I lean over; his eyes catch a wash of moon. “Tell me one of yours.”
He hums, the sound travelling up the ladder. “We hold truths inside and let them out in fits and bursts. Sometimes that’s when we notice how much we’ve grown. Together.”
“The fits and bursts aren’t the growth?”
“Those too. There’s growth in the quiet,” he says, softer. “In the unspoken. A look. A jiggling leg. A raised brow. Humming a tune with wrong lyrics. Like testing water with a toe before you step in.”
I bite my bottom lip. “What about lies? Self-deception? Maybe we say the wrong thing because the right thing is growing too fast.”
“Isn’t that trying to stop it?”
“Isn’t that proof it’s there?”
He laughs, nervous; his foot presses the mattress again, a tiny seesaw. “Purples should only be said in the dark.”
I lie back. Then the dark might be my favourite place.
We are not and will not.
Outside, the wind howls. Inside, our quiet glows.
ocean currents
Invisible forces, pulling.
The kitchen smells of coffee and impending defeat. Mine, to be precise.
Grandpa fans out his six neat books of cards and wiggles the few left in his hand. “Go Fish.”
That greedy little grin. He’s close to a seventh. “Give me your kings,” he says.
“You’re taking me down, old man.”
I slide him my kings and dump the rest of my cards. “I need more coffee.”
Wordlessly, like he’s been all morning, Trent lifts the pot and refills my mug before disappearing back behind his newspaper.
The mug feels electric in my hand, the coffee sharper than usual. Like it’s spiked with... with...
“Hope,” Grandpa says, coughing. “Hopefully, us oldies can take a trip up to the farm soon. We didn’t get to go last year.”
“You went three times last year,” Trent hums from behind his wall of newsprint.
“Doesn’t count if you can’t remember it.” Grandpa leans in, stage-whispering to me, “Old barn, fields, bit of mischief. Schoolcamp for retirees. Seances, secret hookups, the works. You’ll work on him, right?”
“What, to let you go?”
“And to come.”
“For seances and secret hookups?”
Grandpa scoffs. “Someone has to be the designated driver.”
“Your love for me is so wholesome.” Trent’s mutter tickles.
I nod to Grandpa. “He is the best driver. The only one I can fall asleep with.”
The newspaper crackles around his fingers, but the wall stays up.
