The word lingers between us, heavier than the sky about to rain.
His fingers ghost the brim of Grandpa’s hat. “Dylan...”
“We should go,” I say quickly. Lightly.
But he doesn’t quite let it drop. Just like I hoped, and...
Just like I hate.
Two weeks later, hours before the birthday bash, I’m still gripping Grandpa’s hat too tight. Stupid, stupid mouth.
Why did I bring it up?
Why did I give in to that curling need for him to know I’m a me? A me with my own set of hurts and comfort needs. Why did I want him to curl an arm around me for support?
Why did he offer it?
The warmth of his arm pulling me close, steady, there, grounding. The slightly ill-timed pat, fingers pressing for justa second too long. Enough I can feel his hesitation. Then the gravel in his voice: “Do you want to talk about it?”
No.But under that, I’m cryingyes, yes, please, yes.
Instead, what comes out is silence. A breath. A heartbeat. Then, “Maybe another time.”
No, no other time. What’s the point? What’s the point, making things about me? This is a job. A job about Ika. And even... even if the lines blurred, did I really want to talk about back then? Or did I just want his arm around me, asking?
I groan, pressing my forehead to the desk.Stupid, stupid, stupid.Yet not stupid enough to quit ruminating.
At least Trent hasn’t brought it up again.
He’s simply continued on with his doting-on-his-little-bro act.
Maybe he’s been a bit less dry.
“Are self-inflicted concussions part of your daily routine now?”
Then again, maybe not.
I lift my head to find him standing there, slipping his sunglasses onto his head.
“I just finished a two-hour improv lesson,” I mutter, shooting him a glare. “I was taking a five-minute break.”
“Before the kiddo class comes?”
“Beforeyoucome.”
“You did promise the studio this evening for Grandpa’s bash.”
“You’d have come anyway.”
“You’d have wanted me to.”
I huff. “We definitely have brotherly squabbling down.”
It’s almost imperceptible, but he flinches. It’s just a second, barely that. But I caught it, and that fraction of a moment lingers in my mind. Ready for me to overanalyse. Along with everything else.
Thank God for the chaos of kiddos pouring into the room. Thank God for Moana calling in sick, keeping me busy taking over her class. Thank God for Holly needing help with her homework after the others have left.
She pulls a picture from her bag and hands it to me. “You keep looking at it, so I drew another tree. You can...” She points to the wall. “Hang it in here.”
