I squeeze my phone tighter. “You first. How’s home?”
He’s quiet again for a moment, just a little too long. And then, he makes a sound, like a suppressed sigh, like he’s slipping on a mask. “Grandpa decided to host a birthday party, so today I ran around picking up his daycare mates and making carrot cake.”
I startle, bedsheets puffing. “Whose birthday? Not... yours?”
“Chicken’s. She turned thirteen.”
I let out a relieved breath. But... when is Trent’s birthday? How have I learned so much about him, and not something as trivial as this?
“John was confused too,” Trent says. And he might as well say:it’s okay. Don’t worry.“He thought the chicken was meant for the feast. Chased it around with a kitchen knife. Feathers everywhere. He grew up on a farm, so we all thought he’d do her in, too. Pat was screaming. Natalie peed herself a little, laughing. Grandpa whacked John’s bottom with his cane until he dropped the knife. The chicken lives to tell the tale.”
I snort, and muffle it under the sheets.
But he’s heard. I imagine the gentle rise at the corners of his lips.
“Beginning of January. Eighth,” he says. And then, “exactly seven months before you.”
“How—”
“Driver’s license.”
“Keen eye for detail. So you’re a Capricorn. Disciplined, hardworking, responsible.”
“Also serious, reserved. Stubborn.”
“All fits.” I prod at my smile, trying to pull it out of shape. Not to get too comfortable.
Trent murmurs, “And you?”
“July eighth. Cancer.”
“I meant, your time away? Having fun?”
My foot jiggles. I toss out lightly, “So much fun I half forgot about you!”
A pause. “Oh?”
“Yeah, it’s been busy with work, but it’s been great hanging out with Logan again.”
Tightness down the line. Then, “Is he the kind of guy where you just pick up wherever you left off?”
He’s fishing.
A thrill slinks low into my stomach, pooling there.
We will not cross any lines . . .
My toes clench along with my fist.
Can’t let him fish. Can’t let him keep toeing this line. Distance hasn’t worked the way I hoped it would: out of sight and out of mind. But maybe something like this would keep things clear between us.
He can think I’ve moved on. I’m fickle. Not to be trusted with his feelings anyway. Shallow. Shifting to wherever the tide takes me.
“We talked about starting something up again. He said he’ll drive me back to Welly.”
Lies.
It lands; I hear the breath he doesn’t take.
