Uncharted(37)

“Fine.” Ian sighs. “But first, in your expert opinion, I must know…”

My brows lift.

“Do you think when we get back home, I’ll be able to spin the amputation story to my advantage with the ladies? I mean, being a plane crash survivor is badass enough, but surgery on a deserted island, without any anesthetic… I’m pretty sure I’ll be a legend.” His dimples pop out. “Really gives me a leg up in the dating scene, don’t you think?”

Beck snorts behind me.

“Did you…” I blink, stunned. “Did you just make an amputee joke?”

“It was more of a pun, really.” Ian yawns and his dry lips crack with dehydration. “Not my best material.”

“I’m not sure whether I should be impressed or concerned that you’re taking this news in such stride,” I murmur.

“In stride? Really?” Ian laughs weakly. “Now who’s punning, funny girl?”

My cheeks heat as I realize my unintentional blunder. “Oh, god! I didn’t mean— That came out totally wrong. Ian, I didn’t—”

“We’ve really gotten off on the wrong foot, haven’t we?” he asks, eyes twinkling.

The wrong foot!

“You’re incorrigible,” I tell him, blushing profusely.

He and Beck both chuckle, equally amused by my discomfort.

“Don’t fret,” Ian murmurs. “I’m only pulling your leg.”

I set my features in a stern expression, but can’t quite hide my smile. “Just drink your damn water.”

He takes a few sips from the bottle. I urge him to go slow, but he’s undeniably thirsty after days without a proper drink. In his weakened state, taking even one sip too fast can send water into his lungs — a fact which becomes apparent when he begins to cough violently.

Grin falling off my face, I watch helplessly as he wheezes for almost a full minute, choking on the trapped fluid in his airway. When he gets his breathing back under control, he attempts a reassuring smile, but I can see how exhausted the coughing spell has left him. These few short moments of consciousness have etched the pallor of exhaustion back over his features.

“You need your rest.” I twist the cap back on the water bottle and set it aside. “We’ll talk more in the morning.”

He nods weakly, eyelids fluttering closed.

“If you need anything, just call out,” I tell him, adjusting the blankets more firmly around his body. “I’m a light sleeper.”

“Goodnight, darlin’,” he drawls in that adorable accent, half-gone already.

“Goodnight, Ian.”

He falls asleep a few seconds later. The camp is strangely silent without his cheerful tones. I can feel Beck hovering behind me in the dark, waiting for me to break the silence. I pointedly ignore him as I make my way over to my sleeping pallet.

I can’t look at him. I won’t.

It’s far too dangerous.

Staring up at the stars, I hear him settle in on his own pallet across the fire. He sighs and shifts every few moments, evidently as restless as I am. The phrase out of sight, out of mind does not apply when it comes to us. I can’t see him, but he’s all I can think about.

My earlier words replay in my head on an unending loop.

What is it about me being seventeen that’s got you so tangled up inside, Beck?

I torture myself for hours, speculating what would’ve happened between us if Ian hadn’t interrupted at the last moment. I’m still wide awake when the temperature drops and the breeze off the water sweeps through our camp, cold enough to give me goosebumps. Light rain begins to fall and I shiver silently in the dark, trying not to remember how much warmer it was to sleep in the curve of Beck’s body, sharing his heat.

He tosses and turns again, clearly uncomfortable. I can’t help wondering if his thoughts are aligned with mine.

If they are, he doesn’t act on them.

Neither do I.

We shake in the dark on our separate pallets, looking up at the same night sky from opposite sides of a hissing fire. Bound together by invisible strings. Without a single spoken word or stolen glance, I can feel him like an extension of my own body.

I don’t see what the big deal is, I hear myself telling him. This doesn’t change anything.

His sharp scoff still echoes off the walls of my whirling mind.

It changes everything, Violet.



The following days pass in a blur of activity. If not for the small notches I’ve started making in the beached driftwood tree trunk at the end of each day, I’d have no concept of how much time has passed since we first arrived on the island. Ian’s newfound presence in our camp is a welcome distraction from the strange intensity brewing between Beck and me. I spend my days tending to him in the ever-lengthening periods when he’s able to stay awake, monitoring his temperature and checking his wounds. The stump seems to be healing well enough, all things considered. It’s swollen and red, but I don’t see any signs of sepsis creeping back.

It’s beyond frustrating to know that there are probably many plants with medicinal properties in the forest all around us. On our many camping trips back home, Mom used to point out different herbs and trees as we’d walk through the mountains, noting their homeopathic uses with reverence. She had great respect mother nature’s natural remedies, and healthy skepticism for big pharmaceutical companies’ exorbitantly-priced, mass-produced pills.