I brace myself a few feet from him, swallowing down a sting, waiting for him to ask, preparing myself to snap when he does.
But.
He doesn’t ask.
He takes away what’s hard for me to voice.
Hetells.
Tentatively. Like he’s sifting through sand to find fragile shells.
“The horse, the naughty cat, the bad hairdressing, the penguin prince.” He frowns at the tree, gaze shifting along its branches. “They were real stories. They felt real. I thought, taken from a distant time and place, gifted to Holly. I even thought they were your own. I could imagine you, a kid, marrying a penguin.”
I don’t know where it comes from. But there’s a small laugh. From me.
Trent closes his eyes on it. “You help Holly more than the others. You’re always present in the moment, when you’re with her.”
My stomach clenches as his gaze narrows, calculating, coming to a single conclusion. The only conclusion.
He shakes his head, almost a huff, as if this could notreallybe true.
He pales.
One step and he’s in my space; I don’t have time to step back. Heat rolls off him.
“You said you had one, once.” His voice is a low scrape, disbelief sharpening into certainty.
My swallow catches. His eyes search mine, too deep, and my stomach drops.
His hands come up, warm and tight on my face. “Tell me I’ve got it wrong.”
A useless sound escapes me.
He sucks in a breath, jaw flexing. His gaze flicks to Holly’s family tree.
“Why?” The word cracks. His hands drop to my shoulders. A shake—me or him or both.
A hitch. Then: “Why doesn’t Holly know you’re her brother?”
sea caves
Dark, hidden spaces, waiting to be found. Preferably by someone with snacks and emotional competence.
The air’s thick with our slow exhales. My fingers are clenched around the heels of my shoes. His thoughts are so loud that I’ve heard them before he says them.
“Her mum is your mum.”
My shoes fall from my fingers to the floor.
“You also lost . . .”
I bow my head.
It feels a little melodramatic, and I want it to be. The more I can act here, the less it seems real.
I siiiiigh.
“Stop that.”
