I whack his arm, smirking. “Maybe not for long.”
A gentle eyebrow raise.
“I might’ve landed a role as an extra in a movie.”
He finishes his burger and crumples the wrapper. The sound is sharp in the still air.
“I thought you were a theatre actor? Aren’t there two camps?”
“Heart’s in theatre, but I’ll do anything that pays. Extras, one-liners. Full-year live-in acting with board and food. Whoever will hire me.”
He slants me a sideways look and we exchange a silly laugh.
I point north, further up the coast. Salt wind keeps slipping in through the half-cracked window, lifting the scent of fries from the wrappers. He turns away from Wellington and keeps going. We don’t ask where. Just drive. Someplace with distance. Enough of it it’ll pull taut all the tension from earlier. Snap it. Make it non-existent again. Even if he’s another that leaves... This is about enjoying moments. Making memories.
Grandpa. Trent. The oldies. A me that feels vibrant. Part of laughter, embrace.
Colour.
Life.
The stench of farm dung comes through the vents and we squish our noses driving through it.
I laugh.
“What’s so funny?” Trent asks.
What’s funny is how safe I feel with Trent at the wheel.
Maybe it started with that perfect parallel park—the one that irritated me so much. That confidence, that ease. That careful calculation. Or maybe it was all his protection since then.
Whatever did it, I’m not worried. Not tense.
I close my eyes. Don’t even watch the road.
My mind wanders, the pull of the car lulling.
And then, I’m in a boat. It rises on a giant wave and drops suddenly, a zip through my middle. Exhilarating, at first. Then another comes. And another. Finally, a wave tips the boat, smashing it to pieces, and I’m in a cold, cold ocean. The waves settle, but it’s unsettling. Too dark to see land. I struggle in the water, slipping under a few times, gurgling for help. But who, in the middle of all this, could possibly help?
I stop fighting. Let the water take me.
Then... a length of driftwood, floating close. I seize it, nails digging deep.
Thank you, thank you,I whisper,for carrying me. For being strong when I can’t.
The wood hums against my palms.You’re okay.
A horn blasts, and?—
The car. A line of traffic. A green light but no movement. Another impatient beep from some van ahead.
I shift, sitting up, my hand slipping from the centre console. From Trent’s arm.
He quickly tugs his sleeve down, but not before I glimpse bloody crescents pocketing his forearm.
“I should’ve turned back towards Welly,” he says. An apology, I think. But his humming feels a little too upbeat.
“No, I wanted to get away.”
