Chapter 21
Chapter Twenty-One
T he thin hospital blanket chafed against Rowan’s cheek as she pressed it to her nose, searching for hints of her gran’s lavender soap beneath the antiseptic. Nothing.
She smoothed a strand of silver hair back from her gran’s forehead, and her thumb skimmed against the bandage. She’d always been so put together. Rowan remembered standing on a kitchen stool as a kid, determined to style her gran’s hair like the ladies in the magazines. It ended with half a can of hairspray and enough hair grips to set off a metal detector, but her gran had laughed and worn it the rest of the day like it was salon chic.
And the chin hairs… Christ, the chin hairs. Rowan had become a professional tweezers-wielder by the time she was twelve, plucking them out while her gran made jokes about ageing ungracefully.
Rowan had promised herself – no matter what happened, she’d keep showing up for her gran the way her gran had always shown up for her.
The monitors beeped their incessant rhythm, marking time in this liminal space. A black bruise bloomed across her gran’s temple underneath her bandage. At least the doctors said she’d heal. Physically, anyway.
The dementia ward’s brochure sat on the bedside table, its glossy pages promising ‘round-the-clock care’ and ‘secure environments.’ Such sterile words for such a heart-wrenching change.
‘I met someone, Gran.’ The words slipped out soft as a secret. ‘He’s irritating. Frustrating. Very wounded. And I bolted like a scared rabbit when things got real and I was in panic mode. You know me.’
Her phone lay silent in her pocket, heavy with unanswered messages. Max’s last text burned in her memory: ‘ Talk to me.’
‘He’s looking at me like he’s reading a book with missing pages.’ She smoothed a wrinkle from the blanket. ‘But I don’t know if I can handle his inherited damage.’
The night nurse passed by, rubber soles squeaking against linoleum. Through the window, Glasgow’s lights over the Clyde painted the sky in shades of amber, purple, and regret.
‘I miss him, Gran.’ The confession sat heavy on her tongue. ‘His stupid suits and the way he pretends not to smile at my jokes. How he knows what I need, except when it matters most. I just wish he’d be more emotionally available.’
A flash of hurt pierced her heart at the thought.
‘You’d like him, I think. He’s got Grandda’s dark hair and light eyes.’
The door creaked, followed by the familiar tap of her mum’s feet.
‘Any change?’ Her mother’s voice was worn thin by worry and double shifts.
Rowan shook her head. The scans didn’t show any severe or permanent damage. They’d said she’d wake up soon, but every hour stretched like it had its own gravity. And what if she woke up even more confused? For now, all they could do was wait.
‘Want to talk? Maybe…tell me about him?’ Her mum let herself sink into the other chair next to Rowan’s.
‘Och, I wouldn’t even know where to start.’
‘The beginning’s usually good,’ her mum said.
‘Which beginning? The one where I broke into his castle or the one where I married him?’
‘You broke into his castle? I don’t think I ever got the whole story.’
‘Technically, I scaled a crumbling wall to take a peek.’ Rowan picked at a loose thread on the blanket. ‘Which sounds more romantic and less criminal.’
‘Christ, child.’ Her mum’s laugh held equal parts exasperation and fondness. ‘Well, you never did anything by halves.’
‘Says the woman who worked two jobs to put me through school and uni.’
‘Ah, well. About that. See, I thought I was setting a good example. Show you that a woman doesn’t need anyone. That being strong meant never asking for help.’
‘You were brilliant, mum.’
‘Naw, I was terrified.’ Her mother’s fingers closed around hers. ‘Every minute of every day. Of not giving you enough, of not getting us through. But instead of admitting it, I worked harder. Pretended everything was fine.’
Rowan shifted in her seat. ‘Fake it till you make it?’
‘More like fake it till you break. And you learned that lesson too well, my darlin’. The whole “I don’t need anyone, I’m better off on my own”-act.’
‘It’s not an act—’
Her mum folded her arms and shifted gears. ‘This husband of yours. Tell me about him.’
A watery laugh bubbled up. ‘He’s thick-headed with a stick up his arse. Closed off. But he also…sees me.’ The words peeled back layers she didn’t know she’d been protecting. ‘Even when I wish he wouldn’t.’
‘And?’
‘What and?’
‘There must be more to him. Why did you marry him?’
‘For the money, mother.’
‘Stop taking the piss, child.’
‘I wanted the money so you can work less and Gran can get the best care. See where it got me?’
‘Rowan, I don’t… I don’t know what to say. You married a man for his cash?’
‘Hold your horses. I’m not the first person in history to do so, and I won’t be the last.’
Her mum gave her the same look she’d always used when asking if Rowan had been smoking out of her room’s window.
‘I don’t believe you, my darlin’.’
‘What? Why?’
‘Because I know my daughter. You’re intrinsically motivated. You’d never, ever do anything for the money.’
‘But I—’
‘Aye, you might have told yourself that, but we both know that’s not the reason you said yes.’
‘Mum, I—’
‘Be honest with yourself. Tell me why you like him.’
‘What do you want to hear? He’s got his own damage. Lost his brother in a car accident when he was seventeen.’
Rowan kept turning her wedding ring. She hadn’t taken it off. Why not? It didn’t mean anything, right?
‘He hasn’t driven since, that’s why Ollie’s here. Won’t talk much about it. And sometimes I catch him watching me like…like he’s afraid I’ll vanish if he blinks.’
‘I’ve heard of worse lads. So when things got difficult and too real, you ran.’
‘I didn’t—’ Rowan stopped. ‘Okay, aye. I absolutely did.’
‘I know you did because that’s what I would’ve done, and I was the one who taught you to do it.’ Her mother’s sad smile held decades of regret. ‘Needing people isn’t weakness, love. Neither is expecting them to show up when it matters.’
‘Even if they kind of don’t?’
‘Especially then.’ Her mum’s palm rested against her cheek. ‘I know where this is coming from. Your dad leaving… That wasn’t about me or you being unlovable. That was about him being an arse and a coward and a lowlife.’
The truth of it stung like antiseptic on an open wound.
‘Maybe,’ Rowan said.
‘Have a think about it. I should go check on your gran’s chart at the nurses’ station.’ Her mum stood and kissed her on the cheek. ‘I love you.’
‘Love you, too.’
Rowan watched her mother walk out the door. Her words seeped in like summer sunrise, gradual but undeniable. She’d spent so long building walls, she’d forgotten how to build bridges instead.
Her phone beeped. One new message.
MAX (22:34) I’m outside. If you want me to leave, I will. But I’m here.
Rowan stared at the screen. The message was simple, almost disarmingly so.
I’m here.
Why did he suddenly show up like a knight in tailored armour? Why now? Guilt? Obligation? The fear that he’d lose his estate without her? A thousand potential replies crowded her mind: sarcasm, deflection, anger, even a simple ‘okay’. Instead, she reread the text for the fourth time. Her heart hammered against her ribs, that impulsive little thing.
Rowan chewed on her bottom lip. Maybe it was the way he’d worded it, offering her the choice. Briefly, she was poised to type something biting. Old habit. Instead, she typed:
Institute of Neurological Sciences, ward 68, room 4
And then she waited.
Footsteps echoed down the corridor. Even before he appeared in the doorway, Rowan knew it was him.
Max knocked quietly and opened the door.
He filled the doorframe like a storm front. His suit jacket was gone, sleeves up to his elbows, collar undone, tie nowhere to be seen. Water clung to him in patches, soaking into the fabric.
He scanned the room, but he didn’t linger on anything for more than a beat. The way his jaw flexed when their eyes met gave him away. He was trying hard to hold himself together. Max shot a quick, almost imperceptible glance toward her hands clasped in her lap.
He wants to see if I’m still wearing my ring.
It hit her square in the chest. For all his usual poise and power, he seemed like a man who had no idea how to fix what had broken between them.
‘Jeez, you look like pure shite,’ Rowan blurted.
‘And you look worried.’
Her mum looked up from her crossword with a smirk. ‘And who’s this then, gallivanting in like Lord Muck?’
‘Max Drummond, ma’am.’ He stepped forward, offering his hand. ‘Rowan’s…husband. Mrs MacKay. I apologise for arriving unannounced—’
Her mother’s eyes sparkled as she shook his hand. ‘Did you bring a change of clothes? Because those fancy shoes are about ready for the bin.’
‘Mum!’ Rowan hissed, her cheeks fusing with heat.
‘What? I’m making conversation with my new son-in-law, whom I’m meeting over three weeks after the wedding, might I add.’
He absorbed the hit without a twitch. ‘The shoes are replaceable. Other things aren’t.’
A strange tightness pulled in Rowan’s chest, as though her heart was testing its boundaries.
‘Right, Mum. Weren’t you going to…check Gran’s charts?’
‘Was I?’ Her mother’s innocent look wouldn’t have fooled a toddler. ‘Oh aye, suppose I was.’ She gathered her handbag. ‘You two sort yourselves out.’
She patted Max’s arm as she passed. ‘Welcome to the family. We’re all mad here.’ But then she paused at the door, fixing him with a look that could peel wallpaper. ‘And son?’
‘Yes, ma’am?’
‘Next time my daughter needs you, maybe skip the chauffeur, aye?’
His throat worked. ‘Noted.’
That’s what you get when you tell your mum everything. Well, almost everything.
Max’s attention landed on her gran’s sleeping form with quiet concern. ‘How is she?’
‘Stable. The doctors say she’ll recover. But she needs… The dementia ward has a space opening next week.’
‘Ah.’ He pulled the spare chair closer and sat down.
A waft of his cologne mingled with the smell of rain as he sat down beside her. ‘Tell me what you need.’
A hundred responses crowded Rowan’s head.
I need you to have been here yesterday. I need to know why you came now. I need to understand why my heart speeds up when you’re near, even when I want to throw things at you.
Instead, she whispered, ‘Just…stay?’
His hand found hers across the narrow space between their chairs, warm and solid and real.
‘As long as you want.’ The promise lingered between them, delicate as breath on glass.
‘I’m sorry.’ They spoke together, words overlapping.
Her laugh caught on the verge of a sob she refused to let out. ‘You first.’
His shoulders caved slightly. He looked uncertain.
‘Seriously, you first,’ she repeated.
‘Rowan. I’m…truly sorry.’
‘Okay. And I’m still truly cross.’
‘I would be worried if you weren’t.’ The hint of a grin teased at the corner of his mouth. ‘But I’m here. No more excuses.’
She wanted to believe him.
‘What if it’s not enough?’, she asked. ‘What if we’re too broken to make this work?’
‘We’ll figure it out together. We try. Even if we fall flat on our faces, I would rather fall with you than stand alone and pretend I don’t care.’
The tension in her chest loosened, enough to breathe again.
‘We need to talk about things, Max. But not before I’ve had coffee. I can’t think straight.’
‘Consider it done.’ The scrape of his chair cut through the silence. At the door, he glanced back at her with a look that was almost too raw to hold. ‘I’ll be back.’
It felt like a vow.
A real one.
The door closed, and she looked down at her gran’s hand, small and warm under hers.
‘What do I even do with someone like him? He doesn’t wear his heart on his sleeve, but I know he has one beating in there. You’d tell me to give him a chance, wouldn’t you? You’re such a hopeless romantic.’
Rowan bit the inside of her cheek. What if he was here out of guilt? Or worse, what if this was another of his moves? Max could charm a room full of suits without breaking a sweat. But she’d seen the fault lines, hadn’t she? The way his voice had wavered, the hesitation in his step.
Perhaps he was as terrified as she was of what came next.
This was about their future. Whether they had one or not.
He was a rich finance guy who had an egg and a spreadsheet for breakfast. A laird! She was a starving writer, who spent more time arguing with editors over money than sleeping.
Yet somehow, they’d found the part in each other that made them feel complete.
Max wasn’t afraid of her constant need to push. He didn’t just tolerate her challenges and shenanigans – he met them head-on, matching her wit for wit until she was breathless with frustration or laughter. And when she pushed too far, testing boundaries to see if she could, he didn’t waver. He pushed back, not to break her but to ground her.
Max wasn’t intimidated by the parts of her that others found too much.
He wanted them.
The machines droned beside her. Her gran’s mantra had always been the same: ‘It isnae aboot the fall, it’s aboot getting back up.’
And as much as she hated admitting it, Max was here now. Not with grand speeches or efficient solutions. Just here, messy and human and real. Was that enough?
The door opened.