I lurch out of his tingling grip, scrambling the rest of the way up.
“Just staying.”
I shove on my T-shirt, lie on one side. The other. Then stare up vacantly at the ceiling that goes from dim to dark as Trent turns off his phone light.
The bunk jiggles slightly as he settles in, and maybe it’s still the rush of the whiskey, but it echoes in my bones. In my foundations. And settles in the shallow of my scar.
No more running.
I’m staying this time.
Through thick and thin. I’ll be Ika. I’ll give Grandpa his smiles, and Holly her dreams.
A breath.
“What’s that sigh for?” Trent’s voice is a low murmur, a quiet rumble in the dark.
I hesitate.
Then. “I’m doing this. Just . . .”
The bunk shifts again. A breath between us.
I thumb the little fish cord around my wrist and whisper, “Careful you don’t make a mistake that’ll cost you Grandpa.”
barnacles
Hardened. Clinging to surfaces. Refusing to let go.
“Today we clean Grandpa’s room,” Trent says. “Donations to Moana by lunch; no excuses.”
Yes, I asked for this but... butcleaning. It doesn’t exactly spark joy.
I rub a hand over my shoulder, wincing. “I really threw my back out. I’m so sorry, I can’t?—”
Trent captures my wrist and pulls me into Grandpa’s room. As protective of Ika as he might be, he’s also a strict brother. The worst kind, because he suspects every one of my excuses.
“Consider this quid pro quo for organising your studio wardrobe.”
He levels me a look, and I pause mid-wince.
I try again with the tragic shoulder rubbing and wincing. Until he spins me around and settles hands on both my shoulders. Large, warm,grounding.
Suddenly I know what real tension in my shoulders feels like.
And Grandpa is looking on from his bedside chair, where he’ll supervise while drinking a pot of ginger and lemon tea.
“Where should I rub you?” Trent says calmly, close to my ear, and I’m not only tense, I’m wobbly.
A very inappropriate shiver pools in a place I don’t want to be thinking about with Grandpa right there. Or while my ‘brother’ is clasping my shoulders...
“Let’s get cleaning!” I pump the air. Jump to show my athletic enthusiasm.
Trent just shakes his head, unimpressed. “Grandpa, turn on some beats.”
Grandpa squints at his phone, prodding at it, and while he does, I take in the battlefield before me.
Piles and piles of stuff. Clothes, gadgets, forgotten relics. Things that should have been thrown away decades ago but have instead become part of the furniture. All stacked up, waiting to be sorted, salvaged, or let’s face it: sacrificed.
