Chapter 22 Ocean Currents
ocean currents
Invisible forces, pulling.
The kitchen smells of coffee and impending defeat. Mine, to be precise.
Grandpa fans out his six neat books of cards and wiggles the few left in his hand. “Go Fish.”
That greedy little grin. He’s close to a seventh. “Give me your kings,” he says.
“You’re taking me down, old man.”
I slide him my kings and dump the rest of my cards. “I need more coffee.”
Wordlessly, like he’s been all morning, Trent lifts the pot and refills my mug before disappearing back behind his newspaper.
The mug feels electric in my hand, the coffee sharper than usual. Like it’s spiked with . . . with . . .
“Hope,” Grandpa says, coughing. “Hopefully, us oldies can take a trip up to the farm soon. We didn’t get to go last year.”
“You went three times last year,” Trent hums from behind his wall of newsprint.
“Doesn’t count if you can’t remember it.” Grandpa leans in, stage-whispering to me, “Old barn, fields, bit of mischief. School camp for retirees. Seances, secret hookups, the works. You’ll work on him, right?”
“What, to let you go?”
“And to come.”
“For seances and secret hookups?”
Grandpa scoffs. “Someone has to be the designated driver.”
“Your love for me is so wholesome.” Trent’s mutter tickles.
I nod to Grandpa. “He is the best driver. The only one I can fall asleep with.”
The newspaper crackles around his fingers, but the wall stays up.
Grandpa pats my hand. “And you’ll come too.” His gaze slides from Trent and back. “It’s where my grandchildren planted their nīkau—you have to come and water it.”
Trent: “The rain does that, Grandpa.”
He tsks. “‘Water it with your dreams’, as you used to say.”
I sneak a look at Trent, who’s rested his head on the table and let the newspaper flop over him. Trenty. Before you bottled everything, you were a kid with dreams.
“Well, I definitely think we should water it,” I say lightly. “But can we go in two weeks? I’m off to Palmie the day after tomorrow.”
Trent sits up; the paper falls. His eyes find mine and hold. His body asks what he can’t say. What he has no right to say. You’ll see your ex then?
I nod. “I’ll be gone ten days.”
He quickly looks away.
Grandpa lifts his cane and prods it towards Trent. “You’re leaving me here with the stickler?”
I pull a smirk and take in the wall of beaches looming beside the table. “How ‘bout I send a postcard every other day.”
Grandpa sighs and grumbles. “Fine, fine. I have beef with this one anyway. I’ll use the time to set him straight while you’re gone.”
“Not too straight,” I say flippantly and then hear it. I tense, but thankfully Grandpa’s rolling right along with it.
“Ha. Romance would be good for him. I won’t damage his chances.”
I don’t dare look over at Trent. Instead, I stand, stretch. “I’m off for the afternoon.”
No sooner have I kicked into the hall, Trent chases after me.
“Ika, wait.” He catches my arm as I’m slipping on the denim hat.
I like this struggling grip of his. I fiddle with the hat, settling it just right. I shouldn’t offer. Don’t. “You can come if you like.”
His grip doubles. Like he knows he should resist too.
We head to the studio.
He paces while I print lines for the school holiday play Moana wrote. I send pictures to Moana where I have the lines all stacked.
Moana messages back, bemoaning:
Leaving me with all the little tamariki! You better come back famous
Me:
Did Holly sign up in the end?
Moana:
Yes. Don’t worry, I’ll take good care of your pet. Hey, I have whanau in Palmie. Want me to hook you up a place to crash?
Me:
you saviour
Moana:
dinner - we’ll sort out the details
I want to write more, want to delay the moment I turn around and have to navigate Trent-the-Flooder.
I type. Delete. Stuff my phone in my pocket.
A whoosh of exhaled air.
I turn.
Trent is hunched towards the wall, and I slink over to him. What is he—
He shifts and caps a permanent marker.
My gaze pings to the wall.
On the glass of Holly’s framed tree, he’s drawn another branch.
“Will you tell her?” he asks.
“If I do, she won’t come here anymore. I won’t get to see her.”
“She’s why you’re desperate to keep this studio open.”
“She’s why I agreed to this act with you.”
“I’m trying to keep my sibling alive for Gramps, and you’re trying to keep yours.”
I look at the tree. Is it a gift? Or is it another scar?
I should wipe off the branch.
But I can’t bring myself to.
Trent swallows—audible, fragile—and shifts closer, a puff of warmth before the pull of arms I know I shouldn’t want.
The air hums with it.
My phone buzzes. Moana again, telling me to meet her at the Sprig distance can temper things. Put things into perspective.”
I tap a shell against the back of her hand. “First you tell me not to run away, and now . . .”
“It’s not running away. It’s just a bit of space to think before coming back to face things.” She nods towards the shells. “So, does he love you? Or does he not?”
I pluck out the rest of the shells and—
I sweep them hurriedly back into the bag. “It’s just a silly divination.”
“The universal language of smittenhood.”
“Divinations?”
“Silliness. There’s a reason why the saying’s ‘idiots in love’.”
I drop my head onto my arm with a groan.
Moana pats my back. “Just wait. It’ll get worse before it gets better.”
I groan louder. “That’s your pep talk?”
She dings her glass against mine.