“What was that?”
I force my hands to keep moving, my voice steady. “Sure.”
At three o’clock, he still hasn’t come to the studio. There’s only so long I can keep Spray’n’Wipe-ing the surfaces. Once the kiddos come in for their lesson, it’s over. Fatty finger smudges everywhere.
“Since when do you care about a polished finish?” Moana asks, eyebrows up around her hairline.
“Outrageous!” I say, absolutely horrified. “I’ve always prided myself on appearances.”
She looks me up and down. “In one respect.” She sweeps to the costume cupboard and nudges it open. “In others...”
I wince and hold my breath. But it’s useless.
It all tumbles out in an avalanche onto the reception floor. An aqua tutu, a forgotten Cinderella slipper—only one, of course. A rogue pair of fairy wings; a crumpled performance program from three years ago; half a bag of collected shells from my half-baked idea to direct a play about mermaids; a furry fedora that someone should have told me was a bad idea; a floppy rubber dolphin. I don’t know where that came from. No one does. No one dares get rid of it.
The crash, bang, clanking has the kids popping their heads out of the practice room door. Holly is peering out curiously too, and her eyes jump with laughter at the chaos—and just that makes the prospect of pushing it all back behind the door worth it.
I wave Moana towards the giggling kids. “You’ve made your point.”
Moana pokes a finger towards the spray bottle as she heads in for her lesson. “I still have questions.”
With a hefty groan, I glare at The Flood still moving towards my feet.
And that’s when the door jingles.
I make the split-second decision to get rid of the evidence. Not the unorganised mess evidence. The other evidence.
The spray bottle takes a flying leap out of my hand, landing on the furry fedora?—
—just as a boot thuds inside.
The real Flooder has arrived. The air suddenly feels heavy.
Trent pauses, taking in the costume-pocolapse. Then he takes off his sunglasses and gives it another assessing look. He’s sliding the glasses into his shirt collar when he speaks, and I tense, waiting for the commentary. The shake of his head. The deep sigh.
Instead—
He looks at me, nodding. “Thank you for acting so hard at home.”
I open my mouth and gob it shut again like a fish.
Trent waits.
The problem with this little studio space is there really is no place to run off and hide. My only option was the wardrobe. Though it would’ve been a tight fit. So, as usual, I’m left hiding behind my own laugh.
I wag a finger at him. He might think he has me cornered with all his smooth togetherness, but I know how to sink into the awkwardness, to double down on any joke. “You’re just in time to help.”
A beat.
He just looks at me, long and piercing.
Finally, he says simply, “Okay.”
My smile falters into a hitched breath. I don’t look at him. I just sink to my knees, grab handfuls of the flood and start cramming it back into the wardrobe.
A hand curls around the back of my collar, halting me with the kiss of cold knuckles. A shiver rolls up my spine. His fingers don’t tighten. They don’t pull me back. They just stay. There.
“If we do it your way, we’ll have to do it again next time.”
