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Lyle’s mouth quirks. “Don’t make it too easy for me.”
I steer him snickering out of the room.
There’s only one—very small—bathroom. It takes us over an hour to get everyone showered and suited-up for the wedding. Robin is gorgeous in his timeless black tux with satin lapels and white shirt. His waistcoat is tailored perfectly, but his trousers . . . they have both Lyle and me staring.
We drag our eyes off him and look at one another, and the suits that won our hormone-fuelled suit-off. I chose a rustic beige with the fresh touch of white linen, and Lyle ended up with charcoal grey—slim-fit with a patterned shirt and a pocket square. I like to think we’re both mesmerising, but Lyle carries his suit with enviable grace and the sunnies are a tie-breaker.
The invite said barefoot ceremony, so we leave our dress shoes behind and sink our way through fresh morning sand to the stretch of beach where the wedding will take place. White chairs adorned with fresh lengths of climbing rose are arranged in rows and there’s a carved arch in front, at the edge of the water. Pockets of guests hover around in their finest, their conversations hushed by the waves sweeping up the shore.
Robin breathes in deeply, eyes sparkling like the surface of the sea.
He bends over to scoop up some sand, and Lyle and I are suddenly left staring at one another, his gooey-eyed face likely a mirror of my own. We snap our attention towards the happy shrieks of children splashing in ankle-deep water.
A scream pierces the air, and in a single breath my stomach drops, my feet sink deeper and deeper into the sand, the world spins; water and waves. Another cry.
Little arms break the surface of the water, too far out.
Guests are running. Panicking.
Robin is dashing to the water, stripping off his jacket—
I’m not in my body anymore. I’m above it, looking down, watching detached as I step back, turn away, run.
My breathing is shallow and scratchy. I can’t stop shaking. I lean against the brick wall of the shower block, sea out of view, and sink to the sandy footpath. I cover my ears.
My mind fills with flashes of that summer at the lake. I’m playing, cupping and showering water over my head. The kids farther down, near the teachers, are screeching and splashing around.
Something bumps my back and I jump away from it. Are there sharks in lakes?
I try to run out, and fall. Water closes over my face. I open my eyes to sunlight through the water. It’s pretty. And then a shadow drifts over me.
It has a face. A young face.
He’s limp, not moving. His fingertips touch my shoulder.
I scream bubbles of water.
Adult hands. The scent of sun-warm stones getting wet. The boy.
The body.
Wind blows sand up my ankles and I try to focus on the feel of it—
Shudders roll through me. Ten, twenty, thirty minutes?
The cries have stopped.
The sound of footsteps through damp sand, coming closer.
Lyle’s voice. “There you are—” His casual tone sharpens into a hiss and he crouches, palming my forehead.
I shake more violently and press my face against bent knees.
He starts to move and I grab his arm. “Please.” I shake my head. “Don’t want him to see me like this.”
“What . . . is this?”
It’s kindly asked, curious. Worried.
I don’t answer, and he sits close next to me.
I turn my head away, heat stinging my eyes.
His hand meets my back and rubs warm, calming circles that make my throat thicken more.
“What kinds of trees are those?”
I lift my head and gaze at the distant greenery. “Macrocarpa,” I say croakily, and cough. “Nikau and manuka.”
He keeps rubbing circles. “That’s where the honey comes from, right?”
Heat flushes my cheeks. “Sure. If my brother were here, he’d talk you blue about honey.”
“Ah, the much younger Kress. What’s he like?”
“Lizard crazy. Ask Robin how he’s eyeing up Dusky.”
“Does he like mobile games?” Lyle’s circles turn to tapping fingers over my shoulder blades. “I’ve been developing one where lizards catch varying speeds of flies. Dusky gave me the idea.”
I keep my eyes on the hills. “I’m sure he’d love to try it next time.”
“Does he live far away?”
“Taupo. He comes down a few times a year.”
“Is it hard, having him so far off?”
“I left home when he was three. I still haven’t got over the feeling I abandoned him. Dad’s gone, so I left him and Mum. It was . . . hard.”
Lyle’s hand drops to his side and screws up a ball of sand. “The hardest,” he murmurs.
I glance at him, shifting closer, sudden quiet in his expression—
A bell sounds, someone shaking it excitedly, calling for guests to find their seats.
Lyle says, “If you need more time . . .”
I swat my face and run a hand through my hair. “I’m fine. I’ll be fine. Do I look okay?”
