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I wait for him to turn back my way, to relent and explain, but he keeps bashing the wall, making me feel a bit abandoned, and then quite ashamed of myself for caring so much how he behaves in the first place. He is not my friend. Being trapped here with him—and only him—is addling my brain.
I get my stone and join him, bashing the cave’s rim until my body aches and dust from flaking rock stings my eyes. Tears fill them as my throat tightens unexpectedly. How can we be trapped here, with no one having come for us? How is that possible?
As if he hears me, Declan looks over his shoulder. I set my rock down before my tears spill over and walk quickly to the stream, where I sit cross-legged with my hands over my shameful, hot face.
Crying is useless. Sure, it can be clarifying, but it’s mostly wasted time, a spilling over of emotions best left in their own allotted cup. I take a few fortifying breaths and tell myself I’ve endured worse.
We’ll keep chipping at the cave’s mouth until we get a different angle on the stone that’s blocked us in, and at that time, we will break free. I believe it. That’s one thing I do believe in: believing. Outlook cannot be overrated.
More tears leak from my eyes, even as I tell myself how absurd I’m being. I hurry to wipe them as I hear him approach.
Not your friend, I tell myself.
I’m feeling frightened and out of sorts, but he is not my friend. He’s an interloper who’ll be gone soon. There’s no point in making any headway with him. The fact that his presence makes me stupid is even more reason to put distance between us.
I wipe my eyes and straighten my spine, and then he’s at my back, crouching beside me. I feel his attention settle on me, even as I’m looking down at my lap. I feel his hesitation, and I hate that I enjoy it. I enjoy his eyes on me. Like a forlorn child seeking acknowledgment…beyond pathetic.
“I think if we hit this hard—if we both do,” he starts— “if we go harder than we have so far, I can shift that stone enough to get my hand in there beside it. It’s been moving more now when I push a certain way. Trust me, we’re just about out of here. Just gotta go a little harder for a little longer. What do you say, Siren?”
It’s Finley, I want to scream. Instead I snip, “Of course.”
I let him help me up, and we walk toward the cave’s mouth, where we resume working with renewed vigor. We work the entire morning, Declan taking frequent breaks to splash himself with water from the stream and me swinging my stone so hard, my shoulders feel as if they’re broken.
Every so often, he stops and shoves upward against the boulder, and I hold my breath, my head spinning with hope and dread and fear—but nothing happens. We press on. We work until sweat drips off his hair and soaks his shirt, and spots are dancing in my eyes. He pushes up against the stone again and again. He’s correct: we can feel a wee, wee bit of breeze, so we can’t be far from breaking free, but he can’t lift the boulder.
I can tell it’s driving him quite mad. When I stop for lunch, he keeps swinging his hammer. Then he drops it—more like tosses it across the way. From my spot atop the sleeping bag, I see his muscles flexing, hear him panting as he strains beneath the boulder.
Stubborn male. He should wait for me so we can try together.
“FUCK!”
I jump reflexively, but when I blink I find him bent at the waist, his head in his hands, his broad back and shoulders pumping.
Oh, no.
Before I make it more than a few steps in his direction, he stalks past me with his head down, anger radiating from his form. I watch as he crouches by his sleeping bag, rubbing his hands roughly through his hair. Then he’s on his feet again, his face stony as he walks back toward the cave’s mouth, not sparing a blink for me.
There, instead of picking up the hammer, he scoops up one of the fallen stones and hurls it at the wall with so much force it crumples.
“FUCK!”
He grabs another stone and hurls it, then another and another. I watch with bated breath as he loses his composure, bashing the offending boulder in a sort of fury-frenzy, using the hammer to rip into the rock wall with freely flowing rage.
“FUCK! FUCK!” He hurls the hammer across the burrow. It lands with a thud, and he sinks to his knees.
I can scarcely swallow as I watch his back, crisscrossed with shadows that dance as he pants. He lets out another growl of rage, his fist tugging his hair, before he slowly stands and walks back to his sleeping bag. He lies on his side, still breathing hard, though silent now, and covers his face with both hands.
I hear something like a groan, and then a choking sound that makes my chest go hot with sorrow for him.
When I sink down beside him on my own bag, he rubs his forehead with such force, his knuckles whiten. “Sorry.” His big hand sinks into his dark hair, fingers tugging harshly at the damp locks.
“Don’t be sorry. Next, it will be me.”
His hands drag down his face, one covering his throat as the other rubs at his temple. “Finley?” It’s near-whimpered.
I lean closer. “Yes?”
His body shudders as his jaw clenches. His hand, covering his face, curls like a claw, and the hairs on my arms feel like they’re lifting.
