He’s just waiting. For the right time.
I scramble on hands and knees towards the glitter of a shell. “Let’s bring something back to Grandpa. A shell, stone, piece of driftwood.” My breath hitches and I sift deeper into the sand. “See who finds the best?”
Trent rises to the challenge. He finds a smooth stone, I a spiral shell, and then he one-ups me with a shard of paua that catches every colour of the sky and sea. I scour the beach, picking and plucking, Trent outdoing me at my side.
And then. The sun brightens, suddenly coming out from behind a white cloud. Light glitters on a long, smooth stickahead. A bit of work, it might make a wonderful cane for Grandpa.
Trent eyes it at the same time, and the roll of his shoulders—he’s thinking the same. He looks at me.
I run for it. He runs for it.
I grab his sleeve, pull him back, slip a foot in front of him?—
He has me by the t-shirt, a sharp yank, and I’m losing my balance; he lunges, I thrust out a foot, and he eats grit too.
We eye one another, the prized wood, and the army crawl begins...
Arms outstretched, so close . . .
A kid barrels in from the side, snatches the stick, and brandishes it like a staff.
Trent and I roll onto our backs, laughing. The beach is cool against my shoulder blades; the air is warm; the sun presses like a palm to my chest.
Behind us a high ridge looms, a dune paused like a wave about to break.
And then it breaks.
Short and sharp. He, on held breath; me, on quiet exhale.
“You’ve lost a sibling.”
“Too.”
“You’re keeping it all inside.”
“Too.”
“You’re hurting.”
“Too.”
He swallows, his Adam’s apple jutting. And I turn my head towards the sky, like his. And I snort.
Snicker.
He digs in his pocket and gently throws me back my fifty cents, raising a brow.
I catch it against my chest. “I thought you were crazy, back then. When I entered your bunkbed-bedroom. Who was this guy, who could hold all this in?”
There is no touch.
Not a flicker of furtive contact.
He doesn’t pull me in, press me to a pounding heart, doesn’t feather a kiss into my hair.
He doesn’t murmur anything soft, anything sweet.
And yet?—
