Hiding in rocky crevices, only emerging when safe.
I’m freeloading as it is, I don’t dare ask to use the washing machine.
But it presents a wee problem when I run out of underwear, so...
I rush into a shop during a lunch break and scan for my size. There, some plain ones. I go to grab them and my eye catches on shrimp with glasses. It’s a pack of three, sea-themed. And suddenly I’m snatching them off the rack and paying for them at the counter.
A few thoughts flash through my mind and heat my cheeks. Did I grab these to feel like I’m in his, that we’re close, intimate?
Or do I imagine these pairs getting mixed up in the wash? That he’ll end up wearing mine?
I crush the bag with my purchase and groan. Moana is right. I’m an idiot.
It’s with a strange shiver I slide into a pair the following day, and at random intervals throughout filming, a wave of embarrassment floods my cheeks.
When I return to Moana’s cousin’s place for the night, Trent calls. The first either of us has made contact in nine days.
I’m staying in a detached room, small, with a desk, a telly, and a bed. The toilet’s a short walk through the vege garden, and the cool night is still clinging to me from the return journey.
I scrabble under the bedclothes, hiding my crayfish underwear before answering.
“I got your last postcard,” he murmurs.
He sounds off. Voice raspy, broken. Like before this call he’d overused it. Or like...
My breath hitches and I tense. “Is Gramps okay?”
Has Trent been sobbing for?—
“He’s fine,” he croaks down the line.
But Trent’s not.
I’m about to ask, but he answers, “We’re both fine.”
Why don’t I quite believe it? I turn in the bed. “Trent?—”
“Are you okay?”
I close my eyes. Who are you asking? Ika or me?
The silence stretches, long enough to ache, before Trent exhales, voice breaking again: “Dylan.”
Whispered. But my name.
My breath catches. I hold the phone tight to my ear and stare up at the rafters, but I’m not seeing them. I’m seeing him: in his bottom bunk, lit by the faint glow of his phone. Firm jaw. Sharp nose. Pressed lips.
We will not cross any lines. We are not and will not.
I fist the top of my blanket.
“Why’d you call?”
He doesn’t answer.
“I’m back tomorrow afternoon.”
“I couldn’t wait.” His breath heaves down the line, while mine is lost with a quickened pulse. “To check in on you,” he adds quickly. “Make sure you’re doing okay. Enjoying the job. Having fun.”
