Chapter 12 Lifejackets
lifejackets
Keep one safe in water. Something I cling to at all costs. Something I don’t want to let go of on land, either.
Two weeks later, Grandpa still hasn’t asked for his hat back.
I thought he might. I half expected a comment—Just wear what’s yours, rascal—or at the very least, a headshake. But instead, he’s been watching me wear it like it belongs to me . . .
And today, as Trent and I are jammed into the back seat of a van amongst a sea of grey heads and eyes sharp with mischief, Grandpa’s frown at the hat lingers. Along, mind you, with his parting words:
“My birthday in two weeks. Maybe my last. Make it unforgettable.”
He sure speaks his mind. Even too sick to go himself, he insists I go along to Zealandia with his fellow daycare ‘comrades’. Comrades that are definitely Grandpa’s crowd. And probably why Trent insisted I didn’t go alone.
“Do you two get along or fight a lot? What’s the worst thing you’ve done to each other? Does it involve superglue, hair removal cream, or pubic embarrassment?”
Trent exhales with a hint of a groan. I bite back a laugh.
“Public, John. Public.”
“Right. Tell me all about the pubic embarrassment.”
“You did that on purpose.”
“What’s that, Bev? I don’t hear you.”
“You creepy old man.”
“Creepy! I have liberal ideas.”
“You have selective hearing!”
Loud cackles bounce around the van. Trent ducks his head towards me. “Let me know if you want me to put a stop to it.”
I turn, my breath tickling over his jaw, and whisper, “Let them have their fun.”
A woman with bright pink lipstick leans over the seat in front of us. “We’re not all like this, I promise.” She smiles and looks between us. “So handsome. Are you both single? Both gay? My grandchildren are single—”
“My grand-nephew is single and stunning.”
“I have a godson that looks just like Taika Waititi.”
“You wish.”
“If I’m wishing, it wouldn’t be for a godson.”
I’m laughing so hard inside that I’m jolting against Trent’s side. Gosh. This crowd sure doesn’t hold back.
“Keep the last weekend of March free,” I tell them all. “This birthday bash will be quite the affair to remember!”
“Remember! Half of us will forget by tomorrow,” John calls out. “Organise the van to pick us up.”
“Ohhhh,” someone up front calls. “My doctor is single. He’s a lovely fellow, mid-thirties, dependable type.”
“We’ve moved on from that, Clara. But you are right. He is a lovely man. Ika, you can ‘escort’ us on our next visits. Perhaps something can develop organically.”
Trent has slowly become more and more rigid beside me. And I’m not the only one who’s noticed. Lipstick laughs.
“Look at him getting pricklish over his little bro dating!”
Trent murmurs, very dryly. “Not pricklish. Just fascinated by how much free time you all have.”
“Not much, not much. That’s why we have to use it well.”
I nod. “Sounds wise to me.” I lean forward. “What does this doctor look like?”
Trent pulls me back by my arm. “Looks are what matters?”
I smile slowly at him, then grin at the grannies. “The first step into the sea is shallow, after all.”
John throws two thumbs up over his head. “And each wade in gets you deeper and deeper until you don’t miss the sand beneath your feet.”
Trent mutters under his breath. “That’s drowning, John.”
“Or floating,” Lipstick counters smoothly. She glances at me, assessing. “If you have the right man.”
Trent makes a sound, soft yet sharp. “And I’ll be the judge of that,” he snaps, just as the van pulls into Zealandia.
I blink rapidly at him over a shiver down my middle.
He pops open both our buckles. His fingers graze my wristband and briefly stutter. A flicker of hesitation. His fingertip taps once, twice, over the fish and thread before pulling away.
He exhales, the feel of it tickling down my upper arm, while the oldies oscillate between gathering their bags and staring at us.
“He’s my little brother,” he murmurs, voice controlled. Then, lower. A touch rougher. “Until the right wave comes along, I’m his lifejacket.”
After a riotous hour walk, the oldies shoo us off to check out the other tracks. Trent doesn’t need much convincing, and on a laugh, I follow after him, waving the others goodbye.
“We still need to come up with a plan for Grandpa’s bash,” I say.
“We can come up with it alone.”
“Okay, then. Ideas?”
“Yes.” Trent keeps up his good pace. “We’re stopping to picnic.”
I halt. Blink. A slow curl of warmth unfurls in my chest, confusing and a little dangerous. My fingers graze the brim of Grandpa’s hat as I watch Trent from behind. “You brought a picnic for us?”
He doesn’t look back. “When have I ever let you go hungry?”
“You have always fed Ika,” I murmur, and ahead, his step hitches.
The wind stirs through the trees, carrying a southerly bite. He doesn’t respond. Just keeps walking.
Regret presses against my ribs. I hadn’t meant it as a jab. I’m not even sure I meant to say it at all.
But now, the silence is taut. Not cold, not sharp. But . . . heavy.
We walk through it for another half-hour, the only sounds between us birdsong and the crunch of leaves underfoot.
And then, suddenly, gravelly soft: “Tell me something about you . . . Dylan.”
Dylan. My name, uttered so quietly. Maybe I imagined it.
I’ve come to a stop.
He stops too and looks over.
“Me-me?” I murmur.
He nods. “You know my family. What is yours like?”
My chest rises on a hard breath and under the surface panic bubbles. I wanted him to see past the role I’m playing, but now . . . now I want to fold back into it again.
Trent’s gaze flickers to my hands, scrunched tight at my shorts, before calmly returning to my face. He doesn’t push, doesn’t pry. “How about some food first?”
My breath catches, something loosening in my chest. I nod, exhaling through a strangled laugh.
We find a small clearing, big enough for the picnic blanket Trent has in his backpack. We lay it out next to a fallen log, and Trent unpacks sliced bakery bread, cheeses, cut up fruit and muffins.
I immediately pick up a muffin, and half of my bite crumbles onto the blanket at Trent’s wagging finger. We eat together, heathen.
I set the muffin down and shuffle along the log, truly about to help set more out, when a kākā lands and starts pecking at the crumbs I dropped.
I whack Trent’s arm. “Look, look!”
Trent glances over. “Don’t feed it.”
“Well it’s a bit late now. Gosh, what a big bird.” A big bird eyeing up my muffin. Make that two birds. Three. “This is an unintended wonder.”
Trent leans over, shooing them away from James-Bonding towards the carbs. I tug his arms back. “Don’t scare them.”
“They’re not remotely scared.”
“Now there’s four!” With one boldly attacking my muffin. “Oy. That one’s mine.”
I reach out, not to shoo, but to save my carrot and walnut homemade delight. The kākā buries its beak right down in the middle and takes off with it.
I’m suddenly not sure if this also counts as littering?
Just in case, I leap after the bird, but that only freaks its minions out.
One clamps its beak onto the edge of the picnic blanket and chases after its fleeing companions.
The blanket is yanked away. Food topples and rolls into a messy heap. Trent stares.
It was us against them. Humans against aves. The blanket flutters ahead. A victory flag. The aves have triumphed.
Trent shakes his head.
I offer a lip-biting smile. “They’d get along with your chicken?”
I turn back to the Winged Return. One kākā stands atop our heaped food, while the others peck around it.
Trent digs into his bag and pulls out a backup muffin. He pats the log, and I shuffle over, and with a single plastic plate between us, we share the remaining muffin.
“So,” I say on a sneaky smile, “can we call it your fault for making such delicious treats?”
He delivers me a flat look.
I laugh, and we watch on in fascination as the kākās enjoy their party.
Speaking of party . . . I nudge Trent and offer up some thoughts for Grandpa’s.
“I like the last idea,” he murmurs, then amends, “Grandpa would like it.”
We sit there for a long time, sides pressed together, atop the fallen log. We stay even after the birds fly off. Even as the bite of the wind grows colder.
Because here, I feel warmth. I feel comfortable.
I swallow and look at him to find his gaze already on me.
“Crooked.” He pinches the brim of Grandpa’s hat and straightens it. The shift of his scent around me . . . the feel of his warmth waking over me . . . the doting, the protection.
I feel like leaning my head on him. His shoulders seem able to hold so much.
“I . . . had one once.”
“Had one what?”
I toy with Grandpa’s hat, just enough he bats my hand away and straightens it again. “We should probably pack up and go,” I say lightly. “It’ll rain soon.”
Trent gives me a look. His hand pauses on the hat. Something flickers in his eyes.
“Had one what?” he asks again, more softly.
I meet his gaze. “Family.”