He answers. “Grandpa?” Pause. His head snaps around, scouting the crowd we just shimmied through.
“We’re close to where Pax Polo is performing.”
And not close to finding the hat!
I pivot hard, spot a clothing stall, and bolt.
There are more stalls ahead.
Wallet in my pocket. Armed. Ready.
Hat, hat, hat . . .
Trent finds me two minutes later, a breezy scent buffing at my side.
“Grandpa’s already on the way?” I ask, eying a box of vintage accessories.
“Neighbour’s walking with him.”
I snap my head up, eyes pinched. “Nice neighbour. Betraying us like this.”
I shove a bag into Trent’s hands and dive back in.
Trent peers inside, slides his sunglasses down, and levels me with a look. “Why did you buy so many hats?”
I surface, breathless. “I panicked!”
I yank out a slightly crushed fedora. “Maybe one of these can... replace it.”
My shoulders sag. The fedora crumples further under my grip.
What could possibly replace fifty years of Grandpa’s rocking memories?
The gap between us is small, but Trent shifts into it. A half step closer.
He’s holding the bag so tight his knuckles are white. Maybe he’s annoyed with me. Maybe he’s just angry at The Situation.
I brace for a whatever he’s about to say. It’ll come out measured, but it’ll cut to the bone.
This isn’t something that can be laughed off. Grandpa treated that hat like a part of him.
How could I lose it?
My pulse pounds. I hold my breath. I cannot look up.
Even seeing his clenched fist is too much.
The silence stretches just long enough for it to ache.
Something in me curls in, that old fear. When I make mistakes, I’m punished. And people... leave.
A soft exhale. A sudden tickle at my jaw.
Fingers gently push up my chin.
I swallow.
Open your eyes, he says wordlessly.
