Trent leans down. “I—” I honestly think for a moment Trent will grit out thathe has. But then he glances away, swallowing.Some confrontations are too hard.His voice softens. “Do you want me to take you away?”
My throat hurts. I shake my head. Not the point. “I promised Moana. And... I’ve never missed any of Holly’s plays.”
“Want me to get Grandpa and co. here to hustle you into the hall unseen? Peek between our arms?”
I huff at the image and shuffle to the door. Actually, I can see the stage, and I can see the back of Mum’s head. She’s sitting near the front. I’m probably safe. “I’ll watch from here.”
I lean just far enough to glimpse Holly at the side of the stage, and freeze. Mum’s turning.
The slow tilt of her chin, the faint squint, the searching. Like some draft has curled over her and she’s trying to find where it’s coming from.
Move,my brain says, but my body forgets how.
Trent grabs my arm and yanks me behind the doorframe. My shoulder clips the wall; his body fills the space.
His pulse thrums against mine, breath quick against my hair.
I hear the scrape of a chair, and in my mind, it’s Mum’s. I can even hear her voice, a low rumble to someone beside her. Then a sharp laugh.
The moment moves on.
Only then does Trent whisper, “You okay?”
I nod, but my voice won’t come.
He doesn’t step back right away. Neither do I.
The space continues shrinking, leaving behind our signature silence. The hum that talks.
He still has my hand, holding tight, thumb resting over my pulse like he’s counting it. He shifts me so we can watch the stage at a safer angle—close enough that I can feel the warmth radiating from him, close enough that if Mum turned again, he could fold me out of sight.
Behind the curtains, the kids hum their lines, a soft sea before the storm. Mum scratches the back of her head, painted nails glinting as they slide through her hair. Grandpa shuffles his chair into the aisle.
The lights go out.
For a heartbeat, everything holds.
Trent slides his fingers between mine.
I haul in a lungful of air, the first in minutes.
Electric.
The stage lights burst to life.
Whatever this is between us.Is this his answer?
A stolen moment alone in . . . a closet?
It’s laughable, and yet I cannot laugh.
All my senses have sunk to one point: the static slide of our fingers nestling. The clamminess of his palm bumping mine, strongest at the edges. Hot against hotter.
My breath suspends. The world narrows to pulse and heat.
A shiver races outward from where his hand brushes my outer thigh.
My knuckles graze his shorts, the seam of a pocket, a fleeting spark of contact that feels almost deliberate.
