Moanalooksat me, but she doesn’t push it. “My bookclub friends are, we’re all donating clothes and jewellery. Proceeds to dyslexia charities.”
“Grandpa has a lot of vintage stuff that doesn’t look like it gets used. I’ll see if he’s okay passing it on.”
She dings her wine glass in my direction. “Go Gramps.” She finishes her drink and hands the glass over. “Your turn again.”
When I get back with fresh drinks, feeling a decent buzz as I schlepp across the humming place, Moana is stuffing away her phone. “That was Holly’s mum,” she says.
I put the glasses down carefully. “Yeah?” My voice is crackly. From drink.
“She’s just got a new job. She’ll be late picking Holly up after class. She asked if it was okay if she stays in the studio an extra twenty minutes.”
Something folds tight inside my chest. I nod. “Sure. Just tell Holly’s mum to beep when she arrives and I’ll send her down.”
“You got I need you to do it.”
I give her a thumbs up—no, make that a cheery double-thumbs up—and stare at the scrambled word as I take in a good mouthful of whiskey this time. REDNOHCA
Red. Like a siren.
What could the word be? I feel like I should get it. Like if I try hard enough, if I don’t give up, I will.
REDNOHCA . . .
. . .
phosphorescence
A light only seen in darkness. Is it hope? Or another bad decision taking shape?
It’s past eleven when I stumble back to Grandpa’s. The overcast sky presses down, swallowing even the streetlight’s glow. The darkness is thicker than it should be. Maybe because I’ve had just a little too much. Maybe because I’m expecting it.
I feel my way inside. At least the hallway of photos can’t bear down on me. Nor the postcard wall that still gives me daily shudders. I stumble to the bathroom first, then the room of bunk beds and blunders.
Stuffier in here. Smells like the sea.
But . . . hiccup . . . maybe that’s just me.
Ouch.
My toe slams into—squint—a dresser. I hold in a hiss, but my hopping thump is a dead giveaway.
A phone light flares beyond.
Trent is a distorted shimmer of light and shadow on his pillow below it. He doesn’t say anything. Just holds the light up, illuminating the ladder beside him.
I stripped down to my boxer-briefs and singlet in the bathroom. Somewhere in the folds of my bed is a night T-shirt, but between here and there is a problem.
A problem highlighted by the glow of Trent’s damn phone.
The singlet.
It doesn’t hide the scar on my side.
Not that he hasn’t seen plenty already. Just this morning, in fact.
I stifle a hollow laugh and make my move.
Too quick. Too drunk. Too stupid.
