The hesitation.
The air smells faintly of laundry powder and old wood; a draught sneaks under the sill. I fuss with my suitcase longer than necessary, rustling zips like I have a purpose, while the corner of my eye keeps watch for a signal.
Trent brushes his teeth; when he speaks, there’s mint on his breath. He doesn’t change; he keeps on his T-shirt and shorts, and hunkers beside the dresser, opening and closing drawers soft enough to make the floorboards complain.
Is he watching me for signals too? Is he waiting for a yes?
“Yes,” I blurt, exactly as he says,
“Don’t undress.”
My stomach drops; I actually step back. His hand catches my forearm—firm, warm—and then loosens. “I meant, not yet,” he says, voice low.
He pulls two torches from the middle drawer, presses one into my palm, and curls my fingers around the rubber grip. A twitch at his mouth. He guides my thumb to the switch; the beam flares, then dies.
He falls back on top of the double, not under the covers. I perch on the other half, staring at the torch like it might explain the rules.
“Let’s give them an hour,” he murmurs, clicking off the lamp; the room exhales to black.
His torch snaps on, a pale cone across our shins, dust bright in the beam.
“They’ll sneak out again?” I whisper.
“They’re already heading to the barn. Shh—listen.”
We hold our breath. There it is: the whisper-giggle of conspirators in slippers, the faint thud of a cane against carpet.
“Séance?” I say.
“Or other sordid shenanigans.”
“We could let them have their fun.”
“Getting caught is half the fun.” A smile in his voice. “Tradition.”
“I hope we’re like this when we’re old,” I say, too flippant.
He swallows—audible in the dark. “Mm.”
A giddy shiver skates my spine. “Tell me more of their stories.”
He does, and the hour slips quick. Then jackets, shoes, torch beams grazing the hall photos as we sneak out.
At the barn doors, Trent snaps a couple of glow sticks, green leaking to life. A finger to his lips:Give them a moment.
From inside: “Someone’s coming.” “Lights!”
We rush in, torch light swinging.
The air smells of hay and spilled whiskey. Dust motes float through our beams as the scene freezes—old tractor, stacks of hay, a table and chairs and shielded faces.
“Play dead!” John screeches.
And with quite the dramatic flair, they all fold over the table, Grandpa quickly tucking a flask out of sight.
Trent calls out. “Caught in the act.” He finds the light switch and a few flickering bulbs light up the table and a dirty old bottle they’ve obviously been... spinning.
I tut and Bev quickly lets go of it.
