Chapter 16 Sand Dollars/Sea Biscuits
sand dollars/sea biscuits
Fragile yet surviving in harsh tides.
I’m running late after an audition in Miramar. One bus, then the other. I have to stop at the supermarket for lollies on the way. A Moana must, to encourage the tamariki.
I grab a couple of lolly scrambles and race out of New World, across the parking lot, head ducked against a ferocious gust. My backpack thuds against my spine, lollies and my audition sheets and a library book I keep forgetting to return.
The wind’s so strong I can taste the ocean from three-ish blocks away. I imagine waves bashing against rocks and find it mildly absurd how fast I’m racing towards it. I raise an arm above my head as I cross the zebra lines—
Oof. My arm bashes into another’s.
I glimpse a struggle with an inverted umbrella as the man turns, apologising.
Trent.
The impact of it being him jolts another breath out of me; the world tilts, then steadies only because he’s abandoned the umbrella at his side to hold me there, fingers firm on my sleeve. In the middle of the zebra crossing.
Soon cars will come.
His laugh is small—or just most of it whipped away by the wind. “You alright?”
I step to the pavement too quick, his hand sliding off like a line cut loose. “Yeah. Yeah. Fine.”
A car approaches and he strides back to my side of the footpath. His eyes flick over me. “Didn’t see you.”
“I’ve perfected the art then,” I blurt.
And wince. The truth flips and lands between us with a thud.
Trent accepts it with a soft half smile that doesn’t quite reach his eyes. “Not my favourite magic trick.”
The street’s suddenly too narrow. The smell of wet asphalt too sharp.
I edge sideways, angling for escape, but he shifts the same way. Not blocking. Just there.
“Grandpa asked if you’re coming by tonight.”
“I’ve got work.”
“You’ve sure been busy.”
Something flickers through his voice, tired warmth.
He rubs the back of his neck, looks away, then back. His lips part to say something and I jolt.
“I’ve got to go!”
He tilts his head, that same look that’s read too much of me already.
The worst part is, the look’s not even angry. Just understanding.
And that’s too much.
So I laugh and slip past him while he tries catching my sleeve on his fingertips. For a breath, the fabric holds between us, stretched.
Then it snaps free.
I jog.
He lets me go.
But when I glance back once—stupidly, helplessly—he’s still standing there, watching me flutter like I’m something the wind snatched from him.
I don’t expect Trent to follow after that. But he does.
Something in my looking back snapped something in him. He’s had enough of my disappearing acts. He’s calling me out, standing right there in the upstairs studio doorway. Not forcing his way in. Not leaving, either.
He’s wearing turquoise. I didn’t notice before. It’s too bright for such a windy, grey day. It looks rather like the sea under brilliant, tropical sun.
Sun that’s as hot as my face.
Ha. Maybe this violent flush is the reason for that colour.
Trent shifts his weight from his left foot to his right. I know this because I can’t bring myself to look up.
But then, even if my eyes were shut, I’d notice the movement. Every part of me feels it: the brush of it in the air, the ripple his presence wakes across my skin.
When he speaks, his voice is a soft rumble, hesitant around the edges. He doesn’t want to sound critical. But no matter how kind he makes it, it stings.
“We can be mature about this, right? Grandpa’s also noticing you’re not yourself.”
A little laugh bubbles up from my twisting gut.
Let me be stubborn a little longer. Please? It’s comfortable, hiding. Easier not to look into your eyes, not to feel that taut pull when our breaths collide.
I look up.
Our gazes catch.
There’s a tug.
He rocks back on his heels, shoves his hands into his pockets. Cavalier. “What do you say, bro?”
He winces. He hears himself.
He’s feeling awkward too.
And that . . . I’m laughing now, real laughter. Understanding laughter.
His lips turn up too. He chuckles.
“Mature . . . I can try.” I step back and gesture him in. He’s carrying a bag; his laptop must be in it. “I’ll make tea.”
I make Earl Grey with lots of milk. He pretends not to watch me measure it like a lab tech.
I pretend not to know he prefers the teaspoon left on the saucer, handle at two o’clock.
He opens his laptop for pretence. Or for something to hide behind when silences arrive.
There are a few. He pokes at his keyboard like he’s had a sudden, vital thought.
Something important for work. Of course.
I have work too. Real work sending invoices, filing next term’s classes. But it’s all a blur of figures in front of me. And I’m nodding at the blur like it makes sense. Click. Click. Send it to the ribbon and bring it back.
Funny, this play. This script we’re compelled to follow.
A nervous giggle slips out.
Trent glances over. He doesn’t ask what is it? He knows. A faint flush colours his jaw—a jaw that’s usually clean-shaven, but lately not. Not quite himself either.
We don’t have to speak to say so much.
In an act of bravery, he closes his laptop, and I admire it so much I have to copy him. We share a strange, ticklish gaze, full of very many things indeed.
Even if . . . this doesn’t mean I’ve changed my mind.
I know. But look at us. Same wavelength, right?
I don’t want to hurt you. And I already have.
The whole act was absurd. I chose to dive.
Maybe when it’s over . . .
I laugh softly. “I’ll be over your handsome face by then.”
He makes a small sound that might be a scoff. Then gestures to our feet, where we’ve turned towards one another—his in workboots, mine in socks. “Where are your shoes?”
“Under the desk. Easier to curl up on the seat.”
“Ah, for your midday snooze?”
“It’s your fault I need so many of them.”
He raises his hands in surrender. Guilty.
Our shared lip-twitch is interrupted by a heavy knock at the open door. Post. A package.
I get up. The break in the moment is frustrating; I want to linger in it, to see how far those lips would turn up, whether I might glimpse teeth in that almost smile. But the interruption is also a relief. I hadn’t realised how tightly I’d been holding myself until I stand and breathe again.
The courier hands me a package, jogs back down the stairs. I hug it to my chest as I pad back towards Trent.
The moment has passed.
And even if it hadn’t, it would.
The rehearsal room doors fling open and a tide of noisy little actors rushes out, sweeping past me; bumping, shouting, shrieking, grabbing bags.
Holly waves, and when I lift my hand, the package slips. I chase after it—
My eye catches the label. Wrong name, wrong studio. We’re 40, not 4D.
“Ah, crap.” I fling Moana and Trent a look. “I’ll try to catch him.”
I sprint out the door and down the stairs, socks sliding on the vinyl. “Excuse me! Wait!”
I’m halfway down when I hear Trent behind me, steady, dry: “Hey, Cinderfella, your shoes—”
But I’m already catching up to the courier. I burst out the front door cleaving a call through the howling of wind, catching his ear at the street. He apologises, takes the package back. I wish him a good day.
The soles of my feet sting against scattered gravel. I start to wince but turn it into a laugh as kids wave and hurriedly pile into their parents’ cars.
I take a hobbling step, curling into the pain with an exaggerated “ouch”—just in time for Trent to see as he steps through the door, my shoes pinched in one hand. He shakes his head, fond, protective. A silent chastising.
Then a car slides in to park at the kerb.
A flash of manicured nails around a steering wheel.
My ouches fade. Sink, like a boulder shoved into water, sudden, heavy, gone.
I pivot faster than the wind, turning my back to the car, heart hammering. My gaze darts for sanctuary. Not the studio, that’s too exposed. Even my back she’d recognise.
I dart right, behind the fence. Press my spine hard against it, slipping down until I’m crouched at the base, knees hugged tight, face buried.
My heartbeat’s wild.
Has she seen me?
If she had, she’d have let me know: how-dare-you, how-could-you, like then.
Or maybe there isn’t enough feeling left even for that. Maybe if she saw me, she’d say nothing, and—
“Ika. Ika.”
Trent’s voice cuts through. He’s been calling me; only now do I register it’s been a while.
His shadow shifts over me, and I welcome it. That blanket. That extra layer to hide behind.
For once, I’m even grateful he’s calling me by his brother’s name.
If he’d called Dylan . . .
If she’d heard . . .
Firm hands brace my knees. Squeeze.
I open my eyes into the dark space between my legs. I can see part of him folded before me, and my shoes haphazardly dropped to the ground. I squish my thinly socked toes into the grass; there’s still a piece of gravel stuck in my arch.
I’m meant to be upstairs. I’m only meant to watch from the window.
She’s early.
His hands move lightly back and forth over my knees. Friction warm. The outline of his touch burning there. Distraction. Channelling my focus.
“What’s the matter?” A softly uttered question, not one demanding an answer, just offering an ear.
I breathe in, lift my head, blink into the concern on his face. “I’m fine. Fine. Just doing some improv. Panic attack.” A crooked smile.
His eyes pinch.
I snap my hands down his arms to his elbows. “Go up and tell Holly to head down?”
Trent freezes.
His gaze deepens on me with a slight frown, then shifts towards the street, the car, then back to me. His fingers on my knees clench.
A car door shuts.
My body seizes. Stills.
Trent moves. He’s suddenly on his feet and walking towards the curb. “Holly’s mum? I work here.”
“Hmpf,” I whisper to a dandelion, “employee of the month.”
Then, her voice, warm, gentle, ending with a slight laugh. “Finished early. Thanks for having her late these days.”
“No problem. She’ll be right down. Moana’s wrapping up.”
“Oh, then. I’ll wait in the car.”
Trent strides up the path into the building, and a few minutes later Holly comes running out, waving cheerfully to her mum. The door slams shut with added help from the wind. The engine starts. The tyres churr away from the studio, down the road, disappear.
I gather my shoes, push to shaky feet, and try out a laugh. Close one.
Moana passes me on the stairs. “Trent’s cleaning up. Said you’d be back soon. Get caught with a parent?”
“Mm.” I pinch my shoes harder. “Yeah.”
“Hey, it’s school holidays. See you bright and early Monday for the holiday program.”
She waves. I wave.
Then I stare up the stairs, towards a now-inevitable conversation.
I want to tell him. I don’t. He has to ask. If he does, I’ll be angry. There’s no winning.
Does he know that?
Does he know what he’s waiting for?
I walk the rest of the flight, with laces clicking against my jeans and that gravel digging into my arch. I press into it.
He’s waiting upstairs, standing, staring at the framed tree picture on the studio wall. His arms are crossed. He doesn’t look over as I walk in; he’s seen my shape out the side of his eye. He’s breathed in my stirring of air, he’s felt the thrumming tension.
I brace myself a few feet from him, swallowing down a sting, waiting for him to ask, preparing myself to snap when he does.
But.
He doesn’t ask.
He takes away what’s hard for me to voice.
He tells.
Tentatively. Like he’s sifting through sand to find fragile shells.
“The horse, the naughty cat, the bad hairdressing, the penguin prince.” He frowns at the tree, gaze shifting along its branches.
“They were real stories. They felt real. I thought, taken from a distant time and place, gifted to Holly. I even thought they were your own. I could imagine you, a kid, marrying a penguin.”
I don’t know where it comes from. But there’s a small laugh. From me.
Trent closes his eyes on it. “You help Holly more than the others. You’re always present in the moment, when you’re with her.”
My stomach clenches as his gaze narrows, calculating, coming to a single conclusion. The only conclusion.
He shakes his head, almost a huff, as if this could not really be true.
He pales.
One step and he’s in my space; I don’t have time to step back. Heat rolls off him.
“You said you had one, once.” His voice is a low scrape, disbelief sharpening into certainty.
My swallow catches. His eyes search mine, too deep, and my stomach drops.
His hands come up, warm and tight on my face. “Tell me I’ve got it wrong.”
A useless sound escapes me.
He sucks in a breath, jaw flexing. His gaze flicks to Holly’s family tree.
“Why?” The word cracks. His hands drop to my shoulders. A shake—me or him or both.
A hitch. Then: “Why doesn’t Holly know you’re her brother?”