He scoops up my shoes and curls cool fingers around my wrist. He tugs me across the foyer and behind the desk, into a chair. He picks off the gravel, dusts my soles, slips on my shoes. He does up the laces. Only the light at the door is left on, and the late afternoon sun is banished by shut curtains in the open rehearsal room. Though the space feels bigger than usual, in the shadows, I feel only like weight and movement; little definition, little real. It’s... good. He can’t read my face.
I ignore that I can still read his. Every shifting line stamps into my memory. Concern. Hurt. Worry. Curiosity. Sympathy. Comfort. A fierce vow of protection henceforth.
“I’m fine. Truly.”
He double-knots. Hard. He’ll be a rock for me to lean on. Promise.
I huff. “But will you ever be one I can kiss?”
His gaze stutters, drops. His lips press.Stop deflecting.He looks up again: I can still care. Let me?
He raises a hand to my cheek.
I frown.
He hesitates, then clasps, and pulls my forehead down to meet his. The touch is warm, a little clammy. There’s a frisson of electricity. Strands of his hair slide between mine.
If he thinks this is consoling, this is comfort, he’s finally got something wrong. This is cruel. This is closeness with the promise of impending absence.
Just like Beth, like them, one day he too will be gone.
Outside, leaking into the studio, a kid is hollering about dolphins.
I pull back with a soft laugh.
I look into his eyes.
And say, “Feed me.” And then, “Hot chips, burgers.” And then, “You pay.”
A dry, raised brow and tender twitch at his lips. “Don’t I always?”
driftwood
Something once grounded, now carried by the tide. Lost, but still moving.
Ten minutes later, we’re in his truck, driving through McDonald’s. I don’t want to go home yet, so we drive on. Out of Welly, and up the coast.
The fries are gone by the time we park, overlooking some shoreline between somewhere and somewhere else. We unwrap the food. I stare at mine, muttering to it like it owes me studio rent, and rip out a bite.
“What did that burger ever do to you?”
Around a mouthful: “Thinking of our pesky chicken.” Another smirking bite. “Call this... revenge.”
“Don’t like her much?”
“She pooped on my favourite pants. That’s why I had to jimmy into jeans.”
He glances at my jeans—too quick, too guilty—and takes a bigger bite. A string of lettuce slips down his chin. I point. He swipes too late. It falls to his lap. Another flick towards my legs as he cleans his own. “Mm, I like her.”
“She also pecked a hole in your starfish shirt. You left muesli-bar crumbs in the pocket.”
His eyes narrow on the ocean, appropriately blood-red from a setting sun. “Proceed with the McChicken murder.”
I snicker. “McChicken Murders. Streaming weekly on a screen near you.”
A bird screeches above the truck, perfectly on cue.
“Starring New Zealand’s least-known actor,” Trent says with mocking dryness.
