The hill is a wave tipped to break over him.
I am the storm.
Pain ripples out of me as a laugh.
How much do you hate the one responsible for taking Ika?
I used to hate them. But... how can I? Hate doesn’t change anything.
I haul in a sharp breath.
When did he learn?
After Grandpa confronted him. After seeing this box.
Of course he’d know. My mum’s face in that clipping. He’s seen her. He shielded me from her.
The shared room makes sudden, awful sense. Trent the bottle—my bottle—cracked.
For a few room-smashing seconds, he hated me.
Hated that his right to hate me had been ripped away.
His voice on the phone: hoarse, broken.
And yet he called.
And yet he came.
And yet he kissed me.
What happened here?
I don’t want to talk about it. You’ll run away.
I haven’t run yet.
I’m afraid.
You can tell me anything.
Please let me keep this a little while. Please let me be wrong. Just... for a while.
I’ve dragged him out to sea.
And he’s clinging to the wreckage, pleading,don’t leave.
riptide
A sudden drag beneath the surface where love, fear, and truth all pull the hardest.
Grandpa pats my hand. He says the words aloud, slowly, as if anchoring himself to each one.
“I had a stroke right after the accident. My mind... it did things to make me forget. Trent had already lost so much. He was terrified. I was the only one he had left. He needed to keep Ika alive through stories, through postcards.”
He touches the box gingerly. “Over the years, I’ve remembered bits. Found clippings, boxed them. Then... forgotten again. I know why he did what he did. I know why he brought you home.”
Grandpa couldn’t be clearer.
