by James, Ella
Holly has her dreams. Nothing’s happened to her yet to make her doubt their power. Holly’s got both parents, and they worship her. I’ve been in her house at night when her mum makes that lovely bisque and her father does his crossword by the wood stove. Holly lives next door to Dorothy, and they’ll look at magazines and file each other’s nails for hours. I adore them both, but all of that is foreign to me. It seems…silly.
I look at my own plain nails, curl my freezing hand into a fist. I use my fist to blot the moon. My hand looks like it’s glowing. I’ve still got it stretched up when I hear footfall—heavy steps, and moving quickly. I sit partway up, then lie back down and tilt my head in the direction of the path that runs up toward the volcano.
When I hear movement on my other side, my stomach drops. Someone’s on the plateau with me. I roll over slowly, careful not to make a sound. When I see him silhouetted in the moonlight, all the breath leaves my lungs.
He looks taller, wider, from my vantage point here on the ground: a shadow figure stopped perhaps a meter from the cliffs’ edge. I watch as he folds his arms in front of his chest. He stands with his feet a bit apart, as if he’s bracing for the wind…which I suppose he is.
Watching him, I feel a clawing sense of want, a sort of breathless desperation for him. It doesn’t do for me to be so near him. I shut my eyes and pray he’ll pass by quickly. Will this be the last time we’re in such proximity? I count down the weeks till his departure as I sit frozen with my eyes closed. Nine weeks—plus or minus. Do I hope for the former or the latter?
I breathe deeply, losing a bit of my balance so I have to open my eyes. When they latch onto him again, I’m alarmed to find he’s nearer to the edge. His head is down, as if perhaps he’s looking over.
Don’t be foolish, Declan.
What’s he thinking? Is he tired? Cold? Sad? I want to know it all, and yet it isn’t mine to know. I grit my teeth as tears fill my eyes. I wish I could steal away without him hearing, but I don’t believe I can.
My throat tightens so fiercely, I can scarcely draw a breath. It’s the latter, I decide. I’d like him to leave sooner. I can’t even look at him without aching.
As if he hears my thoughts, he steps much closer to the cliffs’ unstable edge.
Careful, Sailor.
As if in defiance, he takes a small step. Terror swells in my chest. I feel like I’m in a dream where I should run, but my body is frozen.
When he moves again—to sink down to the ground—I nearly expire from fear. I tell myself he’s only sitting, and he’s perhaps half a meter from the edge, not there at it. I watch as he brings his knees up to his chest and drapes an arm over them. His hand strokes back through his hair. Then his head bows and one arm comes over it. His hand rifles through his hair, tugs at the tresses. I watch as his shoulders rise and fall.
Lord, give him strength. Give him peace. You alone can ease his pain.
Despite my prayer and my deep belief that God can ease him, I’m swamped with a desperate feeling. One of panic, same as in my drowning dreams. I feel ill with the need to go to him, to hold him as he held me. It’s the only thing I want, and yet…I can’t.
I wipe my eyes. I lower my hand in time to see him scoot still closer to the drop-off. He drapes his legs over.
My heart stops—and then I’m moving, gliding toward him with the iron will of an angel. There’s no question. I will reach him.
The frigid breeze slaps my cheeks as he shifts there the ledge. Overhead, the stars pulse. Then I’m dropping to my knees beside him. I can’t even breathe his name, can only latch onto his shoulder with a low moan.
As he turns toward me, I see his face has got that lost look I remember from the burrow.
“Declan?” I can’t tell who’s trembling—he or I? Panting fills my ears as I cling to his arm.
“Shimmy back…” I gasp, “before you frighten me.” A cracked laugh squeezes from my throat. “Please.”
I look up and find his face looks frozen, his eyes fixed on the sea.
“I loathe this ledge. So dangerous.” I press my face against his shoulder as I breathe in deep pulls. “I hate heights.” My voice quakes as I imagine the rock below us breaking away.
Declan’s hand squeezes my shoulder, and I open my eyes. Then he reaches back with both arms, palms against the ground as if he might push off the ledge. I throw my arms around his neck and lock on.
The next second is a riot of sensation. I dig my nails into his nape as the fall flickers through me like the old films they projected at school. The sharp air and the dizzy plummet twist my senses as my mind plays out a reel of our demise. I’m so certain I’ll fall with him that when instead he shifts away from the ledge, my mind can’t quite comprehend.
“Finley?”
I’m gasping as he stands.
He frowns down at me. “Why are you here?” he rasps.
I look up at him between strands of my wind-blown hair. I swallow hard. “I saw you.” My still-racing heart stammers. I can barely rise up on my quaking legs. I’m pulsing with adrenaline. But stand I do.
Bright moonlight hides his features from me as I step closer. My hands curl into fists. “You must be mad! Or have a death wish!”
I pace around him. From a different angle, I find his shadowed face a mask of apathy. “What was going through your mind? I’d bloody like to know!”
When he doesn’t move, I shove him. “You could have fallen, easily! That rock sloughs off daily!” I can see the muscle at his jaw tic. Good. “What were you thinking? Fancying a midnight swim? It takes eight minutes to drown in the ocean. Have you ever put an egg timer for eight minutes and thought of that? Because I have!” A sob catches in my throat, and he strides to me.
“Fuck.” It’s so soft, I’m not sure he actually said it. His strong arms encircle me. They’re damp and shaking, as is his chest.
I breathe deeply through my nose, too furious to cry.
“Why are you here, Finley?” His big hand rubs circles on my back. “Are you okay?”
I feel him inhale deeply, and I want to strike him—so I step away.
“You nearly died! A stiff wind would have blown us over.” Thoughts race through my mind, but I can’t seem to fold them into language. Even these few minutes after, panic grips my heart. I realize my eyes have sprung a leak and wipe my face. “I don’t think I’ve ever been so frightened!”
His face is a mask. “I’m sorry.” Such a flat voice.
“Were you going to jump?” I laugh, the sound a bit unhinged. “You think you have wings, Declan Carnegie?”
His mouth tightens.
“Is that a yes or no?”
“No.”
“Are you quite sure?”
“Yeah, Finley.” He shuts his eyes. “I’m fucking sure.”
“Then you’re the biggest fool that’s ever traveled here! Dangling your legs off that way…”
He rubs his eyes with one hand. I can see his taut jaw. “I’m sorry I scared you.” One sharp breath, and then release, and his eyes open, peering at me. “Should you be at home?” He tilts his head behind him, toward Gammy’s. “You need a ride?”
His voice is low and soft. It makes me want him. When he breathes, it makes me want him. Wanting him sends fury beating through my veins.
“Have you got a car up here then?” I wave around the moon-drenched plateau, and his lips quirk. Unbelievable.
“I could drive you from my place.” As he says it, he looks down. It takes a moment for his gaze to rise to mine again. When it does, his mouth is soft; his eyes are cautious.
“I’m quite fine. Are you, though?” Tears well in my eyes as I replay what happened.
“Yeah. I…uh…went running.” He glances down at himself, and I realize he’s in dark sweats and a pale tee, wearing runners. “Figured I’d stop here and…you know. Watch the water.”
I nod. My throat stings as I try to keep my tears in.
“I’m sorry I scared you.” I watch him shift
his weight. In the darkness, I think he bites the inside of his cheek—one of his tells. “And I’m sorry—” He blows his breath out. “I’m sorry for what you said. Before.” He breathes deeply again, his big shoulders sinking. “You were right.”
He’s looking down again, the fingers of his right hand touching his left elbow. For the barest instant, his eyes touch mine.
He’s quick to turn away. “Just knock if you want a ride, okay?”
And he’s off.
Chapter Thirty-One
Declan
I’m just rounding that big field behind the house when I hear her behind me.
“Declan?”
I turn to Finley with my eyes throbbing, finding her maybe fifteen feet behind me, one hand drawn up to her throat as if she thinks she needs a shield. “Right about what?”
It’s windy. She pushes her hair out of her face.
I jam my hands into my pockets. Rub my lips together till I’m sure that I can keep my voice steady. Then I say, “I was selfish. Just thinking about me—what I want.” My heart pounds as she steps closer. I shift so my left arm stays behind me.
“What do you want?” she whispers.
I shake my head. “Don’t do this, Finley. I’m fine, and you’ll be okay, too.” In the moonlight, she looks like she’s shivering. I think maybe I see tears on her face. She steps closer, and I’m sure.
“Hey…” I take a half-step toward her before remembering I can’t touch her. “You should let me drive you back.”
Her mouth trembles as she shakes her head.
“Want to come inside…just for a second?”
She shakes her head.
“What’s the matter, Siren?”
Tears spill down her cheeks. I step closer to her, but I don’t know what to do. Can I hug her? Would that make things worse?
“C’mon, S…I wasn’t gonna jump off. That’s just crazy.”
She shakes her head. “I’m haunted.” It’s a ragged whisper.
Shit. “I’m really sorry. Keep in mind that I’m a lot heavier than you are. I couldn’t get blown off. And the rock was steady. I’m a climber. I could tell. Maybe it was a bad idea, but I wasn’t going to fall.”
“Weren’t you, though?” She steps closer, peering at me with her leaking eyes, and I feel like she can see right through me. “I miss you.” Her face crumples, and her shoulders jerk a little as she covers her face, speaking from behind her hand. “Since this morning…I miss you.”
She puts both hands over her face, and I start shaking like the freak I am. More than anything, I want to put my arms around her, but what she said today still stands. I know her well enough to know it’s her statement of record.
Please don’t break my heart.
I swore to myself that I wouldn’t.
I put a hand over her shoulder, because that’s all that seems appropriate between friends. And I can do that. I can’t not be her friend. “You’ll feel better after some sleep. Everything looks better in the morning.”
Her head lifts, her brown eyes flashing. “What bollocks is that? I won’t feel better in the morning! If anything, I’ll feel worse as time elapses…without you.” The word cracks.
She holds her forehead, and I give in. I put an arm around her back and draw her carefully against my side. “C’mon, Finny. Let me take you home. I didn’t mean to fuck your night up. I’m sorry.”
I glance at my left arm, but I think the bleeding’s stopped. I got most of what was dripping blotted off at the plateau. She won’t see it if I’m careful when I steer.
I shut my eyes for just a second as we walk toward the car, trying to memorize the feeling of her body against mine. After this, I’ve gotta stay the fuck away from her.
She stops when we get to the car and stares up at me. “You can’t take me home,” she whispers. “All the chatter.”
After a second, I realize she means people would talk.
“Oh—what happened?” She reaches across me, pointing toward my left arm, and my stomach nosedives. “Did you hurt yourself? Are you all right?”
“Yeah.” I run my right hand back through my damp hair so she can’t see my left side as well. “Going hard. Ran into something.” I square my shoulders, keeping my face impassive. “You want some company on your walk?”
She looks at the ground, then up at me again. “Why don’t I walk you in and peek at your arm? That way I won’t worry for you.”
She looks weird, like she might cry, and I feel like the biggest dick alive. What was I thinking when I touched her in the closet at the burger place that night? If I’d kept my damn hands to myself, we wouldn’t be here right now.
I suck a breath back, knowing damn well I can’t refuse her. I say, “Sure. If you want.”
As she walks into the house in front of me and I step in behind her, I imagine kissing Finley. I could take her by surprise, make her forget why she came in, and keep my arm behind her. Hide. It’s every addict’s first instinct.
We wind up in the living room, and I’m shaking because I can’t do that. I can’t kiss her. She told me to keep my goddamn distance. It’s not her fault I crashed her party, losing my shit on the fucking cliffs. That shit is my fault. Now I’ve got to make this right, then get her home.
“Sit down.” I wave at the couch. “Take your coat off. Someone brought some good stuff by—Miss Laura?”
“Miss Alice’s twin,” she murmurs with a nod.
“Yeah.” I don’t remember who Miss Alice is, but I walk toward the kitchen as I say, “Sit down. I’ll get you some.”
It’s darker in the living room than here in the kitchen. I hope she’ll wait there. When I don’t see her in the doorway, I run the sink’s faucet and stick my arm under the cold water.
Fuck. It still looks like shit. Like one big bruise, but you can see the needle marks along the hump of my vein. Would she know what that means? Yeah, dickhead. She’s not an idiot.
My gaze flies to the knives. The worst of the damage is right there in the crease of my elbow. That bad bruise is probably what she saw in the moonlight. If I could make a little cut there, she might notice that and not the other shit.
With another glance over my shoulder, I grab the knife and set it in the sink. I look back again before pulling the plate of bread closer, like I’m fucking with that. Then I lower my arm into the sink and, with shaking fingers, drag the knife tip over my skin.
As I set the knife back into the sink’s trough, she says, “Declan?”
Shit.
I nearly jump out of my skin as she strolls over.
“Oh, it’s friendship bread. We do a lot of that here lately.” I fold my arm up as she looks from the plate to me. “Have you tried it?”
Sweat prickles my hairline as I feel blood drip off my arm. Right on target, Finley’s eyebrows scrunch up. Then her eyes pop open wider, and she looks me up and down. “Are you all right?”
Her gaze dips to the floor and then snaps to my arm.
“Oh no. Sit down there.” She points at the kitchen table. I pull a chair out as she leaves the room. Then I double back and stash the knife back in its slot. You fucking idiot. I sit down and dig my fingertips into my bicep, raise the arm over my head.
Just take some deep breaths.
I do that, so I’m not shaking quite as bad when she comes back with a first-aid kit. Her brows are drawn together in concern, and her red, puffy eyes are kind enough to make me feel another wave of hatred for myself as she sits in the chair beside mine.
“There now. Let me have a look…”
I don’t want to show her, but I’m out of options. I stretch my arm out, shut my eyes. I feel weird and sweaty, kind of tingly. Her hand on my forearm makes me feel like I’m about to get sick.
I pull in some deep breaths, waiting for the gasp or murmur. Instead, she tears a packet open.
“All right. I’ll get cleaning it. All I have is alcohol on hand, so it will burn more than a bit. I’m terribly sorry.”
It
does burn. I feel it in my head and throat—a deep, deep sting that makes my eyes and mouth water. I must have gotten veins with that knife cut and not just flesh. After she’s done cleaning the gash with alcohol, I start to shake again because…endorphins. Pain—and then the absence of it—feels like pleasure to me.
I feel calm for just a minute. Calm enough to get a few deep breaths with my face hidden behind my right hand. Then her fingers drift along my vein.
She’s quiet as she cleans the puncture marks, but I’ve got my eyes shut, and everything feels like it’s spinning. She said she didn’t want to see me anymore, which means she doesn’t want to see this shit. I dig my fingers into my temples. She rubs something over the marks.
I can hear the beeps and robot voice of the defibrillator. For the thousandnth time, I wish I’d never been brought back. I think about the lines of light crisscrossing—light on water; of the sinking and the thick, pervasive cold that was my death dream…and I feel so much worse.
Finley rubs my forearm. “I’m going to do a gauze wrap so the Band-Aids don’t tug at your hairs here.”
She wraps my whole forearm, starting at the top, where she takes for-fucking-ever wrapping the cut. Before she ties it off, she whispers, “Does it feel all right?”
I nod, and she does the rest. I know it’s stupid, but I can’t look at her. Not even when her hands are off my arm, and it’s becoming weird not to. I run my hand into my hair and hold my forehead. Force myself to swallow. Speak. “Hey—could you go now?”
I fucking pray she’ll take the out. When she doesn’t reply, I exhale slowly. “Just a sewing needle.” I train my eyes on the tablecloth. “Kind of like a fake-out…for cravings.”
I can see the moonlight on the water up above me. That’s how I know it’s a hell nightmare and not some peaceful heaven vision. The way it squiggles? That part’s how I know that it’s the ocean: waves. As I drift underneath the surface, I feel pain in every part of me. Not just my chest, where it makes sense because they were doing chest compressions as I dreamed.
I feel fury. Agony. A helplessness that’s so profound, I feel it ripping at my fucking soul. I remember trying to kick my way up. It felt so urgent, like I’d be okay if I could just get to the surface. Up to…someone.