“We parted amicably.”
I don’t like him. “That’s great. Mature.”
I fiddle with the radio, hoping that voice will replace my own. It doesn’t quite cleave through the tension. We’re not crossing the line, so who cares who else has crossed it in the past?
Trent shifts uncomfortably in his seat. His fingers peel off and on the steering wheel. He picks his sunglasses from the console, jiggles them open, realises there’s no need. Slips them into his shirt pocket.
“Port. What about you?” he finally says, eyes adamantly on the road. “Your exes.”
A sneaky thrill tickles down my spine. I also keep my eyes firmly ahead.
“Oh, just a few. Only keep in touch with one. He’s an actor too. Actually, he’s got a role in that film, the one they want guest actors for.”
“The one you auditioned for?”
“Yeah.”
“Will you see him then?”
“Only if I get a role.”
“Good luck with that,” he says breezily. But out of the corner of my eye, the veins stand out on the backs of his hands.
That feeling.
We share that.
Superficial maturity. The wish we were more mature than we are.
The radio drones on. The wheel squeaks under his palms. “Grandpa will be happy if we stop somewhere and get him honey.”
Ah. Yes. Time to get back into our roles.
He glances over at me, at my arm, and he pulls over at a lookout against the sea. Waves toss up on rocks and spray onto the hood. It’s windy out there.
“Where’s your wristband?” he asks quietly.Ika’swristband.
I jerk my arm up; all that’s left there is lighter skin, a tan line, outlining the shape. A sudden sharp panic has me sitting straight and checking my body like it might’ve only just fallen off, like it’s just around here somewhere.
But—
The beach. The tackle. The slippery seaweed.
Trent turns the car around.
We search the beach. There, and there, and there’s where we fell. Covered in high tide.
Trent shoves off his boots and wades through the water. Waves lap around his ankles and he pushes through it, making the water wake around each step.
He plunges his hands into the sea, picking up handfuls of shells, seaweed, and sand, then dropping them in clumps that splash against his rucked-up pant legs. A crack shows in Mr Bottle.
I follow, right behind, the water knife cold. My calves grow numb as I try to find the bracelet too.
But I know. It’s lost.
We keep looking. Until we’re wet and tired, until the sky turns red and the sun sinks closer to the water. Until Trent is trembling, his back to me, facing the never-ending expanse of a darkening ocean.
I come up behind him, sling arms around his waist, and anchor him.
