He hasn’t told me Grandpa knows. That he knows. Because he’s afraid if I know...
Turning my head feels like a fight. Like swimming against a current. I can’t quite look at him. My breathing is choppy.
I lift the bottle. “I’m sorry,” I choke. “It’s been unearthed.”
He rocks on his heels. The air pulls taut. The tug to run rises again.
Fight it. Face it. Do not pull away.
Trent looks from the bottle to me, then takes it, a gentle pluck from my hands.
“The oldies must’ve seen it under your nikau,” I stammer.
He studies the bottle where I rubbed it clean. “Playing spin the bottle with it.” A brief chuckle. “He’d laugh.”
I swallow hard. “Don’t you want to open it?”
Don’t you want to see what you’ve lost? Don’t you want to hate me?
Trent holds the bottle in both hands.
I hide my trembling ones behind my back.
He sinks to his knees. Lifts a hand to my cheek, thumb brushing away the wetness there.
“Don’t you?” I whisper again.
He shakes his head slowly. “I just want to lay it to rest.”
He buries it back under the nikau and presses the dirt firmly over it.
I watch him, my stomach somersaulting.
His arms have just opened wider.
Yet the jut of his throat, the flicker of vulnerability in his eyes, the twitch of his muscles every time I move... the taste of his fear is salty.
I crawl through the grass to him, knees wet, and wrap my arms around his neck.
I will not pull away.
It’s not enough to say it.
He has to feel it.
He presses his lips to mine, and I press back.
When we return to Wellington, when I step into our bunk-bed room, the tide drags me under again.
The scent of cologne on the rolled carpet. The broken bottle. The echo of his anguish in the air.
I will not pull away.
I climb onto the bunk and rest my head on his bare shoulder.
The next morning, I hang up Grandpa’s denim hat.
He spies me from the hall, his shuffle turning into a dance.
