I open them the barest fraction.
Not to frustration. Not even to Trent’s usual composed mask.
His sunglasses are shoved up onto his head. Solemn eyes try to hold mine. There’s a glisten in them.
“I know this feeling,” he murmurs.
A breath. His fingers curl away, and his voice drops lower. “Aren’t I also trying everything to replace what he loved?”
A sob seizes my throat, violently, unexpectedly.
I’m practiced at turning such things into a laugh. A slightly mangled laugh. Pitiful, for sure.
But I . . . don’t like this laugh.
Today, it feels wrong.
And . . .
I’m suddenly falling forward, muffling the tail end of it against Trent’s shoulder. “I’m sorry.”
His breath falters, and he stays very still, like he’s letting himself hold the weight of me. Then, slowly, his fingers slide tomy nape, a single stroke down my back, measured, careful. Like he’s memorising something maybe he shouldn’t.
“Dyl—Ika?” he murmurs.
I squeeze my eyes shut. “Yeah?”
A pause. A shift.
“Grandpa’s hat.”
On a held breath, I whirl around at the prompt of Trent’s outstretched finger.
The Hat.
It’s in the hands of an interested customer.
I launch forward. Denim is flipping in his grip.
Grandpa’s voice is getting closer. I bolt.
The world blurs. Stalls streak by in colour and scent.
“Just what I was looking for,” The Customer says.
“Twenty dollars.”
A wallet appears.
“Thirty!” I bark, skidding to a halt. The whole stall rattles.
The Customer blinks at me. I flash him my most charming smile. “I really need that hat.”
He shrugs. “First in, first served.” His card hovers over the reader.
No. Nope. Not happening.
“I donated this accidentally,” I say, too fast. Too desperate.
