When he speaks, his voice is a soft rumble, hesitant around the edges. He doesn’t want to sound critical. But no matter how kind he makes it, it stings.
“We can be mature about this, right? Grandpa’s also noticing you’re not yourself.”
A little laugh bubbles up from my twisting gut.
Let me be stubborn a little longer. Please? It’s comfortable, hiding. Easier not to look into your eyes, not to feel that taut pull when our breaths collide.
I look up.
Our gazes catch.
There’s a tug.
He rocks back on his heels, shoves his hands into his pockets. Cavalier. “What do you say, bro?”
He winces. He hears himself.
He’s feeling awkward too.
And that... I’m laughing now, real laughter. Understanding laughter.
His lips turn up too. He chuckles.
“Mature... I can try.” I step back and gesture him in. He’s carrying a bag; his laptop must be in it. “I’ll make tea.”
I make Earl Grey with lots of milk. He pretends not to watch me measure it like a lab tech. I pretend not to know he prefers the teaspoon left on the saucer, handle at two o’clock. He opens his laptop for pretence. Or for something to hide behind when silences arrive. There are a few. He pokes at his keyboard like he’s had a sudden, vital thought. Something important for work. Of course.
I have work too. Real work sending invoices, filing next term’s classes. But it’s all a blur of figures in front of me. And I’m nodding at the blur like it makes sense. Click. Click. Send it to the ribbon and bring it back.
Funny, this play. This script we’re compelled to follow.
A nervous giggle slips out.
Trent glances over. He doesn’t askwhat is it?He knows. A faint flush colours his jaw—a jaw that’s usually clean-shaven, but lately not. Not quite himself either.
We don’t have to speak to say so much.
In an act of bravery, he closes his laptop, and I admire it so much I have to copy him. We share a strange, ticklish gaze, full of very many things indeed.
Even if... this doesn’t mean I’ve changed my mind.
I know. But look at us. Same wavelength, right?
I don’t want to hurt you. And I already have.
The whole act was absurd. I chose to dive.
Maybe when it’s over . . .
I laugh softly. “I’ll be over your handsome face by then.”
He makes a small sound that might be a scoff. Then gestures to our feet, where we’ve turned towards one another—his in workboots, mine in socks. “Where are your shoes?”
“Under the desk. Easier to curl up on the seat.”
“Ah, for your midday snooze?”
“It’s your fault I need so many of them.”
