I’ll remember this as if all those things happened, held in the silence between us.
I felt it: comfort, connection, deeper than if there had been any touch at all.
I laugh so hard tears stream from the corners of my eyes, sand sliding beneath me. “Crazy,” I say.
He sighs, “Too.”
surge zones
The turbulent space where waves crash against rocks.
The road winds along the coast, the sea glimmering to our right. The wind keeps buffeting the truck; every gust makes the steering wheel twitch in Trent’s hands.
He hasn’t spoken for a few bends.
“Too quiet,” I say finally. “We need a game before this silence eats us.”
His glance flicks over, wary. “What’s this one called? Don’t-Distract-the-Driver?”
“‘Port, Starboard, Lighthouse’.” I drum the dash. “Simple. Port: I ask a question, you answer honestly. Starboard: I ask, you deflect with a joke. Lighthouse: you tell a story instead. Something that sort of answers, but not directly. Oh, and if you refuse, you owe a Harbour Tax.”
He exhales. “You’ve thought this through.”
“Occupational hazard. Teaching improv.”
“What’s the tax?”
I grin. “Chips. Or a secret.”
A huff, not quite a laugh. “Fine. You start.”
“Port.”
He tightens his grip on the wheel. “Already?”
“Port!”
He rolls his eyes. “Fire away.”
I wait until the truck hits a long straight, wind rushing loud over the roof. “When did you last feel completely happy?”
The wind fills the pause.
He licks his lips, looks out at the water. “Lighthouse.”
“Coward.”
He signals and pulls into a parking bay overlooking the sea. “Harbour Tax first.” He points at a sign down the road:Fish and Chips. Open. “We can consider this fate.”
I snort, and we come back ten minutes later, paper parcel steaming under my hoodie where I’ve stuffed it. Salt and seagull-calls bite the air.
I tear a hole in the top of the parcel and tuck it under my chin; Trent reaches in for a chip, gesturing at the ocean. “Lighthouse story.”
I chew the end of a fry and point it at him. “Make it good.”
“When Ika was seven, Grandpa took us to this beach around here somewhere. Taught us to body-surf.”
His gaze goes distant. “He kept throwing himself into the waves, fearless. I kept yelling at him to stop drinking half the ocean. Grandpa laughed so hard he nearly choked.”
