Page 2 of Martyr
He refuses to look at me. Or talk to me. Or be in the same room as me.
It’s made our group therapysoenjoyable. He lasts only a few minutes before something sets him off. The sound of my voice, perhaps, or the way my gaze lingers on the side of his face?
None of this is my fault.
Not the stupid car accident that knocked common sense—and, okay, the memory of the last two years—right out of his pretty skull.
Not my delivery of his first love’s death. Although, sure, it wasn’t the best timing.
And it’s definitely not my fault that he’s trapped here with me, or that I can’t stop staring at him. I mean, the guy told me he loved me, and now he hates me. What am I supposed to do with that?
Should I shelve my feelings now that I’m literally stuck on this island with him?
I’mtrying, damn it. I’m trying not to care, but every time I seehisface, or hearhisvoice, it sends little spasms of pain through my heart. Worse than the withdrawal, worse than craving heroin.
Him being here makes me want to swim through the icy water, back to Sterling Falls, and find Gabriel. To bare my forearms and beg him to justpleaseput me out of my fucking misery.
Because that’s what Saint is. Misery incarnate.
Those facts don’t stop him. Actually, I don’t think he registers my feelings at all. Like right now, the hallway practically vibrates with shocked silence. He saw me coming, amidst a crowd of fellow patients, and froze. Then, he spun on his heel, barged past someone, and tore outside.
In the middle of winter.
Without a coat.
If I didn’t care, I wouldn’t care.
That makes sense.
I just care so damn much, I want to strangle him.
So I hurry back to my room to grabmycoat, then follow him. The fresh snow makes it easy. His footprints are clearly visible. He’s heading in the direction of the dock. Like someone will be there to pick him up?
Or maybe he just wants to chuck himself into the ocean.
The wind snaps at my clothes, and my shoes are soaked through in seconds.
Damn him.
I keep going, though, because as much as I want to fucking strangle him, I also don’t want him to die.
Mary Catherine, one of the other people staying on Isle of Paradise for the trauma center, whispered that any hint of suicide will mandate a twenty-four-seven watch until he’s clear.
And I think that would actually kill him.
So I’ve kept it to myself, and he’s wisely kept his mouth shut, too.
Finally, he comes into sight. The gray zip-up sweatshirt and sweatpants combo really doesn’t stand out easily in the snow, amidst bare trees. Some pines held on to their dark-green leaves, but not many.
I open and close my mouth. If I yell for him now, there’s every chance he’ll just freaking increase his pace. Walking—eh, stomping—through the snow is one thing.Runningis another.
The urge to call to him, though, bubbles up in me anyway. I lock my jaw against the desire.
He goes out onto the dock, exactly as predicted. I stop at the top of it, blocking his escape, before I make a noise. My cough is just loud enough to be heard over the ocean and wind.
He whirls around, and immediately, his eyes narrow.
Sterling Falls is straight across from this dock. If he were stupid enough to jump, he could swim the distance. Ten miles, maybe? Just close enough to see the barest hint of light on a clear night. If it was summer. In the winter, he’d get hypothermia in a minute.
