A soft smile. “For that one day, no one was sick, or dying, or fighting.”
“Just three idiots in the sea.”
He barks a laugh. “Yes. That’s the last time I remember being... uncomplicatedly happy.”
I swallow the lump in my throat with a chip. “Your turn.”
He gives me a sidelong look. “Port.”
“Oh, we’re playing for real now.”
He doesn’t pause, just runs on, like he’s been holding in the question a while. “Is it why you don’t drive?”
It. Beth’s death. It doesn’t need saying, it hovers there in the tension. The fish and chips are burning at my ribs. Starboard, deflect with a joke, or...
I close my eyes briefly. This game has an ulterior motive, after all. I want to be honest. I breathe in and look at him. “Yes.”
He looks back. “Do you want to drive again?”
And I realise, that’s what truly irritated me about that perfect parallel park he did that day. I want that too.
Trent reaches in for another chip and playfully taps my nose with it. “I’ll go with you to get your restricted renewed.”
I nod and bite his chip right to the pad of his finger. My tongue snags the salt at my lip and grazes his thumb. His breath catches and he pulls away without another chip.
We drive again. The wind roars around us. I’m laughing when he says, quieter, “Port.”
I blink. Again? He still wants to play.
His eyes are on the road, but his voice is low. “If you hadn’t come into our lives, what would you be doing right now?”
I stare out the window. “The studio would’ve shut down, so maybe school improv teaching?” A pause. “Probably trying not to think about how small the world feels when no one needs you.”
He looks over. Just once. Long enough the truck drifts a little. He corrects it, jaw tightening.
“Starboard,” I say quickly, to steer us back to safety. “I’ll ask, you joke instead.”
He doesn’t bite. He keeps driving.
I flick his shoulder. “How’s the bottle today?”
That pulls him up short. The engine hums, steady as a heartbeat. His knuckles whiten.
I meanthim. Too late. I’ve made it sound like Ika’s bottle. Then, softly: “Sorry. You don’t have to answer. No harbour tax.”
He lets out a small, laughing breath. “Bottle’s buried. Maybe his dreams will wash up somewhere new.”
He could have joked, but the air thrums: this is the truth.
I want to reach across and touch his arm but instead I pull out more chips and stuff them in my mouth. “Port,” I blurt, desperate for levity. “Do penguins mate for life?”
“Only the gay ones.”
I snort. “Scientific?”
“Empirical.”
We laugh until the tension lifts out the vents, and the quiet between us is soft. Buoyant.
