I let out an easy breath, then drift into the living room, where three suitcases are open and stuffed full of clothes and games and a badly concealed flask. Grandpa slides another pack of puddings beside a shoebox.
Trent confiscates them.
And Grandpa dives on the rest of the luggage. “It’s all coming to the farm.”
“Let’s put perishables in the food bag,” Trent says. “They’ll burst over all your clothes in there.”
I stare at the chaos, blink, and look over to Trent. “How many days will we be gone?”
“Two nights,” Trent says, grimacing.
“Three days,” Grandpa says proudly.
I snort. “Grandpa. Who knew you were so high maintenance.”
sunken treasure
Once priceless, now resting at the bottom of the ocean.
All the packing reminds me I left my things in Trent’s truck. I grab them and haul them back to the house. Push through into the bedroom and halt.
I was expecting the room to look exactly as I left it. But it’s not the way I left it. Not by far.
My throat tightens. It feels like I’m walking into the aftermath of something big, something important. Something that happened without me.
I drag my gaze from Trent’s side of the room, untouched, unchanged, to Ika’s.
I recall how it was before: the black and white soccer ball rug; cleats stuffed into the bottom shelf, trophies sitting above. The old electric piano and stool that ate up most of that wall. And the dresser, covered in bottles. Hair gel, shaving cream, the same cologne I used to wear until I could bear it no more.
I step into the room and drop my luggage. I scent the cologne, but the bottles are gone. Along with the trophies, the cleats, the rug.
I follow the scent to the corner, where the rug is rolled up and duct-taped in plastic. There’s a hollowness to the room that reminds of me of Trent’s voice the night of his phone call.
I imagine him in here while I was away; I imagine him triggered into a guttural, frustrated shout. I imagine him knocking down all the bottles in a single sweep. They broke open on the mat. They had to be binned, tied in plastic and put away. While he was at it, the cleats could go too. What use were they anymore? Ika is gone.Stop fooling yourself.
Or maybe the chicken got up to mischief.
But I’m shaking my head.
This is bigger than the chicken. Frustration lingers here. Hurt. Even my bedclothes have been rumpled. The pillow I’ve slept months on cast to the floor.
Why can’t I?
He’d said it the first day I met him. The way he presents himself, so calm and controlled—he’s a bottle, but I’ve seen the cracks; all those feelings stuffed inside, they’re leaking out.
I stare at the room and ball my fist. They’re streaming out.
This moment hurt.
This moment he carried, alone, while I was moping like an idiot, buying replica underpants.
I should have been here for this.
The air shifts, his presence, unmistakable, filling the doorway, stepping through it. He stands behind me, taking in the scene as I see it. I feel him stiffen; hear it in the pause of his breath.
Then the door shuts, the lock snibs. It’s tested with a jiggle.
I don’t turn around.
