Page 103 of Dear John

33

ISLA

I sat wrappedin the tree skirt as IKE continued to pound at the door. So many hours had passed. A few of the tea lights had flickered out, but overall, we still had decent lighting compared to when I woke up in complete darkness.

My stomach growled loudly, protesting the lack of food. I had to stop decorating, partly because I was running out of things to put up, but mostly because all the work was making me thirsty. I couldn’t remember a time that I had ever been so parched. No, that wasn’t the right word. My body was aching for water. I could feel it in my muscles and in my eyes. It was amazing how something as simple as lack of water could make you feel like your whole body was taking a siesta.

Then again, wasn’t the limit a person could survive without water just three days?

I shuddered, not wanting to think about that. Every bit of me was cold. My toes were going numb, and the only reason my fingers were still moving was because I kept tucking them inside IKE’s jacket.

The banging against the door was growing weaker and farther between hits. I knew IKE was getting tired, but I’d already told him to give it a rest three times. Something hadchanged when I showed him that picture. He stalked away, determined to break us out of here, though I wasn’t sure how that was going to happen. Unless he suddenly became MacGyver and figured out how to break us out with a Christmas tree, I didn’t see us escaping anytime soon.

He hit the wall one last time and practically collapsed on the ground, heaving hard. In the dim light, it was difficult to see his facial features, but I had to assume it was something like guilt or defeat that showed on his face.

“Come sit down with me,” I said, my voice cracking from lack of water. I patted the cardboard I’d torn apart to act as a buffer between the cold floor and my skin. It wasn’t much, but it was better than nothing.

After a minute, he stumbled over to me and sat down, his heart beating erratically after pounding away at that damn door for hours. “What is this?” he muttered.

“A tree skirt.”

Grunting, he tugged me closer. I willingly snuggled against him, my body wracked with chills as the temperature dropped in the container.

“It must be night,” I whispered.

“Probably,” he sighed.

“How long do you think we’ve been here?” My voice seemed to echo around the container, giving an eerie feel with the lights casting a soft glow.

“Twelve hours. Maybe more. It depends on how long we were out.”

I sighed and pressed my face against his chest. His skin was cold through his shirt, but the beat of his heart against my cheek calmed me. “I’m cold.”

He tugged me closer until I was practically wrapped around his body. His hands rubbed my body, trying to work the heat back in, but I wasn’t sure anything would ever make me warmagain. He scooted until we were laying flat on the cardboard, me resting on top of his body. I wanted to protest and tell him this couldn’t be comfortable for him, but when I started to shift off him, he held me firmly in place.

Sighing, I rested my head on his chest and listened to the sound of his breaths slowly rising and falling. “How come you’ve never had a tree?”

His hands slowed their movement, settling on my back in a loose hug. “When you have no money, you don’t need things like Christmas trees. There wouldn’t have been anything under it.”

“Where did you grow up?”

He didn’t answer at first, and I thought he would be just like Kavanaugh, refusing to answer any personal questions. But he surprised me.

“Louisiana.”

“You don’t sound like you’re from the south.”

“I worked very hard to lose the accent,” he admitted.

“Do you ever go back and visit?”

I felt him move and assumed he shook his head. “There’s no one to visit. The town died a long time ago.”

That made me swivel my head to face him. “What about your family?”

“Dead.”

“I’m sorry,” I murmured.

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