Currents

Fifteen ~ Nine-one-one

Fifteen ~ Nine-one-one

I perched on the edge of the table, listening to the rain hammer the roof of the wooden hut. Brent sat in the opposite corner, not too far away considering the small nature of the room. There was an element of claustrophobia, but it wasn't a genuine fear—it was a concern about being so close to Brent, for so long.

"Are you sure we're safe in here?" I asked. "What if lightning hits the roof? Won't the wood go up in flames?"

"We're safe."

I wasn't usually afraid of thunder, but watching a storm from inside a large house was much more comforting than watching from inside a tiny, wooden hut that seemed especially perceptible to fire.

"Do you know what kills more people than thunderstorms?" Brent asked me.

Plenty of things probably killed more people than thunderstorms, so I wasn't sure whether Brent was attempting to make awkward conversation or attempting to calm my nerves. Either way, he seemed to be waiting for a response.

"No. I do not know what kills more people than thunderstorms. Please enlighten me."

"Rip currents."

Even though it wasn't funny, a small laugh spilled past my lips. Brent showed a glimmer of a smile, too.

"It's true," he said. "You, in particular, are safer in here than out there."

"Hilarious."

No sooner had the word left my mouth, a loud crack of thunder accompanied a bright flash of light. The walls of the hut trembled, the rickety windows rattling. I shied away from the wall beside me, before realising that the small room meant I'd just moved closer to the opposite one... and Brent.

"In fact," Brent continued, "given your track record, you're probably safer in here regardless of what the statistics suggest."

I rolled my eyes. "By the end of this summer, you'll have succeeded in classically conditioning me to have a fear of water."

"Can't be a bad thing," he said with a shrug. "Although the idea that anyone's able to classically condition you is laughable."

I didn't respond, partly because he'd caught me off guard; I hadn't expected him to be familiar with Ivan Pavlov, but perhaps I hadn't given him enough credit.

"Got any more tests for me?" he asked, and when I spared a glance at him, he raised a challenging eyebrow that seemed inexplicably intimate.

My stomach clenched. Being trapped in here with him made me anxious anyway, especially since we'd reached a stage in our relationship that was neither hostile nor friendly. It was like a narrow, unstable bridge between antagonism and amiability that swung in the wind with the constant threat of snapping and breaking, sending us hurtling back to square one at the slightest provocation.

"No," I said curtly.

"Glad to hear it."

Awkward again, I crossed my arms over my stomach. Brent often saw me in a bikini, but out of its acceptable environment, I felt exposed. My kimono—which I'd brought down to the beach every day after the back incident—did little to uphold my decency.

If Brent was also uneasy at my lack of clothing, he didn't show it. That was unsurprising, considering he rarely displayed any kind of emotion, particularly when it came to giving away his inner thoughts.

"Are we likely to be stuck in here a while?" I asked, unable to sit in silence any longer.

"That depends."