind. “Thanks.”

His eyes move over my face, as though I’m a puzzle he’s struggling to work out. “You know, you’re incredibly responsible, for…” He trails off.

“For what? A girl?”

He pauses. “No. I was going to say for someone so young.”

“Oh.” I blush. “Well, I’m not that young.”

“How old are you?” The softness of the question does nothing to detract from the intensity with which its asked.

“Younger than thirty, you old geezer,” I joke.

He doesn’t laugh or smile. He’s curiously still, his gaze searching. “You don’t want to tell me.”

“Don’t be ridiculous.” I snort, avoiding his stare. “I just don’t see what the big deal is. Age is only a number, right?”

“And that number would be…?”

I bite my lip.

“Twenty-three?” he guesses lowly.

I shake my head.

“Twenty-two?”

Another shake.

I hear a sharp intake of air. “Christ, if you tell me you’re not even legal to drink…”

My eyes lift to his. “We’re stranded on an island. I don’t think the legal drinking age applies. Plus, we’re not even in the US anymore, so technically—”

“Violet.”

My excuses dissipate when he says my name. “Yeah?”

“Just tell me.”

My teeth gnash into my lip so hard, I’m surprised I don’t draw blood. Bracing myself for the worst, I close my eyes and force out the words. “I’m seventeen.”

There’s a momentary silence. I think, perhaps, he’s going to react better than I’d expected. Instead, when my eyes sliver open and lock on his face, I see the same strangled expression he wore when I informed him we’d be amputating Ian’s leg.

“Seventeen,” he says slowly, sounding out each vowel like he’s speaking a foreign language. “You’re joking.”

Wincing, I shake my head. “Afraid not.”

Beck is typically the epitome of self-restraint. So I’m totally unprepared when he vaults to his feet in one seamless motion and begins to pace in front of the fire. His long strides eat up the sand, lapping the whole camp in a matter of seconds.

“Seventeen!” he explodes. “How the fuck can you be seventeen?”

“Well… last year I was sixteen... and next year I’ll be eighteen… I think that’s just how this whole aging thing works,” I muse, attempting to lighten the mood.

His glare tells me there will be no such lightening. “Why were you even on that goddamned plane?”

“The Flints needed an au pair for the summer.”

“So they hired a child to watch their child? In what world does that make sense?”