He raises his hands in surrender. Guilty.
Our shared lip-twitch is interrupted by a heavy knock at the open door. Post. A package.
I get up. The break in the moment is frustrating; I want to linger in it, to see how far those lips would turn up, whether I might glimpse teeth in that almost smile. But the interruption is also a relief. I hadn’t realised how tightly I’d been holding myself until I stand and breathe again.
The courier hands me a package, jogs back down the stairs. I hug it to my chest as I pad back towards Trent.
The moment has passed.
And even if it hadn’t, it would.
The rehearsal room doors fling open and a tide of noisy little actors rushes out, sweeping past me; bumping, shouting, shrieking, grabbing bags.
Holly waves, and when I lift my hand, the package slips. I chase after it?—
My eye catches the label. Wrong name, wrong studio. We’re 40, not 4D.
“Ah, crap.” I fling Moana and Trent a look. “I’ll try to catch him.”
I sprint out the door and down the stairs, socks sliding on the vinyl. “Excuse me! Wait!”
I’m halfway down when I hear Trent behind me, steady, dry: “Hey, Cinderfella, your shoes?—”
But I’m already catching up to the courier. I burst out the front door cleaving a call through the howling of wind, catching his ear at the street. He apologises, takes the package back. I wish him a good day.
The soles of my feet sting against scattered gravel. I start to wince but turn it into a laugh as kids wave and hurriedly pile into their parents’ cars.
I take a hobbling step, curling into the pain with an exaggerated “ouch”—just in time for Trent to see as he steps through the door, my shoes pinched in one hand. He shakes his head, fond, protective. A silent chastising.
Then a car slides in to park at the kerb.
A flash of manicured nails around a steering wheel.
My ouches fade. Sink, like a boulder shoved into water, sudden, heavy, gone.
I pivot faster than the wind, turning my back to the car, heart hammering. My gaze darts for sanctuary. Not the studio, that’s too exposed. Even my back she’d recognise.
I dart right, behind the fence. Press my spine hard against it, slipping down until I’m crouched at the base, knees hugged tight, face buried.
My heartbeat’s wild.
Has she seen me?
If she had, she’d have let me know: how-dare-you, how-could-you, like then.
Or maybe there isn’t enough feeling left even for that. Maybe if she saw me, she’d say nothing, and?—
“Ika. Ika.”
Trent’s voice cuts through. He’s been calling me; only now do I register it’s been a while.
His shadow shifts over me, and I welcome it. That blanket. That extra layer to hide behind.
For once, I’m even grateful he’s calling me by his brother’s name.
If he’d calledDylan. . .
If she’d heard . . .
