I want to write more, want to delay the moment I turn around and have to navigate Trent-the-Flooder.
I type. Delete. Stuff my phone in my pocket.
A whoosh of exhaled air.
I turn.
Trent is hunched towards the wall, and I slink over to him. What is he?—
He shifts and caps a permanent marker.
My gaze pings to the wall.
On the glass of Holly’s framed tree, he’s drawn another branch.
“Will you tell her?” he asks.
“If I do, she won’t come here anymore. I won’t get to see her.”
“She’s why you’re desperate to keep this studio open.”
“She’s why I agreed to this act with you.”
“I’m trying to keep my sibling alive for Gramps, and you’re trying to keep yours.”
I look at the tree. Is it a gift? Or is it another scar?
I should wipe off the branch.
But I can’t bring myself to.
Trent swallows—audible, fragile—and shifts closer, a puff of warmth before the pull of arms I know I shouldn’t want.
The air hums with it.
My phone buzzes. Moana again, telling me to meet her at the Sprig & Fern.
I pivot away from the warmth, typing before it can swallow me whole.
We take an outdoor seat. It’s busy. Moana pushes aside a bag of shells a previous patron left behind. Maybe a child forgot their beach hoard. Or maybe the parents ‘forgot’ to take them, like mine used to.
I pick the shells up and inspect them. All cats eyes. All the size of small petals.
I rest the bag on my lap, fingers sifting through the shells while we chat over drinks and pizza.
“Thanks for hooking me up with a place to crash.”
“That’s what family’s for.”
“I should be back for the end of the hols.”
“I’ll make sure the tamariki move you to tears.”
I nod. Rub one shell, place it on the table, then rub another.
Moana does most of the work keeping up the conversation, until after a big gulp of wine, she leans in. “You’re too quiet.”
“I’m fine.”
