On the right, Trent’s space.
Simple, neat.
An open wardrobe with hanging clothes—including some Under the Sea fanfare.
Books on the dresser and bedside table.
A basket of clean-but-yet-to-be-folded washing.
A bottom bunk loosely made, pillow on the right.
Above is Ika’s bunk.
Clean sheets. Pillow on the left.
Below, a black and white rug.
My foot nudges it, and the pattern becomes clear. A soccer ball.
I glance from it to three pairs of cleats stuffed in the bottom shelf, and possibly another inside a shoebox. Trophies sitting above. An old electric piano and stool takes up a chunk of space. And a dresser littered with half-used hair gel, shaving cream, and Calvin Klein cologne.
The cologne... it’s the same one I wear. My fingers graze the half-used bottle. I can smell it. But the whisper of its scent is coming from me. “Is that why you chose me to be your man?” I mumble, feeling Trent watching me from the doorway. “Do I smell like him?”
“Yes,” he says, and my stomach . . . tightens.
Not just from his answer; from how easily he gives it. There’s not a moment’s hesitation. Ika’s scent is on me, and he’s already claimed it as his brother. I’m Ika.
I suddenly have an urge to scrub it off, have him smell the scent underneath it,myscent. Why? Why do I want this man to seeme? Just because he looks handsome? Or because, in those first moments, he saw through me.
Deep down, or perhaps not that deep down after all, do I want someone to see?
Then Trent speaks again and the discomfort shifts slightly. “You also look how I imagine he would, a decade older.”
I turn to him, tucking my trembling, scented hands into my shorts’ pockets. “How is that?”
“Like a fairytale prince.”
One who should have gotten a princess and a happy ever after. Not...
I swallow over a shiver. I don’t know how to respond, but Trent is moving into his side of the room, and I have to say something. I toss a finger towards the rug, the cleats. “If you expect me to play, I’ll need a stunt double.”
I glance over his side of the room again and shift towards a gleam tucked just behind the curtain.
Trent exhales. Not in frustration—fondly. “He also always snuck over to my side.”
My fingers still on the medal hanging from a small hook on the window frame. “Yours or his?” I murmur after a thick swallow.
“His thank you. For teaching him how to play.”
I let the medal hang and turn on my heel. Trent is a shadow behind me, large, close, steady. I look up on an uneven breath and lower my gaze to the sunglasses tucked in his shirt. “Why do you use this room?”
“That’s the way we grew up. It’s a small house.”
“I’m sure you could’ve squeezed out another space since.”
“Grandpa would be confused.”
“So you sleep in here to keep up the ruse for him.”
