But his “catch it”... his cool command, his voice. I’m quickly hugging armfuls of air in an awkward dance. I lunge again, chasing the chicken, and Trent swoops in and catches her like she’s a rugby ball.
“We’ve had this conversation before, haven’t we?” Trent murmurs as though to a misbehaving child, gripping the chicken. “In one ear, out the other.” He looks at me. His sunglasses reflect my face and a stray feather in my hair. I quickly pull the feather free and stare at the chicken instead of bearing witness to any heat hitting my cheeks.
I grind my teeth and wag my own finger at the chicken, but my gaze keeps slipping upwards. “You can’t just fling yourself at people.” I shake my head. “There are such things as boundaries.”
Trent huffs. “You’ll be out of luck if my zucchini is anything to go by.”
It’s an absurd leap, and yet it’s a leap my mind takes. Before I can stop myself, my gaze drops from the chicken, lower.
Trent freezes.
I rip my focus away. Bite my tongue. This is a job. I’m here to do the job. And keep it in mind: he’s a man of very dubious decisions. He’s making light of death. He does it completely unfazed. This is a man who should be easy to dislike.
Trent turns. He’ll put the escape artist back into its pen.
“Scrambled? Or fried?” he asks as he comes back with a few eggs. He scrapes the mud off his workboots before toeing them off at the door. I fling off my jandals and follow him in. “This is scrambled alright,” I mutter under my breath.
“My favourite,” Trent says, and plods down a hallway choked with so many family photos I feel dizzy. I have to shut my eyes to get through it. The kitchen at the end opens onto a dining area. It’s all pockmarked kauri and mismatched teasets, and there’s an entire wall dedicated to postcards. It’s the width of my arms if they were wholly outstretched and runs from the cornice at the ceiling to the skirting at the floor. At least these pictures have no faces. Just places; distant, unreachable, and waiting. From tropical islands to snow-capped mountains to busy Parisian streets. The whole world might be on this wall.
I turn away from it to Trent, who quietly looks away from me, back to the pan. He cracks eggs. Stirs. Adds cheese.
It’s served up on chipped china. At the counter, I lift a forkful of eggs only to stop at Trent’s quiet look, and I follow him to the table, waiting for him to add cups of water before we start. At home, I never eat at a table. I haven’t for over ten years. I typically eat over the kitchen sink or on the sofa in front of some YouTube. Sometimes even in bed.
I don’t know what to do with myself, and each shift has the chair’s legs protesting this heathen upon it.
“You were fine at the café,” Trent says. His glasses have been tucked into his shirt and it’s at least a relief not to see myself. Feeling myself is awkward enough. I toss out a laugh. “This scramble...” I jerk a fork towards the small mountain of cheesy egg. “Yum.”
He watches me carefully, takes another forkful of his own, and murmurs, “You’ll get used to it.”
I grip the seat under me so tight a little bit crumbles at my fingers. If I can act a dead brother, I can act through this. I lean back in my chair, kicking my feet forward against a table leg, and nod towards the more ornate chair adjacent to us. “Is that Grandpa’s?”
He pauses a moment, and suddenly I feel a pressure moving away from beneath my sole. My smile almost wobbles, but I keep it up.
Trent nods. “Your name’s Mikael.”
A quick, fleeting shiver.
“He goes by Ika.”
I shift in my seat, gripping my fork tighter. It feels heavier than it should. “I-ka, not Mika?”
“He insisted on it. He loved fish. It’s te reo for fish. So...”
Right. Ika. I’m to act a dead fish.
His voice softens as he tells me more about his younger brother Ika, and it’s the only clue he might not be completely in control. He’s composed; he’s calm. But these tiny tells. Like the stilling of his hand mid-beat, like the quiet pauses, and the subtle stirring. I might be a dead fish, but he is an iceberg—no. He is a message in a bottle. One waxed so much, not a drop of water could seep in—not a stray cry could seep out. But inside, he’s full of them. Cries. Feelings.
Maybe that’s why I suddenly lean in. Maybe that’s why I say it again. Some kind of weird reassurance this act is something we’re in together. That—in this brief moment—Igotit. “I can move in next week.”
Trent’s dark eyes hit mine and hold and once more I’m surrounded by the scent of the ocean and of something coming. He pulls out his phone and opens a postcard app. I recognise it. I used it once to send my acting buddies Christmas cards. He uploads a picture—a palm against a tropical sea.
My stomach clenches. I dart a gaze to the wall behind me. “What are you doing?” I whisper. I can’t say it louder than that.
Trent doesn’t answer right away. His thumb hovers over the screen...
And then he sends it. “It’s time to bring Ika home.” He looks at me and then to the wall. “He’s been gone long enough.”
ghost sharks
