On The Other Side

Chapter 18 - Lost Hope

GEORGE
—

With my heart racing, Clay's hushed words reach me from behind. "I'll jump first," his whisper echoes, taking in the five-foot drop. My gaze locks on the substantial trash containers that we have to jump into.

I shake my head, my nerves evident, and gulp audibly. "I'll do it," I whisper back, feeling the weight of the decision. Clay's hand lands on my back, reassuringly.

"You've got this, George," he reassures me, his words melting away some of my anxiety.

I nod, mustering my courage, and position my legs to go first. With a push from my hands, I extract myself from the vent. My heart races as I fall, hitting the trash bags sooner than expected. Disgust washes over me at the foul smell of the containers.

I rise to my feet, my gaze lifting towards the vent where Clay is peeking out. A proud smile occupying his lips.

Here it goes. Once again, a surge of butterflies fills my stomach, a mix of anticipation and nervousness intertwining within me.

I nod stepping aside to clear his path. Returning the nod, he maneuvers his way out of the vent, landing dangerously close to me.

I extend my hand to help him up, but he pulls me down beside him. A chuckle escapes my lips as I sarcastically gag at the overwhelming smell.

"We smell so bad," Clay remarks with a smile, his hand smacking his forehead in playful exasperation. Lying side by side on our backs, the absurdity of the situation sinks in.

A chuckle escapes me, and I cast my eyes upward to the stars. Inhaling deeply, I savor the sensation of the crisp air entering my lungs. It feels like I've been locked in that room for at least a month.

It's quiet now, and I like it like that. There are no signs of danger, but we're still on high alert.

Suddenly, Clay's warm palm slides against mine and he threads our fingers together, resting our hands on his lower stomach.

His attention returns to the stars above us, acting like he didn't just attempt to set me on fire. That's exactly what it feels like, my hand wrapped in his. It becomes so hot, that I feel like someone needs to douse me with water.

It's even more special, knowing that we're both smelly and bruised, probably with the worst couple of days of our lives behind us, but he still succeeds in making me feel the way I've never felt before.

My heart begins to race and I feel like my whole body is tingling. He's holding my hand.

Jesus fucking Christ.

I didn't know holding hands would feel that good. Better than a kiss.

I close my eyes and focus on the weight of his hand against mine. The width of his fingers between mine. The way his thumb occasionally runs back and forth.

After a while, he begins to make circles with his fingertips against my palm. He traces every part of my hand, my palm, my fingers, between my fingers.

With every minute that passes, I wonder what those fingers would feel like against my neck. My pulse grows heavier, but the noise of shifting bags from the container next to us quickly catches our attention.

Clay suddenly springs into action, releasing my hand and pressing a finger against his lips to signal silence. I nod in understanding, swiftly rising to my feet and crouching alongside him. Fear doesn't have time to fully settle in, because the butterflies are still fluttering in my stomach.

Clay's fingers cling to the container's edge as he carefully peeks into the neighboring one. "It's a raccoon," he exhales with relief before crouching back down.

In the darkness, I can't make out the details of his face, but I lock eyes with him and form a gentle smile on my lips. I know that we don't know each other that long, but something is so familiar about him. It feels like I've known him forever.

"Clay," I murmur, and his gaze swiftly shifts from the vent above to me. His eyebrows slowly rise in response. "It's been half an hour," I remind him quietly, a note of concern lacing my words.

Clay shakes his head, determination in his eyes as he gazes back up at the vent. "He's coming, I know he is," he says, refusing to give in to doubt.

I let out a soft chuckle and point toward the road, roughly ten feet from the container we're in. "Why are you watching the vent? He's coming with his car," I inform Clay.

"I'm afraid that someone else will jump down," he admits, his focus unwavering on the vent. In agreement, I nod.

—

We're now sitting down, and the smell isn't bothering us anymore. It's been 45 minutes since our escape through the vent, yet Nick hasn't arrived, leaving us in a state of uncertainty.

Clay is still staring at the vent and I don't want to tell him to give up on Nick, but I think we'll have to.

"Hey," I softly say, gently touching his arm to gain his attention. He meets my gaze, his lips pressed into a tight line, knowing what I'm about to say. "We have to go," I whisper, but he shakes his head, unwilling to let go of hope.

"He's the only reason we got out. We're not leaving him," Clay insists, his determination unwavering as he looks back up at the vent, holding onto hope that Nick will still come through.

I nod. "Okay."

—

It's been an hour.

We've heard some gunshots and men yelling. Some of them also ran past us, talking about the possible routes we could've taken. We hid beneath the trash bags.

"It's getting dangerous, Clay," I whisper once the area falls silent again. Before I can continue, he nods in agreement and shifts the trash bags off his face.

"I know," he says as he removes the trash bags from his body, then assists me in doing the same. "We have to go," he declares with a sense of defeat, the harsh reality of our situation sinking in.

Just as we're about to jump out of the containers, the roar of a powerful engine from a nearby car catches our attention. In a swift motion, Clay grabs my arm and forcefully tugs me back down under the cover of the trash bags, our hearts pounding with anxiety.

The car comes to a stop near the trash containers, and we hold our breath in tense silence, listening for any further signs of danger. I steal a glance at Clay, his eyes filled with fear. He reaches for my hand, and we clasp each other's tightly.

"Clay!" a voice urgently whispers, and Clay's eyes widen in shock. "George!"

I smile.

It's Nick.

—