Firm hands brace my knees. Squeeze.
I open my eyes into the dark space between my legs. I can see part of him folded before me, and my shoes haphazardly dropped to the ground. I squish my thinly socked toes into the grass; there’s still a piece of gravel stuck in my arch.
I’m meant to be upstairs. I’m only meant to watch from the window.
She’s early.
His hands move lightly back and forth over my knees. Friction warm. The outline of his touch burning there. Distraction. Channelling my focus.
“What’s the matter?” A softly uttered question, not one demanding an answer, just offering an ear.
I breathe in, lift my head, blink into the concern on his face. “I’m fine. Fine. Just doing some improv. Panic attack.” A crooked smile.
His eyes pinch.
I snap my hands down his arms to his elbows. “Go up and tell Holly to head down?”
Trent freezes.
His gaze deepens on me with a slight frown, then shifts towards the street, the car, then back to me. His fingers on my knees clench.
A car door shuts.
My body seizes. Stills.
Trent moves. He’s suddenly on his feet and walking towards the curb. “Holly’s mum? I work here.”
“Hmpf,” I whisper to a dandelion, “employee of the month.”
Then, her voice, warm, gentle, ending with a slight laugh. “Finished early. Thanks for having her late these days.”
“No problem. She’ll be right down. Moana’s wrapping up.”
“Oh, then. I’ll wait in the car.”
Trent strides up the path into the building, and a few minutes later Holly comes running out, waving cheerfully to her mum. The door slams shut with added help from the wind. The engine starts. The tyres churr away from the studio, down the road, disappear.
I gather my shoes, push to shaky feet, and try out a laugh. Close one.
Moana passes me on the stairs. “Trent’s cleaning up. Said you’d be back soon. Get caught with a parent?”
“Mm.” I pinch my shoes harder. “Yeah.”
“Hey, it’s school holidays. See you bright and early Monday for the holiday program.”
She waves. I wave.
Then I stare up the stairs, towards a now-inevitable conversation.
I want to tell him. I don’t. He has to ask. If he does, I’ll be angry. There’s no winning.
Does he know that?
Does he know what he’s waiting for?
I walk the rest of the flight, with laces clicking against my jeans and that gravel digging into my arch. I press into it.
He’s waiting upstairs, standing, staring at the framed tree picture on the studio wall. His arms are crossed. He doesn’t look over as I walk in; he’s seen my shape out the side of his eye. He’s breathed in my stirring of air, he’s felt the thrumming tension.
