Scot and Bothered

42. Now

42

NOW

Jack got off the train from Inverness late that night, as Brooke headed in the opposite direction and climbed a double flight of stairs. They’d agreed he’d go see Mhairi first, because they were now like divorced parents negotiating custody.

Her ponytail swung as she climbed, her backpack obscuring half of her face, her feelings and her heart out of his reach. He’d watched Brooke walk away once before and it had nearly broken him. He wasn’t sure he was breathing now. He was only sure his heart hadn’t stopped because it hurt so fucking much when Brooke slipped out of sight.

Jack stepped around wrappers and old newspapers overflowing from the bin as he made his way through the deserted station. When he and Logan were kids, they’d loved it here. Jack always thought the trains represented freedom for Logan, but for Jack, it meant returning, coming home. But there was no solace in that notion now.

Logan sat on a bench outside Café Nero, looking at his phone, probably texting Addie. The thought sent a dagger through Jack’s heart—not that he begrudged his brother’s hap piness, but because Jack had been so close to being someone who grinned stupidly at a text message from someone he loved.

“Hi, ye wee bawbag,” Jack said and Logan looked up with a smile, slipping his phone into his pocket as he stood. In a moment of weakness and need, Jack wrapped his arms around Logan instead of tripping or backslapping him.

Reaching around his pack, Logan awkwardly hugged him back, and when he let go, his eyes were etched with concern. “You alright, then?”

Jack drew in a deep breath and let it out. He’d taken all manner of transportation to get home and he still hadn’t been able to wrap his head around the past twelve hours. The reality of Mhairi’s illness. The anger in Brooke’s words. The finality of her retreating form. The numbness that consumed him. “Not really.”

Logan took Jack’s rucksack and swung it onto his own back. “Christ, no wonder,” he said with a wince and Jack was profoundly grateful for a brother who knew what he needed without asking. Right now, that was a small bit of ribbing, space, and a ride to his aunt’s.

“How’s Mhairi?” Jack asked as they crossed the empty station.

“She’s out of hospital. A right pain in the arse she was, too. She banished mum from the house for fluttering .” He put the last word in air quotes. “She seems intent on getting her affairs in order. Addie and I dropped by to bring her supper last night and she barely looked up from her desk.” Logan adjusted the pack, the lines around his mouth sharp. “She looked well enough, but…”

Jack closed his eyes against that future. Mhairi had told them not to join walks and fundraisers. That they could do that after she was gone. For now, she didn’t want it to be the focal point, the only thing people asked her about; she still had more living to do. But at some point they were all going to have to contend with this disease. And it seemed that point was now.

“She used to tell me she’d live to be a hundred.” Jack pushed his glasses up and rubbed his eyes, watery and dry at the same time. “I think I believed her.”

Logan gripped his shoulder but the comfort couldn’t pierce the ache in Jack’s chest. Mhairi’s diagnosis felt deeply real for the first time and he hated thinking about how little time she had left, about how impossible it would be to say goodbye to her.

They climbed the stairs up to the street and Jack felt mildly guilty that Logan huffed and puffed with his pack, but mostly grateful. He wanted to be coddled right now.

Past the restaurant lining the entrance, the Scott Monument stood proud against the night. A tower of secrets and memories.

“Can we make a stop?” Jack asked. He was in the mood to suffer.

He followed the pavement and crossed the street to the grassy lawn of the monument. He didn’t know if the code on the door was the same from all those years ago, but he headed for the kiosk at the foot of the structure and punched in the numbers. Red flashed at him and his chest constricted with irrational fury.

“Och,” Logan said from behind him, slightly out of breath. “Old Marty changed it two years ago.” He nudged Jack aside to unlock the door and didn’t even take the opportunity to dig an elbow into Jack’s ribs—that’s how pitiful he must’ve seemed. “I’m not carrying this upstairs,” he warned.

Logan could leave the pack outside for all Jack cared. He didn’t want anything in there. He couldn’t see how camping, hiking, or the general outdoors could ever be a solace now. He felt like he might never see the beauty in anything ever again.

Logan grabbed his arm, turning Jack toward him. “What happened?” he asked in a softened voice.

“Christ, I don’t even know where to start,” Jack said, bypassing the museum and the stained-glass windows and grab bing hold of the smooth black railing curving its way up three flights of stairs.

“That bad?” Logan asked.

“Everything’s all fucked up with Brooke. Fate seems particularly cruel to have brought her back into my life when we still can’t seem to sort it out.”

“I need a wee bit more detail,” Logan said from behind him.

Pockets of light from the fleur-de-lis windows covered the stairs and Jack stomped on them. “The trail felt like a second chance and then maybe a future. She asked me to go to LA with her for a job.”

“Hmm, I seem to remember someone asking me, ‘Why aren’t you on a plane right now?’ when Addie left.”

“Whoever said that sounds like a right bawbag.”

Logan’s laughter and footsteps echoed in the spiral stairwell before he said, “Aye.”

When they made it to the viewing platform, Jack gripped the tall railing on curved posts bowing toward them and looked out. Princes Street Gardens was a dark scratch separating him from the towering city. The tan-and-gray buildings were lit with golden streetlights casting deep shadows up their sides.

“Why aren’t you going, then?” Logan asked.

“I think I finally understand you.”

Logan tipped his head, not following the non sequitur.

Jack scratched at the soft stone of the railing. “I get why you care so much about The Heart. What it means to have a passion. But you failed to mention that it’s absolutely wretched.”

“Och, aye,” Logan said. “Bloody miserable.” He gripped Jack’s shoulder and squeezed.