I shift abruptly and my foot bounces, jandal popping off. There’s a pitcher of water on the table and I grab it, splash waterinto an unused cup. Gulp it down. Too quick—I’ve finished when I wonder if this really was an unused glass. Or an emptied one.
The difference is massive. And the heat rising to my cheeks? Surely enough to burn away every trace of him I’ve just swallowed.
Jerkily, I pull out the warm paper I’d slipped in my pocket. If only I could go back to those seamless seconds gliding around tables towards him; that swing between hope and dread. That bliss of not knowing what kind of connection I’d have with this stranger.
I flatten out the folds and my finger feels twice its usual size, foreign and clumsy as I point.WANTED: Man, mid-twenties...
Suddenly, those words sharpen, and I choke as I speak them. “You want a man.”
He wants a man. What is he after, exactly? I snap my head up and my flashing gaze meets his steady one. Steady, like he’s read my mind and no, not just my imagination and possible wishful thinking—that’sexactlythe kind of act he wants from me.
Room and board provided. One year.
What kind of room? A... shared one? “Who are we acting for?” I ask, swallowing.
He answers immediately, not so much as blinking at the “we” in that question.
“My grandfather.” He hesitates, thumb tapping once on the paper. “His memory... He believes things so fiercely some days it’s kinder not to correct him.”
Living with him. For his grandfather. “Why a year?”
“That’s all he has left.”
The words sit between us like wet sand. I search for something to say and come up empty. “I’m... sorry.”
He mustn’t care for shallow sorries either; he cuts in before mine has finished sinking.
“I want to make him happy.”
Right. Assure the grandfather Trent the Flooder will be okay once he’s gone. That he has a partner.
“It’s...” Trent pauses. “It’s asking a lot.” It’s his turn to shift on his seat. His jaw tightens; he drops a frown to the paper and folds it slowly. “To be clear, what I’m asking...” He taps a fist to his mouth.
He has a large hand. Veins travel down the back of it to strong forearms. His movement is swift and sure, and his throat-clearing cough is deep. It’s all supposed to say: I’m confident. But the very act of hesitating betrays him.
There’s a sharp tug in my stomach. The need to set him at ease. The need to bring levity to the table.
I remind him he’s not alone in his awkwardness by nudging his glass I foolishly used. “We could say I’m already in character?”
He glances over sharply.
I smile, a rush of laughter, and lean over the table. “Fake boyfriend? Sure. Done it before.”
Maybe this job would come with handholding. Kissing. Public displays of affection. Something, at first glance, I don’t think I’d mind.
The vibe from him appeals to me. Some invisible unchosen connection, a wavelength we’re riding together.
I’m giddy with it, until on an inhale his scent hits me. There’s more to his vibe. Like there’s more to a wave than what’s seen on the surface. Deeper, stronger, and it shivers. Something that warns:don’t get carried away.
I pull back, just slightly, somehow keeping my smile steady. Telling myself not to be silly, not to worry so much.
Then his hand drops to his coffee cup and squeezes. “I need a man to play my dead brother.”
the bends
When the world feels wrong, like stepping off a boat and still feeling ghostly waves. Like surfacing too fast, lungs tight, head spinning.
My brain stops. Full stops.
