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The night, so inky black.
This sight, lit up so garishly bright.
Footsteps, crashing toward me. I need to move, need to flee, need to do something.
Staring, staring, staring.
Jason’s severed head. Looking right at me. Eyes milky white.
Then: “Jesus fucking Christ.”
Vaughn barrels into me, snapping an arm around my waist.
“Close your eyes,” he orders as he drags me furiously back to the mess hall.
But I don’t. I can’t.
My mouth is still open.
I am still screaming.
And I still don’t make a sound.
CHAPTER 33
WE WILL NEVER SPEAK OF it to the others. We don’t have a discussion on the subject, never make any explicit agreement. We just know. What we saw was terrible enough. The others shouldn’t have to learn of it. It would sow too much panic.
It would allow Keahi to win.
Standing on top of the steps, shotgun to his shoulder, Charlie spies us first. He takes one look at our faces, clenches his jaw.
“Tell MacManus his man Jason won’t be coming back,” Vaughn orders curtly.
Charlie steps back to inform Ann of the message. I’m trying to get up the stairs, my legs trembling so hard it takes Vaughn’s arm around my side to move me up each step.
I’m shaking. Hot, cold, sweaty, dry heaving. I want to curl up in the fetal position with my hands over my head. I want to plunge into the ocean, start swimming, and never look back. I want to live in a world where monsters like Keahi Pierson don’t exist.
“Sit here,” Vaughn is murmuring. He guides me to a plastic chair in the corner of the porch, positioning himself to block my body from others’ view. He has to hide me. No one could look at my face right now and think things went according to plan.
I rock back and forth, arms tight around my waist. I’m trying hard to breathe, but my mouth still isn’t working right. Opening, closing, but nothing happening. No sound. No oxygen. I’m suffocating, I’m drowning. It’s all the same in this fucking humidity.
Vaughn pulls my arms from my waist. He takes my hands and plants my palms against his cheeks.
“Look at me, look at me, look at me.”
His beard is both prickly and soft. I curl my fingers into it. This close I can smell the tang of salt and sea breeze upon his skin. I work my fingers again, tracing the line of his jaw, the ridge of his brow, the crinkles at the corners of his eyes. His skin is warm and real. I find the pulse at the side of his neck, feel his heartbeat against my thumb.
He’s still holding my wrists. Maybe his fingertips are registering my own pulse. Now he breathes in deeply, one, two, three, four. Holds the air in his lungs, one, two, three, four, five, six, seven. Exhales, one, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight.
I follow along with him. Steady inhale, hold, slow exhale. Again and again. Till the world rights itself and I register his clear blue eyes, perpetually rucked-up hair. I drift my thumb over his lower lip, exploring the fullness. The curve of his ear, the softness of his earlobe.
I pet him, my own personal comfort human. Raking my fingers through his hair, down his neck. Then I feel my eyes start to sting, and I know it’s coming, the scream locked in my chest. He seems to know it, too, pulling me hard into his chest just as the sound wells up and explodes.
I press my lips against the salt of his throat, stifling the bursting horror into muffled whimpers he soothes away with a hand down my back. I’m rocking against him. As if I would like to immerse myself into him, disappear completely, no longer be.
And maybe I would like that. But it’s not an option.
Another long, rippling shudder, until finally I still. I merely rest against him. He makes no move to untangle, his hand still stroking my hair. I would like to close my eyes and stay here forever. There are so few moments in my life when I’ve truly leaned on another. He is strong enough to handle me, world-weary enough to understand me. It is a potent, heartbreaking combination given I’m not the right woman for either of us.
