Chapter 25 Giant Kōura （Crayfish）
giant kōura (crayfish)
Hiding in rocky crevices, only emerging when safe.
I’m freeloading as it is, I don’t dare ask to use the washing machine.
But it presents a wee problem when I run out of underwear, so . . .
I rush into a shop during a lunch break and scan for my size. There, some plain ones. I go to grab them and my eye catches on shrimp with glasses. It’s a pack of three, sea-themed. And suddenly I’m snatching them off the rack and paying for them at the counter.
A few thoughts flash through my mind and heat my cheeks. Did I grab these to feel like I’m in his, that we’re close, intimate?
Or do I imagine these pairs getting mixed up in the wash? That he’ll end up wearing mine?
I crush the bag with my purchase and groan. Moana is right. I’m an idiot.
It’s with a strange shiver I slide into a pair the following day, and at random intervals throughout filming, a wave of embarrassment floods my cheeks.
When I return to Moana’s cousin’s place for the night, Trent calls. The first either of us has made contact in nine days.
I’m staying in a detached room, small, with a desk, a telly, and a bed. The toilet’s a short walk through the vege garden, and the cool night is still clinging to me from the return journey.
I scrabble under the bedclothes, hiding my crayfish underwear before answering.
“I got your last postcard,” he murmurs.
He sounds off. Voice raspy, broken. Like before this call he’d overused it. Or like . . .
My breath hitches and I tense. “Is Gramps okay?”
Has Trent been sobbing for—
“He’s fine,” he croaks down the line.
But Trent’s not.
I’m about to ask, but he answers, “We’re both fine.”
Why don’t I quite believe it? I turn in the bed. “Trent—”
“Are you okay?”
I close my eyes. Who are you asking? Ika or me?
The silence stretches, long enough to ache, before Trent exhales, voice breaking again: “Dylan.”
Whispered. But my name.
My breath catches. I hold the phone tight to my ear and stare up at the rafters, but I’m not seeing them. I’m seeing him: in his bottom bunk, lit by the faint glow of his phone. Firm jaw. Sharp nose. Pressed lips.
We will not cross any lines. We are not and will not.
I fist the top of my blanket.
“Why’d you call?”
He doesn’t answer.
“I’m back tomorrow afternoon.”
“I couldn’t wait.” His breath heaves down the line, while mine is lost with a quickened pulse. “To check in on you,” he adds quickly. “Make sure you’re doing okay. Enjoying the job. Having fun.”
I squeeze my phone tighter. “You first. How’s home?”
He’s quiet again for a moment, just a little too long. And then, he makes a sound, like a suppressed sigh, like he’s slipping on a mask. “Grandpa decided to host a birthday party, so today I ran around picking up his daycare mates and making carrot cake.”
I startle, bedsheets puffing. “Whose birthday? Not . . . yours?”
“Chicken’s. She turned thirteen.”
I let out a relieved breath. But . . . when is Trent’s birthday? How have I learned so much about him, and not something as trivial as this?
“John was confused too,” Trent says. And he might as well say: it’s okay.
Don’t worry. “He thought the chicken was meant for the feast. Chased it around with a kitchen knife. Feathers everywhere. He grew up on a farm, so we all thought he’d do her in, too.
Pat was screaming. Natalie peed herself a little, laughing.
Grandpa whacked John’s bottom with his cane until he dropped the knife. The chicken lives to tell the tale.”
I snort, and muffle it under the sheets.
But he’s heard. I imagine the gentle rise at the corners of his lips.
“Beginning of January. Eighth,” he says. And then, “exactly seven months before you.”
“How—”
“Driver’s license.”
“Keen eye for detail. So you’re a Capricorn. Disciplined, hardworking, responsible.”
“Also serious, reserved. Stubborn.”
“All fits.” I prod at my smile, trying to pull it out of shape. Not to get too comfortable.
Trent murmurs, “And you?”
“July eighth. Cancer.”
“I meant, your time away? Having fun?”
My foot jiggles. I toss out lightly, “So much fun I half forgot about you!”
A pause. “Oh?”
“Yeah, it’s been busy with work, but it’s been great hanging out with Logan again.”
Tightness down the line. Then, “Is he the kind of guy where you just pick up wherever you left off?”
He’s fishing.
A thrill slinks low into my stomach, pooling there.
We will not cross any lines . . .
My toes clench along with my fist.
Can’t let him fish. Can’t let him keep toeing this line. Distance hasn’t worked the way I hoped it would: out of sight and out of mind. But maybe something like this would keep things clear between us.
He can think I’ve moved on. I’m fickle. Not to be trusted with his feelings anyway. Shallow. Shifting to wherever the tide takes me.
“We talked about starting something up again. He said he’ll drive me back to Welly.”
Lies.
It lands; I hear the breath he doesn’t take.
I’ll hurt him for a moment. But soon he’ll be glad; grateful he doesn’t have to care about that part of us anymore.
Yes. This way . . . he won’t have to know how much he’s hurting me—
“By the way,” he murmurs. “It’s Palmy with a ‘y’, not an ‘ie’.”
Huh. The turn, too strange, too sudden. It convulses me into a laugh. Also, he’s wrong? “No way, there aren’t any palm trees here.”
He chuckles, and—it’s so much warmer than how he started the call, I feel warmer too. “Makes more sense than Palm-i-e.”
“You sure?” I say. “I thought Palm-i-e, like . . . the North Island is a bit like a stretched-out hand. And Palmerston North sits in the palm of it?”
“Either way, still with a ‘y’.”
“Any other edits for me?”
“They were all addressed to Grandpa.”
“There was nothing to say to you.”
The line crackles, something squeals. Mattress springs. He’s staring up at my bunk. “Why do I feel like your mind was full of Purples when you sent them?”
I sit up in my bed, sheets pooling to my crayfish undies. I wince. My heart thuds.
Trent softens his voice, but keeps going, “Something like . . . they say nothing to him, yet so much. They’ll remind him, I’m here.
Hello, don’t forget me. Such bright pictures; they’ll catch his eye multiple times a day.
I’ll keep crossing his mind. He’s the only one who brings in the mail, he’ll hold these non-messages in his hands, pinch them tight, and—”
“Stop it,” I beg.
My face. It’s as red as the damn crayfish.
His breath funnels down the line.
I want to hang up, and can’t.
“Sorry,” he says, and a crackling silence follows. “These ten days I’ve . . . Those Purples are mine too.”
Too.
Final day on set.
Retro flared jeans, off-white shirt, and Grandpa’s hat that the costume designer asked me to wear during the shoot. It’s a small one-liner scene today, where I race through a loving couple, on the run, interrupting their almost kiss with a tossed-out sorry.
I wave to Moana’s cousin and shut the door behind me. I’m halfway to the kerb where Logan will pull up when my eye snags on a truck across the road. And Trent, leaning on the driver’s door, flipping keys around his finger.
His sunglasses are perched on his head, and the rest of him is in sneakers and shorts and a crisp white t-shirt under an open jacket. My eyes skip up and down while my steps skip awkwardly. Slow, fast, slow.
He’s here.
The gorgeous muppet. He has to make this hard.
I flush briefly, thinking of our call, and quickly pull it together. I raise a cool brow.
He calls across the street. “Moana gave me the address.”
Moana. Meddler.
I’m trying hard to keep my face straight. But I fear the jump in my eyes on seeing him, my twitching lips, are giving me away.
He shifts his weight, passing his keys to his other hand. “I took the day off. Thought I’d take a drive.” He opens the door, reaches in, and pulls out a takeaway coffee cup.
My fingers soon graze his as I accept the warm beverage. He lingers in the contact a few seconds longer than necessary, and my first sip tickles a path into my stomach.
Stop that.
I take a measured step back. “Logan’s on his way to take me to the set,” I say. Out the corner of my eye, I catch a glimpse of his red car. “Speaking of . . .”
Trent shifts again.
Logan approaches, winding down his window. “Morning.” What’s going on?
“He’s a friend,” I say swiftly, as if to console Logan, but only Trent is meant to read it that way. “Surprise visit.”
Logan nicks his head to Trent. “Gotcha. He’ll give you a ride then?”
“It’s his day off,” I start, but Trent coolly replies.
“I’ll drive him in. We’d love to catch up.”
Logan throws us a thumbs up. “See you there soon.”
His window scrolls up as he drives off.
Trent herds me towards the passenger side and opens the door. And I stare at it as he heads back to his side and slides behind the wheel.
It feels like, if I slide into the seat, I’m saying yes to the question Trent is really asking. I’m still the one you really care about, right?
I press my lips tight and glare at him. Can he handle the answer?
“Hm?” Trent asks.
I shuffle in, hesitant, perched tight in the seat. With this stiffness, I won’t answer that silent question to satisfaction. With this, he’ll keep wondering. And so, we’ll continue to drift.
I set my bag on the floor and catch Trent’s gaze slipping from my lower back quickly to the street. His hands regripping the wheel.
“You’re wearing . . .” he clears his throat. “Seventies clothing.”
“Indie time-travel film.”
He nods and drives, following my directions and then following Logan’s car when we catch up to it.
There’s a slight stiffness to him too. His shoulders are locked, and he doesn’t sit easy in his seat. But I’m not sure if it’s because of Logan, or if something else is eating at him.
It reminds me of his broken voice over the phone.
“If you could time-travel to any era,” he asks, as if to say something, to keep the conversation afloat, to keep it away from the real reasons he’s here, “what’d be your choice?”
I adjust the belt across my pounding chest. “Shakespearean England, when the theatre scene exploded. Packed theatres, new plays weekly, a staple of the culture—” I halt suddenly, swallow, and say quieter, “Or maybe ten years ago.”
Trent glances at me and back to the road, with a solemn nod.
How could I forget that? Even for a moment.
Trent hums. “I’d go back to before industrialisation and see how the kelp forests flourished back then. Although, Shakespearean England is sounding good to me right now, so I can see your ascent to fame.”
I know what he’s doing. My chest swells.
He’s making it harder.
I hide a soft smile towards the passenger window. “Hey, we’ll see. Maybe you’ll see flourishing kelp forests in this lifetime too.”
“Maybe you’ll get your recognition.”
And all-too soon we’re sliding into a park. I fiddle with the seatbelt, taking my time. Do I ask how long he’s hanging around? Will he watch? Is he here to check out Logan?
“I’ll walk you there,” Trent murmurs, and then we’re strolling side by side, towards the cordoned off area of George Street. Fake bunting hangs between lampposts, old Holdens and Morris Minors are parked along the kerb, and there’s a newsstand reading Manawatū Evening Standard, April 15 1976.
“Grandpa’s hat fits perfectly,” he says.
“About to be immortalised on screen.” I rub my nape below it. “So if it ever falls apart, we’ll always have the memory.”
“Falls apart? Or you lose it again?”
I poke my tongue out.
He laughs.
I don’t want to leave his space, and that’s precisely why I must. Hurry!
Abruptly, I wave him a good day, spin on my heel and jog over to Logan lounging at a lamppost behind the cameras. I feel Trent’s gaze prickling on my back, and throw an arm around Logan’s neck. “Here!”
Logan’s surprised but goes with it, slapping my back. “Been full on this week. Bet you’re looking forward to some time off.”
I use the excuse to drop my head to his shoulder. “Tiiiired alright.”
Slowly, I pull away.
There, he’s seen. He’ll have turned away now.
I glance surreptitiously—
He’s still there. Watching.
I’m saved from thinking too much by orders for extras to head to makeup. I busy myself in set-up tasks, and then rolling takes. I crash through the lovers, parting them, over and over.
From afar, he still watches. Between takes, I laugh a little too loudly and move with a little too much bounce. I don’t meet his eyes, but I make sure to keep touching Logan’s arm, shoulder—I even pick a fallen petal from his hair.
Finally, the director has the shots he wants. I’m helping pack up. Other extras are leaving, I’m taking down bunting until Logan’s pulling me away. Reminding me I’m not being paid for that.
Logan murmurs about it being a good day and delivers me to Trent, who’s sitting on a public bench.
Logan says, “Suppose you have a ride back, then?”
I swallow thickly.
Trent rises, taller than Logan, agreeing without so much as a smile.
Logan turns to me and wishes me a good evening.
I rock on my feet and call as he walks off. “Let’s do dinner in Wellington soon.”
“Sure!”
I keep staring after him until Trent steps into my line of sight and dips his head to catch my gaze. There’s a spark in his eye and his skin is crinkled around the mouth, leaving the impression he’s just smiled.
“You should’ve kissed his cheek,” he murmurs, “for maximum irritation.”
He cocks his brow. Not at all jealous. Accepting. Amused.
Amused, like . . . I groan. “You’ve seen through me.”
His dimples deepen and he leans in, voice curling into my ear. “You want me to.”