“I’ll put up a fight!”
Behind me, Trent exhales slowly, so slowly it’s deliberate. Hands rest on his hips. A tiny, slow shake of his head.
I’m momentarily punched of all words. Then they return. Not with a horrified ‘Sorry’, mind you, but with a laugh and a “Suppose there’s no chance of buying it off you?”
A warm hand curls around my wrist and Trent gently steers me away. With enormous patience. Like he’s expected this level of audacity from me. Like he’s known from the first time I bowled into his dead-starfish life: some waves are better floated with than fought.
The crowds thicken and it becomes a side-stepping mission to get to the next second-hand stall. But someone has just walked past me holding a leather jacket against themselves. So we must be close.
“Hey, sexy,” a bold voice booms out, and I turn instinctively. Although, the way his eyes shift to me second... Well, I get that. He curls a hand towards me anyway. Before him is a table holding three cups. “Want to try your luck?”
“Actually, I?—”
“First go is free.”
I’m over there in a hop, leaning on the table, catching his eye with glee as he pops a ball under one of the cups and starts moving them.
Trent exhales behind me.
Slowly at first and then faster the cups move, and I follow because, one, it’s free, and two, I really think I know which cup the ball is under.
It turns out, I don’t. But I get the next delighted laugh when he asks for a dollar to have another go, and I tell him to check his shirt pocket.
Trent’s shadow falls over me. “Ika. Hat. Now.”
Right. Hat. Time check?
“Fifteen minutes,” Trent says, reading my mind.
“Wow. And you think I’m the magician.”
“I think you’re something, alright.” And just before we race off he grips both my arms and gives me a brief shake.
“W-what are you doing?” I say, a little breathless at how his hands cup my upper arms, below the sleeves of my T-shirt. And a lot confused at the rest.
His grip steadies me, a second too long. Heat lingers under his fingers before he shakes me again, light, playful. “Just checking.” A pause. Then, “I was beginning to think you were made of coins.”
My hands swing up to his elbows as I lean in with a laugh. “I wish!” I pull him along now, skating around people under the blazing heat of the sun. Really, the festival couldn’t be on a nicer Wellington day. There’s not even any wind. But the heat does make me a little thirsty. And quite a bit hungry. God, why does everything smell delicious?
So much glorious choice. Roti wraps. Hungarian fried bread. Potato rostis. Curry puffs. Satay. Polynesian barbecue. Fruit scoops. Katsu burgers.
Sausage sizzle.
I halt, my hand finally letting Trent’s forearm go.
He follows my gaze. “Thirteen minutes.”
“That’s pork. Pig. Part of a hog. We need to get one for Grandpa.”
“Clock’s ticking.” He shoos me along.
“It’s also fuel!”
His hands meet the back of my hips and steer me forwards. Nearer the stages set up for sounds.
Music vibrates through the street, followed by hearty applause. Off a side street, more crafty stalls appear.
Trent drops his hands at the sharp ring of his phone.
