Elusive, deep-sea creatures, unseen yet real. Like the secrets I’m wading into. And the ones I carry deep within me.
I thought it would be the hallway, the hundreds of framed family pictures, the faces and frivolity and fun times... I thought that would haunt me. I hadn’t expected the thing that clung obsessively to me over the next week to be those white sand beaches and fluffy clouds behind the Eiffel tower. Not a single pair of eyes, yet it was an entire wall of him. Ika. Dead fish.
My new identity.
And bonus: It comes with a prickle at the nape. One year, guarantee!
Trent gave me the basics. Just enough to get by. Ika was a free spirit. Into acting too.
“And the rest? Neighbours, family, anyone who might know?”
“They don’t talk about him,” Trent said. “They know not to.”
Not blunt. Just matter-of-fact.
“And if someone does ask?”
“Improvise.”
Right. That’s my job, after all.
Packing is a quick affair. I’ve never stayed long in any of my rentals and I hate asking for help to move, so I only have asuitcase of clothes, another bag of shoes, duvet and pillow—fit with their covers. If I balance it right, I can probably drag the whole lot all the way to Grandpa’s.
But before I leave my key on the table and trundle with my life’s possessions down the street, ping! A message. Trent has a pickup truck. Give him an address, and he’ll hoon right there.
He doesn’t use the word hoon. I don’t think that’d be something in his vocabulary. I’d like to hear the word hoon come out of that mouth. Hoon. When everything else he says is so measured and carefully weighed and calmly spoken. I snort, throwing him back my address, too caught on him saying hoon to recall I don’t want his help. I don’t want anything beyond the act.
Trent pulls up and parallel parks smoothly before me. Too smoothly. There’s nothing hectic or rushed about it. No second attempt. No correction. Just clean execution. Effortless. Unnatural. Insane.
My fingers tighten around my suitcase handle and the pressure shoots up my arm into my shoulders, right to the sharp crush of my jaw.Stop imagining kicking the damn tyre.I flex my fingers, but the moment Trent steps out, stretches, and rolls his shoulder, they clamp right back around the handle.
Is it Trent that’s making me grit my teeth? Or is it that I, withmypast, joked about the wordhoon?
Trent lands in front of me; his large hand rises to my forehead and casts a shadow over my eyes. “Still squinting,” he states.
“I don’t like the way you drive.”
He keeps his hand there, shielding me from the sun, the edge of his pinky finger bumping against my skin. His other hand pulls out his truck keys. They’re connected to other keys, house, something else, each a different colour, and they jangle before me.
“You drive then.”
I step back sharply to be punched by sunlight. Trent lowers his arm slowly, like he’s only now aware it’s still there.
The warmth from where his palm pressed lingers on my forehead and I resist the urge to wipe at the tickle.
He’s in belted shorts and a short-sleeved shirt. Light blue today with a dark blue print: starfish, shells, everything Under The Sea. He smells of it too. Sea salt, something warm. Maybe the sun is beaming too strongly on my feet, but his scent is reminding me of digging my toes into sun-baked sand.
Trent follows my gaze and plucks at his shirt. “Gift. Marine Conservationist. Most of my socks are themed too.” He moves to my suitcase, heaves it up and swings it into the back seat atop some gear and coiled rope. His shirt ruffles up a bit. Enough for me to think:Not only your socks...
After my stuff is stowed, the door shuts; I snap my gaze up and around as I waffle between a scowl and a smirk.
“Let’s go,” Trent says, heading to the driver’s side without any follow-up, as if one step back was enough for him to understand. He doesn’t. He has no idea.
When I don’t move, he looks back. And for just a second, his fingers tighten on the keys. A flicker of hesitation. A question, unspoken.
Like he’s asking:I misunderstood? You did want to drive?
I want to laugh and sayfinally!See?You don’t see through me.
