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And yet…I can’t keep away. When his fists are clenched, I stroke his hair and he relaxes. When he’s rubbing at his forehead, I massage his pressure points—which makes him moan with what I pray is pleasure. Whatever feels good, that’s my focus: fingers through his hair, my nails over his goosebumped skin. I swing the hammer in between, and when I need to sleep, I lie beside him, curling near his warm body as if we’re not strangers.
I stroke his trembling, calloused hands and whisper to him. He mumbles in return. It’s all nonsense. Once, he asks me for a napkin. Sometime a bit later, he’s speaking to someone named Nate quite emotionally. His voice cracks, and I wrap my arms around him. He presses me to his chest.
“Siren,” he moans softly. He inhales near my hair.
“I’m here with you.”
When he seems more restful, I hammer the cave’s wall like a madwoman, exposing perhaps another eight inches of our boulder.
I’m smiling at my progress when I glance at the pallet and find it empty. I turn a bit more and find him standing directly behind me, shaking like a blade of grass in a gale. He looks wild-eyed and exhausted, his hair sticking up comically.
My belly tightens. “Hi there,” I murmur, stepping slowly toward him. “You got up quite stealthy.”
“I’ll be back.” His voice is flat and hoarse as he looks past me, toward the scattered rubble pile. I watch as he disappears behind it. When he emerges, dazed about the eyes but still upright, I feel a crest of relief.
“Let me help you to the blankets.”
I take his arm. He doesn’t protest as I help him to the pallet, spread my sleeping bag back over him. I kneel there beside him, and he looks at me with tired eyes.
“How are you, Carnegie?”
His hand closes around my wrist, his fingers caressing my inner arm. “Soft,” he murmurs.
Warmth spreads through me.
“I’ll be better soon. Another day.”
I feel a bite of horror at the notion—even one more day here is too much—but I don’t show him that. “I’m making good progress without you—more and more rock falling.”
“I’m sorry.”
“You’ll be better soon, as you said.”
“I just…can’t sleep.” The words are whispered. Hoarse.
“What would help you?” I whisper in return.
He shakes his head, his mouth tight, and I feel near ill with sorrow for him. With my lower lip between my teeth, I lie beside him. Then, making a bit of a gamble, I wrap an arm gently across his chest. I feel his breath hitch, then a tremble.
“I’m not good…at getting off stuff,” he says in a creaky voice.
I snuggle closer. “What do you mean, darling?”
“Subs aren’t that bad. Makes me achy.” He winces, one hand going to his forehead. “It’s the benzos, I think.”
“Is it?”
He nods.
“Two years is too long.” His voice cracks on the words; then his mouth pulls taut, and I can see emotion quiver through his features.
“For what?”
“To be like this.”
I’ve no clue what he’s saying; it’s all nonsense. I lean my head against his shoulder. “Why would you be…that way for two years?” I murmur.
“Because it’s been so long.”
