Chapter 14 Tangled Fishing Nets
tangled fishing nets
Unintended entrapment.
I wake up surrounded by his scent, reliving the night before.
I muffle a groan into his pillow and quietly extricate myself from Trent’s bed. I needn’t have worried about the squealing bunk giving me away. Trent is no longer in the room. I fish for my phone and find it. Almost eleven.
Time to unstick my tongue from the roof of my mouth and shower while I’m at it. Groggily, I stumble into the bathroom and absorb steam, only to hit a slight snag after towelling off. No clean clothes.
Either I put on last night’s underwear again, or . . .
With hair dripping down my arms, I pass through the living area wrapped in a towel, only to be startled by two things simultaneously—a female voice calling out if anyone is home and announcing she’s coming in, and Trent leaping up from behind a book in the armchair in a whoosh of air that might’ve well shouted ‘shit’.
I blink, and suddenly Trent is scurrying me into the kitchen, away from the approaching footsteps. “Hide.” He flings doors open and steers me in.
I whisper-shout. “This guy doesn’t chill in the pantry!”
“I owe you,” he says breathlessly and shuts the doors.
I stand dripping in the dark, only a little light seeping in through the slats.
A loaf of bread pokes into my back. I swat it away and knock something off a shelf.
It lands with a thud at my feet.
Great. I’m barefoot, damp, and now standing on a rogue bag of pasta.
“Sara,” Trent exclaims. “What brings you here?”
“I was in the area,” Sara says, and I think I see her through a narrow gap, embracing Trent.
My nape prickles.
“Thought I’d pop by and wish Uncle a belated happy birthday.”
The breath I’m holding releases, but with it comes the realisation. They’re family. Trent stuffed me in here because he doesn’t want his lie exposed.
“Open up some windows, Trent. It’s a bit stuffy in here.”
Trent obliges, but when his back is turned as he shoves up a stiff window frame, Sara starts flinging open kitchen cupboards, pulling out mugs, flicking the switch to boil the jug, and . . .
The tea bags are in here. With me.
Trent is a sudden yelp. “Sara, sit. Let me—”
Too late.
Light and air rush around me and I smile at shock-faced Sara. I manage a small wave. “Hi.”
Trent reaches the pantry, trying hard to keep his expression cool and even. But there’s a flush in his cheeks, and it isn’t just panic. It’s something warmer, quicker.
Sara turns to him. She smiles. I’m eyed slowly, up and down, and thrown a wink. “I see what’s going on here.” She whacks Trent’s arm playfully. “You don’t have to hide him. Grandpa will be happy you finally have a boyfriend.”
Pasta snaps underfoot as I jerk up straighter. My gaze swings wildly to Trent’s; he looks back at me with eyes that suggest I play along.
I glare back with a look that says if you make this any more complicated . . .
But also: I hope he makes it complicated.
Trent reaches into the pantry and pulls me against his side, arm looping around my naked shoulders. “Cat’s out of the bag, babe.”
His fingertips drum on my arm, like it’s my turn to get us out of this. When I refuse to say anything, he clears his throat. “We don’t want to announce it to Grandpa yet. So if you could keep this to yourself . . .”
“He’s in his house, looking like this . . .”
“Grandpa thinks we’re friends. He just crashed after the birthday bash last night.”
Sara keeps swinging her gaze between us, and each time she does, Trent curls me closer against him.
So close, my towel is in danger of coming loose.
His fingers plead some more into my arms and recalling how he carried me to bed and didn’t ask questions I couldn’t handle last night .
. . I relent. “It’s my wish not to say anything,” I murmur and turn a tight smile on Trent.
“I’m not sure how serious it is.” I look back to Sara. “I don’t want to upset Grandpa.”
Sara’s smile softens. “Understood. My lips are sealed. For now.”
She watches us for a beat too long. I feel her taking us in, her curiosity simmering beneath all the easy smiles.
I glance sideways and catch a flicker in Trent’s eyes. It isn’t flustered. It isn’t amused. It’s measured. Not quite panic. Not quite calm.
Calculated.
He’s already stitching the story tighter around us. Charm in place. Lies steadied. Smile easy.
“Upset me with what?” Grandpa calls, snapping in from the hallway.
I shove Trent away. My towel unravels. Trent catches the ends just in time and I grab hold of them as he spins into the pantry, pulling down the flour container.
Sara covers a laugh with her palm as I call out, “I wanted to make pancakes with crispy bacon for you. But there’s zero bacon in the fridge.”
“That is upsetting.”
Trent pushes the flour into my hands. “Pancakes without bacon will have to do.”
I grimace at the flour and shoot Trent a terrified look. “Probably shouldn’t cook dressed like this. How about you take over?”
Sara’s eyes are on us, so I . . . give him my best puppy-dog, you love me look.
And when Grandpa rounds into the kitchen, I shove the container back to Trent with a monosyllabic, “You.”
Trent quietly sucks in an oof.
Grandpa snickers. “How many eggs do we need? I’ll grab ‘em. Nice you came around, Sara. You’re staying for brekkie, I hope?”
I cry-laugh inside and stare daggers at Trent, who evades my gaze, whipping up an apron.
I sneak out of the danger zone and shove on a T-shirt and shorts. I’m tempted to hide in the bedroom until the last possible moment, but . . . I’m also curious at Trent’s ability to navigate these waters.
I sneakily return.
Sara is picking up Trent’s wallet from the kitchen counter, whispering for him to get rid of the evidence.
I still at the postcard wall as Trent wedges out a Polaroid picture from his wallet. A shiver slinks through my middle. It’s the one he won in poker. Of us.
In his wallet. Not Grandpa’s.
Trent glances over her shoulder at me and slides the picture into his back pocket. My breath tightens behind my ribs.
Sara tells Trent she needs the bathroom and that he should get cooking quickly. She passes me with a smirk while Trent calls out, “Come help me, babe—”
The bathroom door shuts behind Sara just as Grandpa returns. And smooth as ever, Trent turns the tide mid-word, “—by brother.”
I’m left in the backwash.
He really is something else.
He picks up another apron and wrestles me into it. “This morning you’re going to help me.”
I stop trying to dodge and laugh in his face. “I’m already helping you, Trenty dear.”
“Trendy gear,” Trent says with a swinging look at Grandpa setting down a basket of eggs. He bats invisible dust off my apron. “Very trendy on you.”
Trent steers me around the kitchen, leaning in close whenever Sara looks over and Grandpa is busy, and barking out orders whenever Grandpa dares a glance. I’m oscillating between slippery shivers at his breath sliding over my ear, and jumpy shivers at his sudden shifts away.
Twenty minutes later, I’m standing before a smoking, sizzling pan while Trent yanks all the windows open.
Sara finds the whole thing highly amusing, while Grandpa nods and points to the mess. “Domestic bliss. Isn’t this the life?”
And Trent stares out at the back garden and the chicken pen, lines on his face tightening. Switching between boyfriend and brother is a strain on him. Tiring. His hand trembles on the window clasp, forcing a small protesting squeal from the metal.
But just as I lean in to whisper, to ask if he’s alright—
He spins once more into the chaos, the seal on this bottle extra thick.
And I think: he might be the better actor.