God, what would Kev say now?
You're smarter than this, pipsqueak, and now look at what you've done. I told you men were bad for you. That's why you only need me.
I squeeze Enzo's hand harder, now seeking comfort from the man with a frosted heart rather than giving it. He's the last person I should be seeking anything from. But as much as I hate him for getting us into this situation—something that could've been avoided if he had only looked at the forecast—I hate myself more. Because at the end of the day, none of this would've happened if I wasn't such a shit person and left him alone.
We're in a terrible situation, but even though Sylvester makes my skin crawl, it's better than being out in that cold, lonely ocean. It's better than being dead.
At least, I think it is.
Enzo's hand flexes, so I quickly pull from his grip before he catches me. Frantically wiping the tears from my cheeks, I manage to gather myself right as his eyes open.
“What are you doing?” he asks, voice raspy and causing my lower stomach to clench. Even half asleep, his tone is cold and hard, yet the most enticing sound I've ever heard.
Clearing my throat, I clip, “Couldn't sleep.”
“You're crying,” he observes.
“I'm not,” I lie.
He's quiet for a beat, the silence arctic.
“I'm sure you've never had to be strong before, Sawyer, but now is the time to learn.”
Then, he turns over, and I close my eyes, gathering the strength I so greatly lack and holding the tears in while the cracks in my chest deepen.
Chapter 10
Enzo
The last time I went fishing was in college. Calling it fishing is being generous, though. Really, it was four dudes going out on a boat and drinking too much beer because we were too fucking exhausted to do anything else. Exams were kicking our asses, and I had more interest in going overboard and swimming with the fish than I did bringing them on to board.
My shoddy experience is now biting me in the ass.
“You're a fish expert, but you don't know how to catch them? Isn't that, like, a part of Fish School 101?”
Whoever said that breathing exercises help manage anger is a fucking con artist. I've tried a million of them since we've been out here, and I still want to choke her.
Biggest problem with that is every time I entertain that fantasy, I'm also fucking her.
Fuck.
“I don't fish, Sawyer. It is killing the ecosystem, which goes against everything I've literally dedicated my entire career to. I'm more interested in saving the ocean.”
She purses her lips and nods thoughtfully.
“Well, I appreciate your gallant heroism. I'll make it my life's mission to have them write a book about you once we get off this island. Until then, we need to eat. Sylvester has made it clear he doesn't have enough food for us.”
“Yes, I'm very aware of that. Hence, the attempt at fishing,” I bite out, waving a hand at our failure of a trap. We've been out here for hours and haven't even caught plankton.
We both slept all of yesterday, and aside from occasionally getting up to pee before nine o'clock, we didn't leave the room. Both of us are still holding out on using that bucket.
Now it's the following day, and I'm no less exhausted and sore from the shipwreck. And the little witch tromping in the water isn't fucking helping.
Today is Monday, and I'm confident Troy will call the police when I don't show up at the research center. In the years we've known each other, he's never seen me miss work.
“What if we try spearfishing?” Sawyer suggests, utterly oblivious to my annoyance with her. That, or she doesn't care, and if that's the case, I have no issue making her care.
“How do you plan on making a spear?”
In lieu of a verbal response, she rushes toward the lighthouse, skipping over the sharp rocks with ease, despite her feet still being injured. At least she wrapped them this time.
Ten minutes later, she's rejoining me with a long, gnarled wooden cane, a butcher knife, and duct tape.
When I just stare, she gives me a wide grin.
“He let me use his old cane if I promised not to break it.”
“Pretty sure you break everything you touch,” I comment. Her smile drops, but she immediately forces it back into place. However, any light that was previously in her eyes has dissipated, and now I feel like the thief.
An apology is on the tip of my tongue, but I bite it back. I fell for her tricks and took pity on her before; I refuse to fall for it again.
Instead of responding, she quietly gets to work on constructing her spear. I cross my arms, unable to pull my gaze away from her, no matter how hard I try.