Page 6

Dead Weight

Calvin

“ I ’m not leaving you here. That’s fucking stupid.” I glance at Easton’s limp arm. And he angles it away from me.

He said it earlier, and he’s right—there’s no way we’re going to get over the mountain like this.

The handholds are too important, and he’s barely got one arm, let alone two.

He’s sitting on the ledge, knees under his chin, shoulders rounded.

His head hangs, his focus on his feet or the bottom of the cliff we climbed up.

“Are you going into fucking shock?” I shouldn’t have said it. The last thing I need is for him to lose it. We’re at least two thousand feet above sea level.

“What? No.” Easton jerks his head back, but his no didn’t have his normal arrogant force.

“Well then, don’t say stupid shit like that. If I leave you on this ledge by yourself and you roll to your death, there are going to be people fucking upset with me.”

“Way to make me getting shot about you.”

I’m glaring. Seriously, how did we ever have a truce going?

I have no fucking idea. He’s not good, and he’s not going to get better without rest and water.

“We stay here and wait it out until morning. We’ve almost lost light.

It’s going to get dark quickly. Ten, fifteen minutes, maybe. At least here we’ve got a ledge.”

“Sure, whatever.” He’s sitting with his legs crossed like some weird yoga guest on a day charter. Rich will do what rich want to do. That’s what they say, and it’s true.

“Let me see your arm.”

“It’s here. I’m not getting up to let you glare at it.”

“Fine.” I ease over to him. The ledge isn’t narrow by any means, but we’re both big enough that when we sit, we take up most of the room. I lift the edge of the bandage I made from my shorts’ fabric and look at it. “There’s got to be something we could use to slow the bleeding.”

“I’m sure there is, but our resident botanist is on the other side of the island.”

“Right, Haley. I keep forgetting that was her major.”

Easton’s forehead furrows. “How?”

“We don’t talk about it.”

“Do you even know the girl? You spout ‘I love you’ to her enough. But where is she from?”

“Florida. No. Fuck.” She was talking to Dante about something the other day. Crabbing. “Delaware.”

“No.”

“New Jersey,” I say.

“Are you fucking serious? Maryland.”

“There’s something about Delaware and New Jersey,” I growl at him.

“Her dog is in New Jersey with the ex’s mother. And her dad lives in Delaware.”

“That doesn’t mean I don’t know her.”

“You forgot she was a botany major.”

“So I forgot what she has a degree in.”

Easton shakes his head. “She didn’t finish it. Her mom died. And she got into yachting. She was going to go back, but she met her ex. Then her grandmother died, and she stayed in yachting.”

My stomach is turning into knots. “I still know her.” Did I know about her grandmother?

“We’ve been on this island for five months.”

“159 days.”

“ That you know.”

“So what? I can love her and not know that.”

“So, 159 days. What do you know about the rest of us? Are you that stuck in your own head that you can’t be empathetic to anyone but yourself? Fuck, don’t answer that, because you don’t even have empathy for yourself, do you? How many siblings does Dante have?”

I shake my head.

“One sister, who has”—Easton’s picking up and piling pebbles in front of himself—“two kids, twins. What about Zane?”

“A sister.”

“Okay, good. But he does mention her a hell of a lot.”

“That means nothing. You’re being absurd. You don’t know anything about me.” What in the hell does he think he’s getting at, anyway?

“One brother who cheated with your girlfriend. They have two kids. Your parents live on the family farm. You have a degree in archeology, but you prefer motors. You spend your free time taking them apart and secretly want to break the world record for speed putting a small engine back together. You love your parents, but going home is too hard?—”

“Shut the fuck up. I’m not?—”

“An asshole? No, some of the time you’re not.”

“Enough. We don’t know that the pirates didn’t land. I might be an asshole, but what the fuck will it matter if we’re both dead?” I stand and close my eyes. “Stay fucking there. Behind that rock. I’m going to get some water for you.”

“With what? Your fucking pocketknife? Just sit down and rest. The last thing we need is for you to be flashing your pasty white ass at the pirates.”

I look down at my legs. The strip of skin that would have been under the bandage I cut off for him is pasty white.

“It will give them a target since you’re too fucking slow on land.

Just stay put. I’m going to scout up ahead and see if there’s a better place to stop for the night.

Move behind that rock outcropping on the side. You’ll be less likely to be seen.”

He inclines his head to me, which I take as a fuck you .

I make my way back over to the side we were coming up before we stopped on the ledge.

I reach and stretch for each foothold before I make it up.

I’m hoping the damn pirates gave up on us, because Rockwell’s right.

I’m a pretty large target when I’m pulling from one handhold to the next.

What I’m really hoping for is that this side of the mountain has a cave or two like the other side. But there’s nothing so far.

I’m up another ten feet when a small ledge opens up with a path that cuts across the mountain.

Fucking hell. The little path is big enough to walk one foot at a time.

I turn back, staring at the way I came. Is there any possible way that Rockwell will be able to get up forty vertical feet before the sun goes down?

The sun wavers on the horizon. I’ve got no time to see where this path leads before I go back and try to haul his ass up.

Him staying on the ledge with no water? Sunrise won’t bring anything but heat.

I fucking kick myself for making the decision to charge up here.

Hiding in the underbrush on the other side of the stream—that would have been a much better idea.

Fuck. Second-guessing myself isn’t how I operate. Ten feet down the path, twenty. I don’t have time to see where it goes, but if it doesn’t open out onto something... staying where Rockwell is, that’s the better plan.

Pebbles skitter down the side of the cliff from where my bare feet are moving quickly. The goat path goes on. I’m going with my gut. The path straight up isn’t one a goat could make. They’re coming from somewhere. And that somewhere is better than here.

Holding on to the side of the wall, I pivot and make my way back to the sheer cliff. I map out the best holds for coming up as I descend to Rockwell.

When my feet drop down onto the ledge, Easton stands. He’s not holding his arm. So maybe we can do this. “What you find? Water?”

“No. The stream’s coming down farther north up over the side of the mountain. But I did find a goat path. One that might take us over the side ridge to where the pomelos are.”

“I thought you said Chicken Beach and the pomelos don’t connect?”

“I didn’t think they did. And they might not.

But we fucking don’t have much daylight left.

I’m betting on this goat path taking us to an easier way back to camp.

Or at least not here. We haven’t seen any goats here.

And I didn’t see any evidence of them down where we started climbing up.

The best thing for us to do is follow the damn trail and see where it goes. It’s up higher, though.”

“Let’s do it.”

“You sure you’re up for it?”

“Fuck, Green. If you tell me we have to do something to survive... I’m not going to lie down like a toddler and beat my one good fist in the dirt like I have to have it my way.

You know this shit better than me. If there’s anything competition taught me, it’s when someone knows more than you and they tell you to do something, just fucking do it. ”

I give him a nod. I have never, not once, taken someone else’s advice without questioning it. But what the hell? “Let’s go. I’ve mapped out a route that I think will be the best to do with one arm. It’s going to be hard.”

“Anything worthwhile always is.”

He’s not the typical rich son prick. Some of the time.

I scramble slowly up, pointing out each hold as I go. It’s a longer path than the one I zipped up the first time, but this one doesn’t have him stretching his body out, letting his feet do most of the work. Still, he’s keeping up.

He’s right behind me. And from what I can make out, he’s following my handholds mostly. “The rest did me good,” he says.

We’ve got another ten feet to go before the little trail. Rockwell’s huffing with each reach of his good hand, but he’s not slowing or complaining. I’m going at half-speed, letting him catch up with every few holds.

“Yeah, you’re looking good.” I’m off to the side.

A few more feet and I’ll be on the goat trail.

The fingerholds to get to it are farther apart than the rest of the holds.

How the hell is he going to make this one?

I scurry up onto the trail, lying on my belly.

I turn back, hanging over the edge. It’s hard on him; the last two holds to get his feet up high enough are shit far apart.

Easton cocks his head back, glancing briefly up at me. Blood is smeared over his chest, and fresh blood runs down his arm. “What?”

“Give me your good hand. I’ll pull you up.” My left foot is braced against a rock, my ass in the air.

“I’ve got it.” Instead of taking my hand, he reaches for a hold. I leave my hand out as an option.

A split second and he totters backward. I lunge forward for his arm and miss. Easton’s fingers scratch down the rock wall. Frantically, I stretch as far as I can. My nails brush his hand.

Near his waist, he finds an errant rock and holds on to it like a doorknob. His head snaps up to mine as he settles into a position. “Fuck.”

“Take my damn hand.” I hold it down to him. “Take it just to get to the next hold.”

His fingers clasp around my wrist, and I do the same to him.

I give him enough tension to get him up to the last hold before he can move his feet over.

I scrunch back, the rocks tearing at my chest, to give him enough space up on the thin ledge.

My heartbeats come on top of each other, leaving no space in between.

The shadows are long above Easton’s head as he makes his way to beside me. I catch his eyes.

“You’ve got to be fucking joking.” Easton grips the side of the wall.

Now’s a shitty time to tell me he’s afraid of heights. “What?”

“Hold on.”

“What?”

“Behind you?—”