I blink rapidly at him over a shiver down my middle.
He pops open both our buckles. His fingers graze my wristband and briefly stutter. A flicker of hesitation. His fingertip taps once, twice, over the fish and thread before pulling away.
He exhales, the feel of it tickling down my upper arm, while the oldies oscillate between gathering their bags and staring at us.
“He’s my little brother,” he murmurs, voice controlled. Then, lower. A touch rougher. “Until the right wave comes along, I’m his lifejacket.”
After a riotous hour walk, the oldies shoo us off to check out the other tracks. Trent doesn’t need much convincing, and on a laugh, I follow after him, waving the others goodbye.
“We still need to come up with a plan for Grandpa’s bash,” I say.
“We can come up with it alone.”
“Okay, then. Ideas?”
“Yes.” Trent keeps up his good pace. “We’re stopping to picnic.”
I halt. Blink. A slow curl of warmth unfurls in my chest, confusing and a little dangerous. My fingers graze the brim of Grandpa’s hat as I watch Trent from behind. “You brought a picnic for us?”
He doesn’t look back. “When have I ever let you go hungry?”
“You have always fed Ika,” I murmur, and ahead, his step hitches.
The wind stirs through the trees, carrying a southerly bite. He doesn’t respond. Just keeps walking.
Regret presses against my ribs. I hadn’t meant it as a jab. I’m not even sure I meant to say it at all.
But now, the silence is taut. Not cold, not sharp. But... heavy.
We walk through it for another half-hour, the only sounds between us birdsong and the crunch of leaves underfoot.
And then, suddenly, gravelly soft: “Tell me something about you... Dylan.”
Dylan. My name, uttered so quietly. Maybe I imagined it.
I’ve come to a stop.
He stops too and looks over.
“Me-me?” I murmur.
He nods. “You know my family. What is yours like?”
My chest rises on a hard breath and under the surface panic bubbles. I wanted him to see past the role I’m playing, but now... now I want to fold back into it again.
Trent’s gaze flickers to my hands, scrunched tight at my shorts, before calmly returning to my face. He doesn’t push, doesn’t pry. “How about some food first?”
My breath catches, something loosening in my chest. I nod, exhaling through a strangled laugh.
We find a small clearing, big enough for the picnic blanket Trent has in his backpack. We lay it out next to a fallen log, and Trent unpacks sliced bakery bread, cheeses, cut up fruit and muffins.
I immediately pick up a muffin, and half of my bite crumbles onto the blanket at Trent’s wagging finger.We eat together, heathen.
I set the muffin down and shuffle along the log, truly about to help set more out, when a kaka lands and starts pecking at the crumbs I dropped.
I whack Trent’s arm. “Look, look!”
Trent glances over. “Don’t feed it.”
